|:neutralising the pH level:|

There is some good news and some bad news

2006-03-09T17:08:00.000+10:30

My Gosh! I have just got back from the hospital, where the doctor told me it was one of those good news bad news situations. This how it went:

Doctor: Perhaps you would like to sit down. That's great. As you know, we have been in surgery for the past thirty-six hours. I must say that your husband has a remarkably thick scull.

Me: My god! It took you thirty-six hours to get inside his head?

Doctor: No, no. Though it took much longer to get in than usual, that is not what took the time. In fact, the fall did not even penetrate his scull, the brain pan was virtually untouched.

Me: Not even that twelfth step? He sommersaulted onto that!

Doctor: The lack of internal damage to his body was remarkable but not the most surprising thing we found inside his scull. What would you say if I told you that most of your husband's mind had been replaced with a turnip. A pristine, shiny turnip!

Me: Are there some hidden cameras somehwere around here? Is this like one of those TV shows where someone jumps out with a microphone?

Doctor: I am afraid not. Your husband was cogitating with a turnip. It seems that it had been displacing his brain through his nose as it grew. I have stunning sketchy black and white video footage which I intend to set to the Ride of the Valkyries. Like that Welsh boxer the other day, I have had my career defining moment. Also like him, someone had to be hideously damaged for me to go forward.

Me: Could this explain that strange double life he had been leading? Factory worker by day, roaming the internet by night.

Doctor: He sounds like Neo from Matrix. But without all the PVC and technobabble.

Me: No, he has the PVC, too. His PC is so full of smut it needs three hard-drives. I haven't been so ashamed since he met my mother. Is he going to pull through?

Doctor: It is hard to say. We have removed the turnip and donated it to charity. The remaining brain matter may or may not be able to support his body.

Me: What is the good news, then?

Doctor: He may just have little enough brain power to be romantic, if he ever wakes up again.

You are never going to believe this but....

2006-03-08T14:14:00.000+10:30

This is Mrs. DC

You wouldn't believe some of the things I have heard in the last few days. It all started when Mr. DC fell down the stairs at home, all four stories of them, and had to be taken to hospital. They say his chances are fifty-fifty at the moment. I'm keeping my fingers crossed, and I will let you know what happens. He is going in for surgery tomorow.

He isn't here now so I thought I could get away with using his computer. As I thought, it was not rigged to blow when anyone else touched it. The silly fool had left it on standby. It seems that prior to his rapid descente he had been symultaneously writing a "piece" and browsing some particularly nasty Fem Dom sights. The latter I knew about, though the blog was new to me. I changed the password and had a bit of a read. I am not pleased.

There are a few things that need straightening out between us. Firstly, the closest he had, excuse me, has ever been to dog surgery is in fact a dog food factory. Secondly, he is not a doctor, having barely graduated from the University of Life, no honours. Thirdly, the thing about the illegitimate children was all a fiction, based largely on his hero Flashman.

More to come.

THE PORTALS ARE OPEN

2006-03-03T20:50:00.000+10:30

DDC likes entry:

Internet portals are one of those things that I love about the net. Let me tell you why!

When I make an account with a site I usually put in a bunch of odd details in:
Name: Kaiser Willhelm
Occupation: Manicurist
Country: Azerbaijan
DOB: 1922, 23rd November
Favourite colour: Peach
etc.

I don't see why anyone should get free marketing data from me. Like the native american indians with their camera-shy soul-stealing excuses, I beleive that the more of myself I give away for free to Microsoft or whoever, the less of a man I become. Less of a person too, though that is a different story.

So, this morning I was somewhat surprised to recieve an email saying, "happy birthday" from profession.com. The way it must have happened is this: I have been on the websphere for so long that I have randomly put my actual birthday into some poor, unsuspecting commercial site. My happiness knew no bounds when I realised that he angels had actual programmed a computer to say happy birthday to me. That is how much they cared. But no, it wasn't!

Once I had picked myself up out of my happy, warm puddle of manmilk I got round to reading my happy return and found an invitation. An invitation. A dream bit-stream. It emerged that for my minutes of dedicated skimming I was to be indulged in a trip to the sponsor site!

NOT THAT I THINK ANYONE SHOULD CARE BUT

2006-03-02T10:39:00.000+10:30

I am still alive, and what's more - I've been watching full metal Jacket again.

The whole thing can be summed-up with one mighty phrase. It is the kind of phrase I used to use at school when i was still funny and writing a book was not only within my grasp but a way of occupying free time in English lessons while the dude (who is a hero of mine) waffled-on about Chaucer.

Around about the time that The Mary Whitehouse Experience bit the dust, Brasseye was still freshly-squeezed and Paul Coogan was getting really funny. Father Ted was still alive along with my childish dreams. I have others now but they were my first.

"We are like jolly green giants striding the land, with guns."

I know exactly what he meant.

Don't say that ever.

2006-02-25T23:22:00.000+10:30

If I had a dick you would have no ass-hole.

HAPPY VALENTINES DAY

2006-02-20T10:32:00.000+10:30

Budding romance nipped in the bud:

Dr. DC: I love you weather dude.
Weather dude: Gee, this is all so sudden. You're so very male that I wasn't expecting this.
DDC: I just can't hold it in any more. I feel like I am going to burst.
WD: How long have you felt this way?
DDC: Weeks, months!
WD: I'm sure it is just a crush, a brief passion.
DDC: Call it what you will. This is how I feel. It isn't going to change. Not unless you change.
WD: I caught you looking at me on TV the other day. You seemed upset. I thought you hated me.
DDC: Well, you will say these things that you don't mean.
WD: Now I am confused. What are you talking about?
DDC: That time the other week, with your cocky smile you told me it was going to rain. It snowed all weekend!
WD: I see. I think we have our wires crossed.
DDC: Not so! You did it again this weekend. The half winking eye, the hand in pocket. I understand body language, it's my mother tongue!
WD: This weekend?
DDC: The weather dude says, "starry night." The window says, "snowing".
WD: It isn't going to work. I'm not gay and neither are you. Also, Mrs. DC will remove both of our testicles if she even catches a wiff of this.
DDC: OK, but promise me one thing...
WD: If it involves bodily contact I am going to scream.
DDC: No. No! Just, this summer, can you predict lots of rain?

QUEST FOR COMPENSATION DIES BEFORE IT EVEN STARTS

2006-02-17T16:29:00.000+10:30

Athletes in fury as offhand comments spoil promising compensation chance

With the increasing number of injuries on the luge in the Torino Winter Olympics a number of athletes had their hopes of compensation ruined at the hands of the British medical team.

Lugelist Anne Abernethy had been quoted as saying that the design of the course may be at fault and was secretly aranging a group claim against the ruling body of the games, the IOC, earlier today. However, this evening she was quoted as saying that she was "bloody furious" at allegations made by the British medical team officer, Dr. Richard Brudgett. She added that the eminent medic "knew little of the sport" and was "a bit of an arse all-round".

The row centers around a claim made in yesterdays Guardian. The doctor made this statement;

"Certainly one of the responsibilities of the doctors involved is just to make it as safe as we possibly can." Then he adds, dryly, "though we are limited by the fact that they're hurtling down a tube of ice."

Sources close to Abernethy were quoted as saying that though she enjoyed the witty British sense of humour she thought the doctor concerned might want to try the event before dismissing it as "Inherently dangerous".

WHAT IS THIS SHIT?

2006-02-16T16:23:00.000+10:30

"What is this shit," asked the guy behind the table. Part of a panel of experts, it seems.

The dishevelled man in front of them answered, "Well, I was hoping that you could tell me that."

The wizzened expect looked at the item in the box. "I certainly don't see one like this every day. You must have had a few late nights recently, eh?" Without waiting for an answer he plunged straight on. "The colouration is extremely odd. It has something of guinness to it, yet also something of red wine to it. Let me ask you a question young man; did you have any difficulties producing this? Usually, examples of this kind can take extreme ammounts of time and effort."

The dishevelled man sank lower into his brown and white striped shirt. "It couldn't have been easier, sir."

A younger, fatter expert asked, "and this is the whole batch and not just a section, I assume?"

"Yes, sir."

"And can you account for it's oddities? Given the details one might expect a thinner, more watery one."

"Yes sir, i know. All I can say is that I have been working out quite a bit, and maybe that had had some impact on matters." He scrtached his head. "Does that mean you'll take it off my hands?"

The wizzened man laughed and said, "why no, my dear fellow. Why would we want it? No, no. We just like to see these things from time to time. FLush itdown the toilet for all I care."

DIARY OF A DOG CHOPPER

2006-02-15T12:00:00.000+10:30

Another dip into the the life and times of a dog surgeon in a strange place:

I mentioned the new bindings that I got for my board, but neglected the rather odd circumstances under which I bought them. Imagine if you will:

A bunch of rice fields with a snowboarding / skateboarding shop in the middle.You imagine that this place must have incredible customer loyalty to survive being, as it is, no-where near anything, least of all a place where you can find slopes or snow.

You get not quite a sneer from the the guy who owns the place, as you have been before, bought nothing but taken lots of his time. He is dealing with other customers. He has just flogged a board for about 700 dollars.

You pick up a binding. It has no price on it. You go to fetch your boots from the car to see if they fit the bindings. The woman in the shop comes over to "help". She says, "Wow. Your boots don't have laces, they have a kind of pulley system." You look around the shop, spot the same kind of stuff all over the place and mentally note the fact that the woman knows fuck all about snowboarding gear.

You discover the one you are trying is the most expensive in the shop, if not the world. It costs more than you have in your pocket. You pick up another and end-up buying them.

The owner is suddenly all smiles and fifteen percent discounts. As usual with the locals, he is eager to speak English and alternates dishing up single words with the woman. The deal is done. He puts the bindings, expensive Burton ones, in a bag.

Now this is the crux of the story. This is not just a bag. Imagine the thing that your gran takes / took shopping. make it about three times as big. Make it bright red with the word "Burton" surounded by snowflakes on both sides. This thing is gloriously gaudy and fairly camp into the bargain. I kind of like these things, usually as presents for other people. I am now off-balance.

The guy says, "isn't it cute?" You are faced with a dilema: Do you take what he is saying at face value or assume that he is being sarcastic?

Let me fill you in on some of the details. The guy is about five foot ten with died blond hair and likes snowboarding. If he were American he would use words like "stoked". He drives a black van with stickers in the back window.

You hedge your bets and say, "Yep, you could take it down to Friendmart (the local supermarket monopoly) to do the shopping." You then spend the rest of the conversation trying to correct your mistake.

After this you don't take anything for granted. After falling through the middle of the last conversation you somehow manage to negotiate a trip boarding for free, so long as the trip is done in English.

Job's a good one.

YOU'RE NEVER GOING TO BELIEVE THIS BUT...

2006-02-14T17:28:00.000+10:30

... but DDC has given up on the idea of saving up for and buying a car:

I'm just not sure I can make it pay, i.e. buy a car here, ship to the uk and sell after the tax watershed. I have added up the various variables and costs and taken them away from the difference between the prices in both countries and been left with not a great deal for my pains.

And in a completely unrelated, though geographically close, decision I have purchased a pair of boots and bindings for my snowboard. Now, my boardwear is good, my boots are baddass and my bindings no longer make cracking noises as I land my jumps. My board, however, is a different matter. It is not that far removed from a Roumanian orphanage floorboard. That's fine because I'm experimenting and falling off stuff a lot at the moment.

From falling off to falling out: I nearly got into a fight on Saturday when some guy slewed his board in front of me under the rope of the queue leading to the lift. Some phrases can transcend mere language and the guy, definitely a non-English speaker, caught my drift when I spoke the words, "What do you think you're doing, ou incredible fucking twat?" He squared-up quick smart, and squared back down fairly quickly when he saw the murder in my eyes.

When i mentioned this to another boarding buddy, he said he'd been pretty riled-up to, which came as a shock because he's generally much calmer than me. It emerged that he'd lost a turn avoiding beginners and ended-up stuck in a hollow. Then, just when he had got going again a dog jumped out from behind a tree and scared the shit out of him. Not what you need when you are finely balanced on a plank hurtling down a hill. Once he was back up again the dog started chasing him down the hill.

I could see his point, bearing in mind my speciality and the nature of the snowboard: It is basically a wooden butter-knife with a sharp metal rim. Ah well, there goes the chance for another cryptic post.

Edit:

I forgot to mention the best part. The second time he found he dog he had to maintain his honour with a snowball barrage. After that he slid off to make a jump and found his hands full of yellow snow.

Martha's Letter

2006-02-13T23:38:00.000+10:30

Dear ~~Useless piece of skin hanging off the end of a penis~~ SAV:

[censored due to foul lanuage and possibility of upsetting fragile women]

Sincerely Yours,

Martha

What gets me about Martha is she thought I would copy her letter for all to see. You won't be gettin' that Pleasure now. Will you?

Martha, if you don't want your "loving Stuart" to "bond" with me, why you be sendin' him around to visit every three days when you have your "women-born-women (only) scrap-booking sessions"? You think we haven't snuck around to see what kind of "books" you are makin'?

Martha, you might fool most of your "friends" but I ain't your friend, I'm Stuart's brother (and I ain't his friend, either) so you don't fool me.

And yes, Martha, you are right (as always, yes?): the only reason I nurtured (if that's the right bloody word) a "friendship" with you was to get you to buy all of your stationary supplies from my business. Thanks to that, I'm now the top sales person in the state and third top in the nation. Not only did I get your business, I'm now supplyin' your competitors (who have many more classes AND students, I might wish to ad) business and there ain't no lookin' back from here.

Martha, any more threats like the ones in your letter (which the police now have, bitch) and I'll expose all of your "circle of friends". You were so dumb you actually thought the stereo speakers I gave you were a gift. Shit, Martha, they also contain cameras and mikes which feed into your wireless network (unnoticed by you, bitch) and direct your "classes" directly to a server in Taiwan.

Martha, if that information on that server gets to the right people you won't ever need to threaten me again.

Sucking Asshole Venom?
Maybe.

ODE TO WEATHER, DUDE

2006-02-09T16:35:00.000+10:30

DDC loves the weather, dude:

Or maye he likes the weather dude.

Of smiling face that masks the truth
With jaunty air or tragic fashion,
Of she with vacuous bosom
and skirt-suit in bright colours
My joy to your duplicity oweing,
Said he, "the morrow will be fine"
To my delight, it's still snowing

But why do you like the weather, dude?

Though warmth doth spring from the sun
Fine weather was a traditional happy time,
for football, cricket and swimming
My second joy, the barbeque is nothing
My lazy, drunken ennui
folds beneath the prospect, dear
of snowboarding in Fukui

This Saturdy will be the 11th time I have been this year, followed by 12th on Sunday. The reason I love the weather guys so much at the moment is the fact that every time they have said it will be sunny, the whole region has had a dumping of about ten centimters of snow. For those of you who do not know what fresh snow means, in real terms, here you are:

Crisp, flat unused sheets,
Those once used cannot compete
A glassy wing to sprint is good
Not much speed in sprinting mud
The simple joy of wine,
when drunken warm is not so fine
Used land is no worry for me,
yet I like new teritory
In bad weather, most beware
For myself, I do not care

Apologies to any poets out there, I'm just killing time 'til I can go home today.

DR DC WOULD LIKE TO SAY....

2006-02-08T10:32:00.000+10:30

...sorry.

I'd like to say sorry to all those people who used to read this, to those people who have collaborated and even those who have criticised.

I'd like to say sorry to all those people from Thailand and the Phillipines who seemingly make up a big proportion of the stats. All those guys who keep clicking the "next blog" button and wondering if you should be clicking the "flag" button next to it.

Of those of you chance visitors, those of you who stumble though, you fundamentalist Christian bloggers have been the most let down. What you see when you read this I cannot know, but it must be fairly terrifying. For all those times you are so certain, so am I, though about different things.

So, sorry guys.

You say that again and I'll eat your shoes

2006-02-03T18:56:00.000+10:30

They know about this blog

2006-02-02T21:26:00.000+10:30

Dear ~~Asshole who was my fried~~SAV:
This blogg thing of yours is anti-God trash. It is the kind of thing that leads to homohomosexuality. It is the same kind of thing that leads to God punishing us all. Look at the world around us: hate has feeled the world, God is punishing us his little children. And this blogg thing of yours is right up their with the haters of honest, God-feering Americans. You will burn in hail for this. The bible tells me so.

And the worst bit, SAV? I told you about worries about my loving wife Martha and you go and make it sound dirty. That was for you and me, man two man, to share to help us bond in these troubled times. And what did you do? You told the whole world about my loving Martha sticking things up me.

I am ashamed I thought I could trust you as my friends. Please never contact my again.

Stuart
PS I've shown Martha this blogg thing of yours and you are in trouble, man ho man are you in trouble.

Savaged Anal Vagina?

HOW TO FILL FIVE MINUTES TO A LIFETIME

2006-02-01T17:13:00.000+10:30

This happened to a friend of mine:

Time to spare - might as well toss a coin as much as stand idle. There it goes. I'd never noticed the ringing noise it makes. Is it just this coin, or do they all do it?

As I expected, there is a technique, a method for getting a ring. The posion on the finger just so, the thumb has to strike here for the best sound. Up she goes with a noise like a tubular bell. Now can I catch it cleanly?

Once again, and I hope I don't get caught coz I don't want to explain what I am doing to another adult. Nice high one this time and back down it comes with a slap into the palm and the satisfaction of a coin well tossed. And another, careful, a bit close that time. Though it made a noise like an angry wasp as it went past my ear. Let's try that one again.

Up it goes, watch it carefully as it sails up and down. I wouldn't want to tell anyone I bruised my face tossing a coin. Not close enough, I didn't get it close enough to my ear. One more, that's right, enough revs and a good path. Just one more before they come.

Off she goes and, oh fuck! It's hit the fluorescent tube. It has shattered and I am looking up as the pieces are coming down. There goes my left eye, and the other just now. How I will be able to look my friends in the face after this, I just don't know.

Rhythems of the mind

2006-01-31T15:52:00.000+10:30

Like pain, like feeling returning after being plunged into ice then hot bleach then salt. Like lemon juice on scratched retina with missing eyelids. Like the worlds biggest Absinth hangover on the hottest day, with a presentation to make to the board. Like clawing your way out from under a blackboard covered in rubble and all I want to do is scream like an animal with it's nipples caught on the electric fence but I can't because that would be loosing.

There has to be a way out but can I make it before I start blazing away with a flame-thrower, destroying everything in my path, fucking people up both physically and emotionally, with the finesse of an athlete in the zone but there is only room for one person in the zone now. Fuck off out of my way.

Come over so I can smack you

2006-01-28T20:59:00.000+10:30

"Stuart, you were very naught during class this morning. You made me look bad, not having all 18 of the desks assembled with the coorect working kits on each. Come over here, you naught boy. Now take your pants down, yes, that's right, show momma your frilly underwear. That's better, Stuart, now on your knees. Show momma your big, beautiful bottom. Back this way a bit, Stuart. Further. Further. Further. Further."

"Shut up, Stuart, your cries mean nothing but noise. I told you, you made momma look bad. Stuart, back down, back down, good boy."

Stuttering Another Verse?

Nuh.

DDC GET'S A MOUTHFUL

2006-01-27T09:11:00.000+10:30

DDC got absolutely reamed out by Mrs. DC the other night:

"Fuck me!" I said, "That woman is fucking brilliant!" The plant died, the cat had to leave the room and TV exploded. All this under the influence of Mrs. DogChop, who was getting frosty. Her mood swept the room like a cold glacier, but not as slow nor as prettily. Neither did it afford opportunities for winter sports.

I was asked to say exactly what I had meant by my little outburst. I concluded that she wasn't happy with something. I had probably been a male chauvanist pig or some other kind of eighties thrwoback. "She is brilliant," I said. "She thought on her feet and put that guy in his place in short order. She has a remarkable vocabulary and her timing is perfect." I gave her a meak smile. "What's wrong with saying that?"

She sighed and said, "It is an opinion, I suppose. If you can't see what's wrong with it then there is nothing to talk about." Her foot began to tap.

"You could try telling me."

"No, you blokes, you're all the same. You only care about conversation. What about all those women out there who can't do it? People who can't make themselves sound good. What have you got to offer them?" The glacier was fast turning into an avalanche, though only in a metaphorical sense, you realise.

I shrugged my shoulders. "There are things you can do, like reading good books and learning conversational gambits." I got no further.

"I suppose you think all women should aspire to be good conversationalists? For the boys? Trot out some interesting asides for the lads to guffaw over? Why should women do that for you?"

Another sigh, this time from me. "I'm not saying they should do it for me, or even that they should do it at all. I'm just saying I like it when I see it."

"I can't believe I married someone like you." She almost spat that out.

"I can't help what I like. Would it be better if I said I liked fuckwits?"

"I hate you."

THE FOLLOWING STEPS ARE TO BE FOLLOWED WHEN A CHILD IS BEING NOISY

2006-01-26T11:53:00.000+10:30

DDC has the following advice for those caring for children:

You may leave the programme at any stage if the child becomes pacified.

Make eye contact.
Make your attention plain by using the name(s) of the kunder involved.
Raise your voice, or use your serious voice. Make it plain that you are not amused.
Scold the child.
Stop whatever is happening and make it clear nothing will procede until the poor behaviour stops.
Separate out one individual and make an example of them by selotaping them to a chair, whilst telling other students that somthing similar will happen to them if they err similarly.
Put on a wig and tell the child they are being punished so that other will not follow their example, whilst whaling the shit out of them with a stick.
Lock them in the cellar to live in their own excrement for a week.

No, it's true. They teach it in my local town. Look!

Just so you don't forget.

2006-01-21T21:11:00.000+10:30

Ya can call me SAV for now. Later, when ya know, ya can call me by my name. First ya need to know about Martha. And Stuart, Martha's "partner". She makes him grow hair down almost to his waist. She's butch, ya see. They got bashed for being a couple a pooftas a late last century. Now, she makes him grow hair down almost to his waist. 'Cept now when he's out by himself he gets bashed for being a single poofta. And she for being dykie. But that don't matta here, for now anyways.

Martha does them fancy scrap-bookin' classes in the garage. They got tables set up. They got craft stuff like scissors (regular and scalloped), glues (gallons and gallons in 6 different types), glitter, paper, hole-punches (4 sizes, 3 designs), stickers, rubber stamps, bull-dog clips, page-protectors, stamp-pads with re-inkers in 7 colors, 144 premium set of pastels, hair-spray (for settin' pastels), magic-markers, airplane boarding passes (18 total), thumb-tacks, push-pins, and reams and reams and reams of recycled paper. They got mirrors anchored everywhere, so as the class can see Martha scrappin'. They got chairs. They got 18 individual desks and they got 18 individual chairs. They got a laminator in one corner. They got a barber's chair in another. They got a hoist attached to a RSJ. They got glue-guns. At least they look like glue-guns. Maybe spak-filla guns. Don't seem to get hard though just melts like butter but white and all.

Stuart does the assistin'. Does everything Martha instructs. He'd want to. He knows what the barber's chair's for.

Slippery And Vociferous?

Nuh.

I'LL WRING HIS NECK FOR HIM

2006-01-20T11:50:00.000+10:30

DDC isn't happy:

I went to the garage a few months back to see why my windscreen washer wasn't working. The guy had a bit of a look and said that the pumps needed replacing because they had both failed. I said, "what, both at the same time?"

He said yes and told me it was going to cost about fifty quid and take up to two weeks for the parts to arrive. I thought, "Well, on the one hand there is a safety issue and I shouldn't endanger myself and other road users by opperating a dangerous diesel monster without a good view. On the other hand I don't use them much and I can just pour water out of the sun-roof if it gets too bad."

The months rolled by and I still hadn't got round to sorting it out. In the recent heavy snow-fall that has swept the country I managed to go boarding a few times and got salt all over the car. I come to try the rear windscreen washer and Lo! All of a sudden the thing is working again without needing a cash infusion. My guess - the wiring in the car is a bit dodgy. This is an occasional problem associated with old cars, especially ones that have done enough miles to go round the globe a few times.

Two things struck me as I went past the garage the other night. One was that I should think again before buying an old car, even if it is a diesel with a steel timing belt. the engine is fine, it is just all the other bits around it that are knocking on heavens door. I am still undecided about nissan cars. I am grudgingly respectful that the thing is still moving after all these years but I am a little upset that the build quality applied to the engine didn't extend to the rest of the car.

The second thing that struck me was a need for revenge on the garagee. The man was either negligent or lying. I am still tossing around ideas but I am leaning towards something involving a poster / flyer campaign twinned with some clandestine fish secretion. Any helpful suggestions in the comments section below, please.

HERE'S WHAT SHARON HAD TO SAY ON THE MATTER

2006-01-19T09:11:00.000+10:30

More sordid married life as told by Sharon, as related by DDC:

"Ah think ah know the ones yer mean. Thin-ish lookin' woman wi' roots showin'? Biggish bloke wi' patches on 'is elbows an' shoulders?"

"The' were in the other day. It were like ye' said wi' me too. The woman 'ad one of them faces like a slapped arse. 'air stretched tight ter stop 'er face puckerin' into an arsehole. The bloke dint look much 'appier though 'e din't look like a bad sort. Not like your Jason with his misis."

"The' come through an' ah sends it through. Ther' were an awful lot of these "vegetarian alternatives" that the' reckon taste the same as meat, though 'ow the'r' supposed to know is beyond me. Anyway, last thing through the bloke sends down some of them batteries the' put in radios and suchlike. When the' get down to the wife she asks what the'r' for."

"He sez the're fer the bunny. She asks what bunny and he sez, oh no, it's not a bunny is it? Then he turns to me and sez "what der yer call them," ah can't do them posh accents, "big expensive vibraters, like what they had on Sex An The City?" Before ah can speak he turns back and sez to the wife 'It's a rabbit, innit?'"

"She dunt say anythin' and keeps on packin'. Did you 'ear that? Ah said packin'!"

THIS IS WHAT TRACY HAD TO SAY ON THE MATTER

2006-01-18T09:11:00.000+10:30

This rather garbled message comes to you courtesy of DDC If you don't read the previous two you will not understand this third:

"Ah wuz bored out of me skull. Ah'd been on shift for about an hour when this couple comes along. The' looked normal enough but yer can't tell by lookin', eh?"

"So the're looking kind of endgy and yer can see the've bin at it hammer and tongues round the supermarket or somethin. It wer like mi mum and dad just before the' got divorced. Yer knew somethin were going on but yer didn't know what."

"The guy sez, 'what's it to be this week?" All posh, like. An she sez she doesn't know what he's talkin about. So he asks what she wants to reveal to the world this time and she sez no."

"So the' go ter opposite ends, he's loadin and she's puttin the stuff on the belt. I sends everthin through and last thing she asks fer a pack of Lanbert and Butler. Ah can see the guy sag, reflected in the screen on the till. She asks if it is like the bath and he says no, not this time."

"Weird, if you ask me."

HUSBAND AND WIFE #2

2006-01-17T09:11:00.000+10:30

I gotta, gotta, gotta tell yas all about the couple I saw again down the Supermarket:

She: Aren't you getting any magazines?
He: Nope, there's nothing I fancy the look of today.
She: No car magazines for the stack beside the bed?
He: No, not today.
She: No porn mags to hide imbetween?
He: Haha! er.
She: Is this like the "bath issue"?
He: Yes, I think so. Maybe. Thanks for bringing it up in the queue for the tills.
She: I'm not angry. I think it is kind of cute, in an adolescent way.
He: Which means you don't think it is kind of cute in an adult way.
She: No.
He: Point taken.

HUSBAND AND WIFE #1

2006-01-16T09:11:00.000+10:30

DDC caught a wiff of this in the queue for the till at the supermarket:

Wife: Did you pick up the bleach?
Husband: Yes. Why are we getting through so much of the stuff these days?
Her: That would be all the bath-cleaning that has been going on these days.
He: I see. This leads me to ask why there is so much bath-cleaning going on.
Her: This in turn leads me to ask what the slightly amonic smells are after you finish in the shower.
He: Er, I'm not sure.
Her: It isn't you urinating in the shower?
He: No, that is to say, yes. I didn't think you knew...
She: I had a sneaking suspicion after noticing that the only time you ever used the toilet was for a dump in the morning.
He: It was kind of exciting while I thought you didn't know, but now I have been discovered...
She: I don't mind so much. Some people's husbands get up to much worse.
He: No, no. It has lost it's sparkle now. Consider it not done.

ONLY ABOUT 340...

2006-01-13T09:11:00.000+10:30

... days to Christmas:

Have you done your shopping? Got your tree up yet? Come up with something embarrassing to do at the Christmas party? Got the kiddies worried about whether they have been good enough to warrant any presents? Have you dusted off the Christmas dinner jokes?

Say what? You haven't? Waddayamean it's a bit early? Well, if the press are already hyping-up the ashes, then why not get ready for Christmas at the same time.

Well, that's you opinion, then isn't it? You haven't even planned Easter yet? I put the finishing touches to it eighteen months ago. I spent about fifty quid on animal-shaped lumps of chocolate, and ordered my easter hamper of chocolate-shaped lumps of animals for about four hundred quid.

What's a waste of money? Next you'll be trashing my "one every three years" new car buying strategy and telling me I'd be better off feeding my creditcard to the sharks.

Well, fuck you if you won't get into the easter spirit. And your sister

BLAIR TO TACKLE HOOLIGANS AGAIN

2006-01-10T17:10:00.000+10:30

DDC has seen this kind of thing before somehwere. Remember the tirade against hoody tops?

I was just reading this and wondering where it is all going to stop. Another one here gives details of the "urban crime" uniform of baseball hats and hooded tops.

"I wanna be a criminal. I've got a hat and a hoody top."

STYLE GURUS AT WORK

2006-01-09T09:11:00.000+10:30

"Dave, we're fucked! GM have got the jump on us. And Ford aren't far behind."
"Slow down man. Be cool. Remember your training. What's the issue here?"
"They've shaved a couple of hundred bucks off the price of a mid-range saloon."
"What's a saloon?"
"It's a stationwagon in English."
"Holy Shit! We need a style manouvre, sharpish."
"What's sharpish?"
"It means quickly in English."
"Then you are absolutely right. We need to think of some way of deluding these poor dickheads into believing there is some little extra something in our stationwagon that isn't in all the others. Any ideas?"
"Gimme a second."

The bottle of thunking whiskey comes out. An ashttray is filled. Another ashtray is filled with something different. Lights go on and off.

"Got it!"
"Hang on, which one are you?"
"Doesn't matter for the story. Fuck it - let's move before I forget."
"Can it be called a flourish?"
"Yes it can."
"Does it fairly reak of style? Will Gucci be shitting themselves with envy?"
"It does! They will!"
"Will it make our mothers burst with pride? Can I expect a letter from the president praising me on my business accumen?"
"They will! You can!"
"Then tell me. I have my cleanex ready."
"What's cleanex?"
"It is English for tissues."
"Then wad them up! Here it comes! Take one mid-range saloon. Paint it brown."
"No!"
"I haven't finished yet. This is the best part. Paint the car light brown and put a ten inch wide stripe along the side. Do you know what is on the stripe?"
"Tell me!"
"A cut wood grain effect."
"Yes!"

"What is wrong? You shouted and then collapsed. My god! You're bleeding from your crotch! What the fuck happened?"
"I came so hard my wad stripped the lining from the inside of my gristle whistle."
"That's all? We'd better get you to hospital, just to be on the safe side."
"That's not all. After the first wave of extacy, caused by your light brown car colouring, had passed, a bigger wave swept through my body. But I was spent, there was no outlet for you woody stripe. The raw passion had nowhere to go. My body was forced to expel my prostate gland in liu. You can see it dangling from the end of my member by my urethra."
"My woody stripe! It was too good for this world."
"No! Make it happen, for... me."

THIS IS A MORE OR LESS DIRECT DIARY ENTRY

2006-01-07T12:24:00.000+10:30

Day 4 - Boarding in Kiroro

This place is smaller than the first place we went to, covering a mere two mountains instead of three. I do like boarding, though I hate what the resorts do to the countryside. Until I get a helicopter I can't complain too much. Santa must have been to busy this year. The lifelike tiger suit didn't come, either.

We got there earlier and the leaving time was scheduled later, so we had much more time to find our way through the resort. I have attached a map so you can get an idea of the place. The day started a little slowly. First we went right up to the top of the right hand mountain. Coming down there was horrible - the skiers had carved it up badly, so it was a mixture of ice and soft stuff, quite tiring.

Next we went up the other side, which looks smaller on the map but is actually taller than the right. On the lift on the was up we looked down (from about 20 meters up) and chose a course. "That middle one looks empty." Off at the top, right foot back into the binding and off we go.

The first twenty yards or so were great. Then it got steeper - crouch through the turns to dump some speed. "hey, this is grea- where the fuck did that come from?" Imagine you've got a rythem going - left, right, left, right, left, etc. when suddenly there is a meter deep hole in front of you. Hard on the breaks!!

The skiiers call them moguls, but I call them a bloody nuisance. A good skier shoots through them with that little swishy motion from the hips and knees. Snowboarders can do them too but it is really tiring. After a day of that you need a body transplant. We agreed that there should be a sign as we made our very slow progress down the slope.

Back on the lift, off at the top, read the sign that said, "warning, bumpy" at the top. Another lesson learnt. Once we had sussed out where the good slopes were, it was great. It started feeling really easy and I could feel that I had improved. We got the camera out and managed a few good shots of each other. It is amazing how the view from outside is so different to the way it feels.

We had a full day of sliding about merrily. We had enough free time at the end to have an icecream (Mrs DC) and beer (me) at the bar. I got another for the road, then we went off to find the bus. On we got, and that was where things started to go wrong.

Almost as soon as we were moving, all the people on the bus indulged in the Japanese national trait of going to sleep absolutely anywhere. If you go there you will see people sleeping in chairs, on the floor, sitting on the train, standing on the train (no, really), in the park, in restaurants, etc. Contrast this to me, who lost huge parts of my childhood to insomnia and still can't sleep anywhere other than a bed in a quiet, dark, cool room. Mrs. DC nodded off across the aisle from me.

I sat and watched the world whizz past. About an hour went by and I think to myself, "I'll need the toilet soon." I'm not worried, as I have a sstrong bladder. Thirty more dull moments pass and I am begining to worry, as the journey back is taking considerably longer than the outbound. My bladder is begining to swell.

Another fifteen minuted have passed and the pain is increasing. My bladder is doing battle with my waistband, and winning. At this point, victory for the wasteband would spell trouble for the gusset. Now my back is hurting and I am recalling the episode of the simpsons where Grandads kidneys explode. It definitley feels like the system is backing-up and my kidneys are being pressed into service as auxhiliary bladders. They don't like it.

There is nothing for it. Mrs. DC was sent to ask the driver to pull over. "Anywhere," I gasped, "I don't care if anyone can see. Outside the copshop is also ok. Anywhere, d'ye hear me?" Off she toddled, back she toddled. No joy - the road was no stopping on pain of instant fine. There were cameras and there was nothing he could do.

I was faced with three choices; floor, pants or empty beer can. This is not how I reasoned it at the time but for those of you who have not been in this position, here it is.

Floor - Smell, sound and a huge river of piss running the length of the bus might give me away, though the chances of brazening it out and blaming it on the child two seats down did exist.

Pants - Sound would be no problem but getting from bus to hotel room would be a living nightmare. Also, in the volumes we are talking this one would have encompassed option #1 anyway but without the safety net of the child two rows down.

Can - Noise would definitely be a factor here and the chances of actually being seen in flagranto were high. Also, the volume of the can was a fraction, a small fraction, of the amount I was carrying.

In the end I plumped for the can. Just getting into the firing position was hard enough. I was wearing about five layers. I made a mental note to get back into shape as I wrestled with five pieces of elastic. The mountain came to Mohammed. Mrs. DC had finally worked out what I was doing was visibly dithering.

I got off to a slow start. It was as loud as, well, er, someone pissing into an empty can on a bus full of sleeping people stopped at the lights. I had a stroke of genius. While the bottom part of my body was relieving itself, the top half was nonchalantly looking out of the window. "What noise, officer?"

It was at this critical moment that Mrs. DC decided what she could best do to help. Those people who were awake and hadn't sussed out what was going on, well, no way were they going to avoid noticing with Mrs. DC holding her coat up across the aisle as a screen. Telling her to fuck off would have only attracted more attention, so I put up with it.

I had three-quarters filled the can before he pain began to subside, though it would be another fifteen minutes before the kidneys stopped hurting. And believe me they were hurting. They hurt more than my broken arm, more than my broken toe, more than the nail through my foot, more than the three nails in my leg. I decided to draw things to a close before I ran out of can. This is a difficult thing for guys to do, by the way girls.

Just as I thought the ordeal was over, the bus pulls over at a convenience store. The driver woke everyone up to announce that I was getting off to go to the toilet, just in case they didn't know who had been making all the splashing/tinkling noises before. Head held high, I marched to the front of the bus, into the convenie back up the bus with my head high. The effect was slightly dampened by me catching my boot on a seat.

At the hotel I smuggled my can off and thanked the driver as he handed out the equipment. That evening we had seafood.

OK THEN, WHOSE HOBBY IS THIS?

2006-01-06T09:11:00.000+10:30

So you start off knowing next to nothing about it. The first time you see it is on TV but you can't really see how it relates to you. It looks kind of cold.

You get into it through a friend. You either ask them or they ask you. Usually they show you the ropes and ease you into the affaire. Beginners are usually hesitant and make lots of mistakes but more than not end up liking the process.

As you get into it you might buy equipment and clothing. You might arange parties for like minded people and spend increasing amounts of money on your hobby. You will be able to spot others who share your interest by the cut of their jib.

If you go further people will start to tell you that you think about your hobby too much, that other aspects of your life are suffering as a result. You will sometimes sustain strange injuries and strains that you will find hard to explain to your family. You will find yourself learning new variations of the English language.

If you go any further than this then you will find yourself swerving away from mainstram life. As you get older your existence will start to lose meaning as you loose the ability do your hobby. You will talk about your hobby in the fast tense and younger people now doing said hobby will be embarrassed when you do.

You will die, and no-one will mention your hobby, as it will not be thought quite right for a church funeral.

SO THIS DUDE WALKS INTO A BAR AND SAYS

2005-12-29T22:30:00.000+10:30

"You should have seen it! It was fucking brill!"

He sits down at the bar and puts his phone down. "A shitwizer please, chief."

The guy on the next stool along says, "Vatss with zee loud talking?"

The original guy turns round and says, "Sorry mate, I was a bit loud there wasn't I? I went out with some guys the other day. It was a great day. Fresh powder that day, you see?" He flashed a hopeful smile.

The next guy looks at him, kind of conspiratorially. "I doo know vat you mean."

"With the new powder it was faster, cleaner just easier, you know what I mean?"

The other guy looked and agreed again, "I see."

"This new shit, it's like you can do anything. You know? Confidence goes up. A bit more willing while you've got it, eh?" A nod, a wink.

"Can you tell me vere I might find som of zis powder?"

"That French place. You know the place. On TV all the time?"

"Is it Unilever?"

"That's the place."

MERRY FUCKLEMAS

2005-12-28T12:41:00.000+10:30

DDC has more of an educational one today:

I'm off to Hokkaido, the most Northern island of Japan, tomorow and my imagination is recovering from telling a ton of people why my december reports weren't on their desks yesterday. So, imbetween packing and telling people my fax machine is broken but not the phone function which is why I can talk to you, I intend to elaborate upon the joys of boarding for those of you who have not done it before.

Forgetting the first few times, which are reserved for finding your balance and working out the conditions and generally getting back to where you were last time, the midmorning section of your boarding day is the best bit. I'll fast-forward through the drive to the mountain, the ridiculously easy finding of a parking space due to the recent bankruptcy and subsequent re-opening with no fanfare whatsoever, the trip up to the top in the cable-car, etc. I will mention the doorway out of the house at the top, because it was like one of those near death experiences that I truly believe people have. We are talking about a doorway into white. A mixture of cloud and and snow both falling and on the ground. I could have been stepping off a cliff and would have never have known the difference, at least beforehand. You would have known because barring Amy Tan style limbo writings you wouldn't be reading this.

Anyway, we shot down the beginner slope, which was as much like the life of a manager as any analogy I have ever seen. Slippery slope, occasional pratfalls, no huge difficulties, no huge sense of well-being. People somehow managing to screw it up...

So the epiphany happened over the course of two runs. We moved onto a medium difficulty slope which was mid-thigh deep in lovely powdery snow. Attach bindings to boots, bend knees, stand-up. Weight over front foot, let back foot drift round to the back and we're off. I got momentary butterflies when I realised that the course was a damn-sight steeper than I expected. I quickly torched my butterflies by executing a few fast turns and a little (a couple of inches) jump off the crest of a hill. As I am doing so I spot another run branching off the one I am on.

Let me take a few seconds to explain myself: There is risk involved in boarding and falling over and/or hitting someone else are problems. Not big problems for me, as I know how to fall over from Judo and Aikido, and I am good enough that I don't need to worry about hitting people. These are low risk and high probability. I don't know anyone who hasn't hit or been hit by someone whilst boarding. High risk low probability is going off down what appears to be a run without checking first. Best case failure is a long, long walk walk up a 45 degree slope with a heavy board and way too much clothing for that kind of energy use in waiste-deep snow. You are also fairly likely to find a piece of geography. I hated geography at school, but I like it less when it comes in the form of an unnexpected cliff or a partly frozen lake when I can't stop.

Back to the story: I stored the mystery run away and carried on down the hill. The run turned into a groovy little tree-lined affair with nice swishy curves and a ski lift at the end with a cute little staff member at the end who probably also had nice swishy curves. I doffed my cap as I boarded and had another look over to the right where that other branch had been leading. I catch a few glimpses through the trees and think, "no problem. a touch steep in places but that's ok." I move on and the turn-off is right there. Off at the top and pause to re-fit my back boot into the binding. Off I go.

The first bit of the hill is a bit steep but that is ok because I need to hold on to some speed to reach the turn-off. I cross under the ski-lift and have to duck to avoid braining myself on a dnagling snowboard. My fault - I turned off on pilon too soon. Not a problem. As soon as I am through I am into virgin powder, about half a meter of the stuff. My normal boarding stance is over the front, but I am now firing along calf-deep in snow, so I switch onto my back foot and I have finally found a cross-over from windsurfing. On powder, a board steers like a windsurfer. Great.

Down the hill to the turn-off and it is flattening-off alarmingly so to carry the speed I crouch over the back of the board. This is something I was told never to do, but my instincts are telling me I am right. I am spilling speed in spite of this and actually stop right on the crest of a hummock, which affords me a view of the slope. As I hop free of the snow three thoughts strike me - no tracks, very steep, is this part of the mountain open?

Too late to worry about that. Where even love doesn't find a way, Dr. DogChop will. The slope is in fact around 45 degrees, with trees, watch out for broken knees and I couldn't safely stop even if I wanted to. We are talking about 200 meters in about fifteen seconds or so. Doing the maths that comes out at about 50km/h. I crouch at the bottom to keep my speed and virtually skate onto the lift at the bottom. I doff my cap to the curves, who clearly wasn't expecting anyone coming from that side today.

Now I understand these people who work just to pay for snowboarding. The day did actually get better. The reason I mention it is to give a snese of the passion involved. Quite frankly it knocks scoring a goal or winning a race into a cocked-hat.

Who wants to hear about how snowboarding is like sex?

DDC IS WONDERING

2005-12-22T11:42:00.000+10:30

Where the fuck did all this come from?

I woke up expecting rain, had a shower, coffee and enjoyed having a beard for a while. I made breakfast of some caramel that was lying around and got ready for work. Coat, boots, bag, laptop.

I open the door and think, ok maybe I need hat and gloves too. I'm skating along merrily to work when I go past one of those digital thermometers and it says it's minus five. So the weather guys got the temperature wrong by a full ten degrees or so. Good work guys.

There is a good chance of going home early today, which is great because I have nothing whatsoever to do today. It is good boarding snow, though. Not a hint of damp in it.

ON THE FIFTH DAY OF JONESMAS A YANKEE GAVE TO ME, FIVE QUESTIONS INTERESTING

2005-12-21T09:13:00.000+10:30

DDC had this one passed onto him by Texas Yankee. He doesn't normally do this kind of thing but he has fuck all to do today. He is going to throw a sicky at lunchtime but til then he is going to outline five strange habits of his, in no patricular order:

1 - When I was about four we lived in this big, old house in the middle of no-where. The wind used to whistle through the eaves and it used to take a whole day to warm-up if you put the heating on. Meter thick sandstone walls will do that for you. To be honest, it was not the best place to grow up and I used to have constant nightmares about witches. I would be too scared to go to the toilet so I would do it in the corner of the bedroom. The next morning my mother would find it and wale the shit out of me.

In those days, my mother was scarier than my nightmares so I galvanised myself into action and forced myself to go up the stairs to the bathroom. I somehow managed to convince myself that the witches actually lived in the toilet and were waiting to pull me in if I had a dump without asking permission three times. Weeing was not a problem.

Anyway, this developed into a bit of a ritual where I would wipe the toilet seat three times whilst saying, "Witches, can I have a wee and a poo please? Witches, can I have a wee and a poo please? Witches, can I have a wee and a poo please?" Thus appeased the witches would leave me in peace to pontificate. Though in truth, I never really trusted them and always got my business done in record time.

Anyway, the repitition has gone, but the wiping manouvre has remained to this day.

2 - Starting from the age of about fifteen and continuing through until I was about twenty I found myself buying more and more clothing that was either black or white. I would never buy anyhting colourful, nor even patterned. I'm not sure, but I think this stems back to an incident that occured outside my mate's house. I was stood there wearing an off-black / grey denim jacket. Some little scum-bag came up and asked me perhaps the oddest question I had ever been asked, which was "Are you a wigger?"

This rocked my world because a) I didn't know what a wigger was, and b) when I did find out I couldn't see why anyone would think I was one. From then on I had this kind of vague fear every time I bought clothes. It matched the vague image I had of a wigger. My teenage years were fairly vague all-round. By the way, I told the urchin to fuck off.

I arrived at university to be invited to a traffic-light party. For those of you who have not experienced this, it is a party where you must wear one of three colours, indicating your current partner-seeking status. Green for actively looking, yellow for maybe, red for no. Predictably, you got all the guys wearing green, 90% of the girls wearing red, the the racier 10% wearing dark yellow.

Back to the point - I found I actually enjoyed the fun of wearing a green Tshirt. For the last five years I have found myself fluctuating between strict conservatism and an almost camp desire for colour. I still have not mastered patterns and I certainly wouldn't go near a logo or brandname across the chest.

3 - I'll try and keep this one short. My father, Old Mr. DogChop, is the worlds worst procrastinator. I do know what I am talking about and you will have to take my word for it. I meet a hell of a lot of people in my line of work and i have never met the like. It takes the man two hours to boil potatoes, a dish that he makes with depressing regularity. It takes him an hour to get ready to go to the shops. I could go on but I won't for reasons I will outline now.

In reaction to this, coached by old Mrs. DogChop, I have developed into one of the least patient people on the planet. When waiting, I usually alot the person performing the task the time it takes me plus about five percent. This is a problem because I tend to get stuff done really quickly.

Example - when I left university I got one of those "jobs" selling new gas providers door to door. On the way to the battle field, the guys who had cars would arse about in typical style. We would select a random person walking down the street and all start shouting and waving at them, as if they were a friend. They would amusingly half wave to us and look puzzled, as if they couldn't quite place us. Minutes of fun. Those were the days.

Anyway, another popular one was performed at the lights. When the lights changed, the passenger would reach across and honk the horn the second the lights changed, as if to say, "Hurry up, you're being too slow." This wasn't funny to me.

4 - I said it before but I will try again this time to keep things short. I'm not sure why I ever thought this was funny, and i am even less sure why I think it is still funny. It is probably like Allo-allo, that old TV show which only contained about ten actual lines, rearranged into different configurations each week. "Good Moaning" - slow decade, the eighties.

Anyway, the strange habit is putting either a used sock or pair of pants onto Mrs. DCs head or face, while she is asleep. Her sleepily spasmodic clearing actions are what get me through the long winter nights.

4 - Not being able to count above four.

I would quite like to see one of Lennon and McCartney do this.

HAVEN'T YOU HEARD?

2005-12-20T13:02:00.000+10:30

DDC has:

It's Daves Birthday! But what does it have to do with you and me? Well, it means we have to go out and scoff ourselves stupid, guzzle ourselves stupid and have a good time at his expense.

What do you mean, who is Dave? About four years ago this guy called Dave was killed. He was an all-round nice bloke and they killed him by nailing him to an enormous wooden cartwheel. No, you are right, it wasn't enough to kill him. They did that by rolling it into a pond from the top of a big meadow, like the cheese-rolling.

Anyway, it happened around March but that didn't fit in with the local festival schedule. It was too close to Easter. So they shunted it back to summer. Even then, it interfered with Glastonbury, so they combined the two. Now the Glastonbury weekend is called called Jonesmas.

I know it sounds strange, but you should try it in Australia! They have Jonesmas in winter. And they spend it indoors eating potatoes and gravy and shit. No really! I don't see how it has anything to do with the Jonesmas spirit, but there you go.

If you go down to Hallmark you can buy Jonesmas cards with cartwheels, or kids sledging through the mud on the front. All the girls are wearing gold chains with little men nailed to cartwheels dangling off them. No, it isn't at all grizzly.

No, can't stop now. I've got to go out and buy some Jonesmas presents to keep the economy happy and make sure I keep living off credit for a while. I'm having a party on Bagging Day if you want to come. OK, I'll pencil you in.

SO THERE I WAS

2005-12-19T09:11:00.000+10:30

DDC was in a cafe:

And this guy was telling me about cricket. Well, I'll start from the begining, shall I? I walked in, sat down and said, "What happened in the cricket?"

The guy I was talking to opened his mouth to speak when some other cunt butted in and started telling me the odds on South Africa beating New Zealand. "I'm not interested," I said, and turned back to the original guy I was talking to.

He said, "A whole bunch of shit went down. England got embarrassingly anhilated by Pakistan, Some dudes from NZ beat the Ozzies in a world record run-chase, and.."

And I was like, "holy shit! What happened there?"

Just as the guy opened his mouth to speak the other dude butted back in and said, "hey, you know you can bet on that series, don't you? You can also listen free on the net!"

I was barely holding onto my patience. "Mate, I don't care about betting on any cricket games. I don't want to pay for coverage, either. The door is that way." He dissapeared.

So the other guy told me about the NewZees winning epicly and I almost forgot about England loosing. "Alright," I said, "What else happened?"

Just as he started to tell me the self-same dick from before comes in and starts talking about betting again. "Mate, won't you just fuck off and leave me alone?"

He just kept talking so I left him to it and listened to the original guy. I figured he would just come back if I didn't. The other guy told me that Simon Jones opperation had been successful, so I asked him for more info. Just as he opened his mouth to enlarge upon the matter, another one of these little fuckers walks in and asks, "Do you want to buy a three month deal to watch cricket on your PC in a window the size of a small stamp?" So now there are two of these bastards trying to sell me shit while I am trying to find out the cricket scores.

Anyway, by the time I had got to the end of the cricket, the cafe was full of the wankers. I fought my way to the door, while one of them refused to be naysaid.

"Go on! Try betting online! If you sign up here we'll give you fuck-all as a present!"

I turned and said, "Does anyone actually buy this shit, when you throw it in their faces like this?"

"About one per million or so. Wanna make it two?"

I punched him in the eye and said, "I don't fucking think so."

SPOKEN IN A LOUD VOICE

2005-12-16T10:32:00.000+10:30

"Your crime be such that you must surely die as punishment."

The boy, on his bike, blanched and said, "But I am just a kid, and did not know what I was doing. To punish me for that is to punish me for being a child."

"Never the less, you must face a higher justice. Though I am called a judge, I am merely a crime prevention unit. Thus you are punished not for your own crimes, but so that others will not disgress in the same way."

The blanched even further, then greened. "Is there not some other way in which I might provide this example? If I am not to be pardoned this aberation, then might my sentence be lowered?"

"Given the nature of your crime, the lowest possible sentence I can administer is the loss of two limbs and imparement in a third, with possible brain-damage. Given that you are young and foolish, I will let you choose between death and half-death. Though, should you choose paraplegia, your punishment would fall upon others in your life. I see your mother crying in the gallery."

The boy thought for the longest moment in his life. "I choose death."

In the gallery, the mother could be seen banging her fists on the plexiglass. A faint whisper of her screams wafted down. "This will be in the papers before sundown."

The boy looked up and saw death.

In the rear-view mirror I saw the tangled mass of body and bike, a machine that would never again dart across the road without looking.

SAID I

2005-12-15T00:41:00.000+10:30

"It looks like I came out bottom of the pile again. Just when I think I have it made someone comes along and tells me I haven't, usually in a piercing nasal voice. Don't you just hate that?

"I didn't realise that they could be made and ordered at all. I just picked my missus up off the street.

"Vital stats, you say? Er, her tollerance is high and she doesn't anger all that easily.

"Noo, no. It all seem to work-out in the end. Well, we're both quite happy."

"What, bring her here? With scum like you aound? I don't think so."

SAID THE OTHER GUY

2005-12-12T21:03:00.000+10:30

"Well, that's ok for you. If you've got the money then why not...

"I had to get one of the rack, like a one-size doesn't quite fit all. It looks good on the outside but it has all kinds of problems on the inside. Throws a hissy-fit at the drop of a hat.

"I took it down the pub the other day. Not this one, the other one. The guy behind the bar asks if he can take it for a spin. I sez no, of course. You can't let it stand. It's irresponsible. I'm no spring chicken now.

"I find the bets thing is not to expect too much. You're only building yourself up for a knockdown, am I wrong?"

DDC HEARD THIS LITTLE PEARLER DOWN THE WATERING HOLE

2005-12-12T17:32:00.000+10:30

"So I sez to the guy, what der yer mean? An he sez you can arrange it any way yer like and I'll do it.

"So I sez I wanted somethin easy on the eye, not too flashy but nothin' I'd be afraid ter take ter the pub, like. I said I only wanted big in certin places, and he took my meaning perfectly.

"I said I wanted somethin' low maintainence and he sez they never fall ter pieces. We 'ad a bit of a laugh about that. He said it more or less looked after it'self as long as you keep it out of the damp and cold.

"He said I could choose a colour, so I said yeller, coz I've always liked yeller. All them years of watching Baywatch, eh?"

AAAaaaaWWWwwww, mum...

2005-12-09T16:33:00.000+10:30

DDC has been demanded of again:

I want blue.

I look at him. "If you wanted blue you should have said so before."

I'm not doing it if you don't give me blue.

I take hold of him in both hands. I lift him up to my face. He is getting quite heavy, these days. "If you had said you would want blue last week, then I could have done something, but now it is Friday afternoon and the guy will certainly not deliver at this time." I stopped for a second, a sure sign that the meat of the argument was coming. "Which is beside the point because your desire for blue has nothing to do with the work I want you to do."

Don't care what you think. Won't do it.

"You selfish little cunt. It's just want want want with you, isn't it? Do you know how pathetic you sound?"

Want blue.

"You've got a bunch of other colours. Look - red, yellow, black."

Don't like black, like blue.

At this point, I lost it completely. I started raving and shouting, used every swearword I knew at least twice. I eventually had to calm down as the rumpus was attracting attention from the section chief, who would be holding my appraisal the week after.

What are you doing?

"We're going for a fucking walk, you arse." I dragged it along , through the door, down the stairs, through the door. The security guard started to say something. Clearly, he didn't know what, so in the end he said nothing. We passed out into the carpark, where some cars were parked, some just left faux parking. I opened the boot of my car. Inside was the BOX.

What's that awful smell? Is it coke? Did you drown it in coke? I can't even tell what it was anymore. Why did you do this?

"It wouldn't play my copied Cure CD, and it kept skipping through Creep. Do you still want blue?"

Want blue.

"Then fuck you! You asked for it." I proceded to birch the living shit out of it seven-foot-long rod of birch. At this point it broke down completely, and the seurity guard came out to see what was going on. I told him.

He puffed his chest out and anger burned in his eyes like a fart in a glass. "Shame 0n you. This is unbelieveable. How you look at yourself in the mirror each day I don't know."

Want blue.

"I see you've got tons of black. There are printers in Africa that would kill for a bit of black." He piled in with me, and soon the printer was a shattered mess. We stuck it on a spike above the gates and a woman in a blue dress gave it some water in a wooden cup.

I'VE BEEN THINKING LONG AND HARD BUT

2005-12-07T12:27:00.000+10:30

DDC can relate to Dave:

Dave walks into the car shop with a briefcase attached to his wrist via a chain and handcuff system. Apart from the briefcase, his appearence is quite shabby. His jeans are a year old and his jacket is a year older. The motif on his sweater has an earlier year within it. The salesman visibly fails to point like a terrier.
Dave wanders over, puts down his briefcase and says, "I'd like to buy a new Ford ShitBox please."
Pamphlets appear, get shuffled, rearranged. Colour options and alloy wheels are mentioned half-heartedly by the salesman. His eye is on the door, watching for a real customer. "I'm sorry, were you expecting someone?" Dave is cool as a bag of pizza. "Let's come to the point. There is a dark blue ShitBox out there that I like the look of. It says fifteen thousand pounds on the road. Can you do it for ten?"
"Of course, we will need to get a loan approved and work out when you can come and pick it up." He sucks the air through his teeth like a prize saddle-sniffer and says, "I'll see what I can do with the price. I'll need to talk to the sales manager first."
Dave raises a hand to stop the free-wheeling sales patter. "I want it today. I won't be needing a loan."
The salesman smiles, "How will you be paying? The banks are closed and I must regretfully inform you that the sales manager has gone home."
"I will be paying cash, and I am sure the sales manager might be 'regretfully' tempted to come back to work for the sight of ten thousand pounds in cash."
"Just one moment." He dissapears into an office, comes back, sits down. "Let's go for a spin while the sales manager comes back."
The spin is gone for and the ShitBox lived up to it's name, though some people like that and Dave is one of them so that is OK. He backs it into the space outside the showroom, pulls the handbrake and says, "Both boaty and slow. I particularly liked the loss of traction round the corners. I definitely want it."
Waiting inside is the sales manager. "Ahh, Mr. er?"
Dave says, "Dave will be fine."
"OK, Dave, though I don't mind telling you that I won't be able to patronise you half as much without using the word 'mister'." He leers obsequeously.
"I'll have to forgo that pleasure in lieu of a big discount for paying cash."
The sales manager leers again. "I am afraid that the price is fixed, though I might interest you in..."
Dave shook his haid, cool as room full of cats on mescalin, saying, "It is this one or nothing. I have ten thousand pounds in cash", he opens the case to show them, "and I know you want it. You do want it don't you?"
The sales manager shrugs helplessly and says, "you could make up the difference with a loan. Other than that there is nothing we can do."
Dave said, "I'd rather choke. Which is to say, I'd rather buy a Renault." He gestures to the Renault dealer across the road, with his chin.
Twenty minutes later he leaves with a new Ford ShitBox and an empty briefcase. And an air of smugness.

I still don't get it.

Here is the scheme of things:
Get a job.
Get enough money for a deposit.
Get a new car.
Spend a year or two handing over money for a car that isn't actually yours yet.

Question number one: Are you just buying tons of new cars to make more cheap second hand cars available for me?

Question number two: Why not wait a bit and pay in cash? Instead of begging some loan company (read thief) for money, why not have it the other way?

FOOL TAX BILL PASSED

2005-12-06T16:58:00.000+10:30

DDC has been into this before, but:

Bank: How can I help you today?
Customer: I'd like a morgage please!
Bank: Fantastic! Any thoughts on what kind you would like?
Customer: I have thought long and hard about it and I would like one of those really dodgy ones that is based on pensions schemes. It said on the advert that they could go up as well as down.
Bank: And what proportion of your income would you like to sacrifice?
Customer: Half, no wait! Let's say 45% just to be on the safe side. We'll be signing jointly because we can see no possibility of getting divorced five years down the line.
Bank: I see. And would you like the optional insurance that only benefits us but not you for a mere fifty pounds a year?
Customer: Yes, I never read the papers. Also, please don't tell me about the slightly more comprehensive insurance that costs about the same.
Bank: Ok, let's hedge around that and get through to glossing over the hidden risks in the contract. You will be working continuously for the next thirty years, won't you?
Customer: Yes. I plan to have my babies on weekends so I don't need to miss work. And neither my husband or myself has any desire to travel for long periods or take a year off work, just for the hell of it. We both only smoke and get wankered every weekend a bit, so neither of us can forsee health problems either.
Bank: The bank reserves the right to re-possess your organs if you don't pay on time. We'll probably have to link the loan to your car loan and credit card, just so the whole lot goes at once.
Customer: Fantastic! Now let's see how I can account for the remaining tenth of my salary, so I can get into the business of living off credit!

YOU KNOW HOW THEY TRIED TO JAZZ UP BOWLS...

2005-12-05T16:32:00.000+10:30

DDC is back in the driving seat:

You don't know how they tried to get kids interested in crown green bowls? Weellll, basically they handed out colourful tracksuits and bandanas. OK, well I know that colourful kits are one side of the coin with games like football, rugby, etc. but also included in these games is an outlet for energy and a chance for execise. I not saying that bowls is not a sport, just that it's pace is more suited to the greyhaired masses of Lancashire than the backstreets of Chicago.

Anyway, I think they did the same thing to my exam. A foreign language exam with a bit of "cool" thrown in, if you can picture that. If I hadn't been so tense I might have enjoyed the opportunity for satire a little more.

Imagine, if you will, a foreign language exam with instructions in said language and peoples of all different creeds and colours, who understand the target language somewhere between not at all and perfectly. The instructions go out and around 70% of the people present understand and don't open their test booklets. Of the rest, 28% spot what is going on and close their books in a rush, escaping notice. The remaining person, doesn't get it quite quick enough. What happens next?

To answer this question we have to go back a few years and travel a few hundred miles to head office. We've got a scene a bit like in the Hudsucker Proxy where the three guys are trying to think of a name for this new toy that has been invented. The whiskey is on the table, the ashtray is full, the hallway dark and the kitty littered. Three head office types are there.

"We need something that will make the whole experience more exciting for young kids. We've noticed a worrying decline in the number of young kids being interested in taking really hard exams for no particularly good reason. What are we going to do?" HOT #1 scratched his head theatrically.

HOT #2 gave his two-penn'th, "Kids these days are only interested in sport, violence and reality TV. I think they are lost to us."

HOT #3 said, "We could set loads of questions about popular sports, films and TV. They'd be sure to go for it."

HOT #2 shook his head. "This company has a fine tradition of setting questions about things of note, such as flowering trees, what parents said about heir kids and what really fucking dull people did on holiday. If we started setting questions that related to what most people actually do, it would completely change the face of the subject and we couldn't have that."

HOT #3 sighed, nodded and expressed his agreement."I don't know what came over me! Next I'll be talking about holding the exams at convenient times and heating the classrooms so that the temperature makes it into double figures."

HOT #1 leaped to his feet. "I have it! How about if we gave the moderators red and yellow cards, so that when the examinees fuck it up they can be carded accordingly!"

HOTs 1 and 2 both nodded slowly. HOT #1 said, "This could solve all our problems. The louts and layabouts..."

HOT #2 said, "you got the circular. We have to call them moderators now."

HOT #1 ploughed straight on, "the lazy fucking student fuckwit moderators, who cannot tell their arse from their elbows, will have a tool and a protocol to rally around. The students who cheat can be carded and bundled out to the amusement of the onlookers."

HOT #3 chimed in again, "but some of the students might be making mistakes because they don't understand the language. Don't you think there might be a double standard, giving them no visual cues when giving instructions but then giving them something to look at when they fuck up?"

HOT #2 had a bit to say, "True enough, but if they can't understand 'don't open your book yet', they might not understand 'get out and take your bag.' I think it's flawless."

HOT #3 said, "But couldn't we put a few pictograms, just to make things easier?"

HOT #1 shuffled his papers and looked at his watch. "No, I don't think so. Let's just consider it a done deal. Now let's move on to the new scheme to extend the marking period in spite of the computer marked scripts..."

The first time I experienced the system the guy, a proper Mr. Job if ever I saw one, ran up and thrust a red card in the face of the examinee, footy-style. Yesterday, the first incident was a woman who opened her book early. The moderator came bounding up and said, "Did you open your book?"

The woman, of course, said no. So the guy hesitated for fully five seconds before hesitantly flashing the yellow at her. The rest of the assmebly had a bit of a smirk whilst the other five moderators went off into one corner. I cannot guarrantee it, but I suspect they were having a meeting about camp the other guy was being. The exam proceded as usual. I suspect I didn't trouble the scorer much.

The second time round was the listening test. As they gave out the warnings, the narky moderator held up the relevant card. The exam progressed much better, proving Mrs. Dog Chop wrong. Aparently listening is a strong point of mine. At the end the guy said, "stop writing", and all except one of them did. This time it was a guy. He kept going and the camp moderator advanced, yellow card to the fore, head on one side, as if to say, "I eat pieces of shit like you for breakfast."

The guy looked up and kept going. "You eat pieces of shit for breakfast?" The student moderator, who I would put the farm on being an economics student, instead of using the card as per instructions, takes hold of the paper and engages in a kind of wimpy tug-of-war. The guy puts down his pencil. The moderator turns round and the guy starts writing again. He's got the chemicals if not the neurons. The geeky moderator then sees this and kind of half gives the guy a yellow.

It was not clear if that was a second one or a first, and the earlier stuff had been a threat.

The third exam passed with me using my skills to the full. Unfortunately they were my colouring skills. My multiple-choice answer sheet looked good, with paisley patterns, though the answers probably didn't match. This time the guy was ready. He had obviously nerved himself up to DO IT this time, so when the buzzer went he was striding up the aisle hand on card. He looked for all the world like a gunfighter, except less menacing and more gay. No-one wanted to try him.

Anyway, I have time again now, so I can trouble your screens once more.

MUFF BURGERS AND SNOTRAG-FREE ZONES

2005-12-04T19:19:00.000+10:30

Prior to this site going A.W.O.L. recently I wrote a candid - and some would argue definitive - piece about how much this fucking country gets to me. That post is gone: stricken from the record; chomped and swallowed by the rabid jaws of the world wide web's fiercest spider, Alfonso The Great. For those who read it, I'm referring to # 1.

Since that post was dead and heroically revived by the lads at Blogger [thanks, thanks and thanks once more], if it pleases the court I'll now proceed with my written assassination of the country in which I reside by introducing Exhibit B: December marks the official start to many things for this great nation. It's the official time of changing the reverse cycle air-conditioner setting from cool to warm, although switching the same contraption to the on setting will be delayed until at least one member of staff at any given work place dies from hypothermia, unless you're unfortunate to be travelling in a mode of public transportation, in which case you'll most likely die from hyperthermia, as the temparature variant between inside and outside will be at least 40 degrees Celcius.

Also of particular note during this time of year is the length of uniforms, as worn primarily by the female gender of the school kiddy species. Naturally, as the temperature outside ventures into single digits, which it has in my part of this great nation, the length of the hemline must be raised, in accordance with appropriate law, by at least five centimetres to the length of the summer model. This is in order to accommodate the winter uniform specifications; determined to be essential in facilitating the highly desired blue coloration of the otherwise distinctly white parts of the female anatomy known as legs and, more importantly, for greater visibility of the muff burger; an elusive and allegedly hairy sub species of the female school kiddy species.

Laws enforced with similar vigour as those pertaining to the length of hemline prevent me from posting photos, which may or may not be in my possession, of this sub species.

Further pertaining to the onset of December is the must, at all costs, for every living creature in this country to refrain from using a handkerchief, tissue, snot-rag, sleeve, hand-towel, towel, leaf, mammoth pelt or any other item with which to blow or wipe ones snot from ones nose. Instead, it was ruled billions of years ago in parliament that this particular species - male and female alike - sniffle, snort, inhale, pick, prod and generally create as much attention to the act of not blowing ones nose as humanly possible as a means of affirming ones national pride and unity as a race.

It's a form of lunacy rarely witnessed (or heard, for that matter) in the west yet easily so disgustingly outrageous that I simply couldn't keep its highly irritating nature from you, dear dedicated reader.

Aside: DDC, if you don't pull your finger out and start writing really fucking soon I think I won't have an alternative but to invest my hardly-earned money in several forms of creative torture devices; for use on my so-named fellow human beings.

HORSE & HORSE: MAN BOOBS RELOCATION PROGRAMME

2005-12-04T19:18:00.000+10:30

Horse and Horse were preparing for another splendid day out on the range.

They hadn't felt the breeze lifting from a golf course and nipping at their golden manes since Colin Montgomerie had stood them up several thousand beers ago; when Montgomerie was exuberantly full of himself and without the faulty swing which currently impedes his progress towards the bar, and when Horse and Horse were quietly sure of upstaging, with their patented Whiskey-Shot-Per-Pun approach, the upstart and his illegally-acquired female Russian caddy. Horse and Horse were confident that their mastery of the beverage would be no match for Montgomerie's deplorable use of the English language, where spitting took priority over enunciation.

Horse and Horse hadn't anticipated Montgomerie's run-in with the Russian Mafia and completed the round alone with the gallery applauding every stroke and golf shot.

The shenanigans of that day are best left where they belong; in the annals of forgotten time and in photographic form above the bar at Saint Andrew's.

Looking the part in borrowed attire from the Op Shop, Horse and Horse were displaying the type of confidence that would cause peacocks to retreat in embarrassment and peahens to swoon at their feet; their brown strides tucked confidently into red and white chequered knee-high socks as their khaki flak shirts emitted a fragrance of mothballs, dried snot and Brut 33 that had aged to within a whisker of perfection.

The old guy in the used clothing store had demanded top dollar for the items until Horse had produced a makeshift NRA badge with the inscription 'Commander & Chief' and Horse a stolen pensioner card sans photo, demanding that the all-inclusive $4 fee be waved under the proviso the items were returned post victory celebrations without questions asked and within a week from that day.

Three months to the day later, Horse and Horse had left nothing to chance, for Horse and Horse knew the seriousness the gentlemanly game of golf entailed. They were looking the part of joint aesthetic champions, having also popped into a tattooist's for a complimentary icon or two on areas of their bodies that had remained ink-free until then.

The purple bow ties and bolar hats were purely for show.

The invitation had come from an unlikely source: Bodean Zephyr III; tycoon, playground builder, 1984 checkers champion of Prague and criminal. It read: "St Gladioli Course. 9 am sharp. Bring cheese. Invitation valid for two" and had arrived by courier in a brown paper bag along with the pornography.

It was 10:23 am when Horse and Horse groggily strode to the first tee.

"What the hell kept you?" Bodean Zephyr III asked as he sprayed musk cologne down the front of his pants.

"Who the fuck are you and what in God's lime green kitchen are you talking about?" Horse retorted by way of subtle enquiry.

"The invitation said 9 am sharp," Bodean Zephyr III reminded Horse and Horse. He was tapping the sole of his shoe to a tune Horse and Horse couldn't finger.

"Which invitation would that be?" Horse enquired, genuinely puzzled by Bodean Zephyr III's audacious insinuation that they were at fault for something which neither knew anything about.

Realising the conversation had diminished in accordance with the silent wishes of the two newest associate members of the St Gladioli Golf Club, Bodean Zephyr III chose a different approach.

"Did you bring the cheese?" he asked.

"What fucking cheese?" Horse replied; the veins protruding from his temples were now as obvious as testicles on Ru Paul.

Horse's buddy Horse ignored the obnoxious ponce and took a practice swing with his frozen tuna.

Bodean Zephyr III shook his head and imitated the sound of hot iron plunging into water.

"Do you know why you're here?" Bodean Zephyr III asked once the whites of his eyes had returned to regular diameter, lighting the fuse to a stick of dynamite with one hand and scratching the puss-ridden contours of his jaw with the other.

"Sure," Horse replied as he unzipped his fly and tested the direction and speed of the wind.

"What are you going to do with that?" his buddy Horse asked when Bodean Zephyr III took out a putter from his $12,000 golf bag.

"Tee-off, what else would I do with a putter?" Bodean Zephyr III said giving the stick of dynamite a spiralling farewell as it sailed into the sand trap on the adjacent fourteenth hole.

The three gentlemen looked on with stone sober expressions as the dynamite hit the deck, exploded and sent plumes of sand into the air and onto the fairway.

"Gofers?" Horse enquired.

"Nah, homeless beggars," Bodean Zephyr III said. "I can't stand them. If they're not harassing me in the car park as I pull up in my Merc or Tyrannosaurus Rex then they're sleeping in sand traps on the course. Nah, can't stand 'em," he reiterated in case the two strangers were taping the conversation.

Bodean Zephyr III addressed the ball and made clean contact with his putter. The ball was out of focus within seconds though Horse and Horse weren't sure to which part of the course Bodean Zephyr III had intended his ball to go.

Horse wondered whether Bodean Zephyr III really drove a Merc. It bugged him that he doubted the statement's authenticity.

His buddy Horse dropped a golf ball onto the plush grass, wandered backwards to where his ice-skates met the bitumen, then ran as fast as his legs would allow straight at the ball. The frozen tuna had defrosted just enough to enable it to bend to the point of being an item of immeasurable advantage. The tuna's head was directed with blistering speed for a fish of such bulk at the lonesome ball awaiting further instructions.

Horse had miscalculated the weight of the impressive fish, so much so that a divot of earth and grass the size of a ferris wheel was in pursuit of the ball.

Being monumentally impressed by having witnessed two exquisite golfing shots though feeling flaccid in the knowledge he would have to triumph from third place, Horse was itching for his turn. He addressed the itch then spat on his hands, rubbed them together meaningfully and reached into his man bag.

"Is that legal?" Bodean Zephyr III questioned upon seeing the contraption.

Horse shrugged his shoulders; he knew the answer to that about as much as he cared. He pulled the cord which instigated the motor and an earfull of noise. He aimed the modified penis pump directly ahead and inserted a golf ball. It shot out with a blast so distruptive to time and space that it could have frightened a nursing home full of constipated octogenarians to their early demise.

"Nice shot," Horse conceded after several seconds of viewing the golf ball through field binoculars.

"Fuck yeah," Horse replied as his the bulging erection in his slacks gained significance.

The threesome walked steadily past rows of charred bodies in search of their respective balls when Bodean Zephyr III piped: "Gentlemen, I have called you here on a matter of urgent business."

Horse was busy swatting flies with his exposed erection when the significance of Bodean Zephyr III's words registered. He licked the tips of his fingers and mouthed in his cock's direction that he - and they - would be back.

"Do tell," Horse said, stepping over a woman no older than sixty-six and fanning with his open palms the fire which was about to die from having incinerated her internal organs.

"I've heard you're the men to see regarding..." Bodean Zephyr III stopped mid-sentence. "Regarding," he continued, "you know."

Horse and Horse looked at one another in bewilderment. They hadn't gathered enough evidence to convict Bodean Zephyr III of necrophilic leaning, lest they had missed vital signs to suggest otherwise, but his indecipherable rambling suddenly posed a concern.

Had they been led to the golf course under false pretences?

Horse had a hand ready to re-load the penis pump.

"Perhaps I'm not being clear enough," Bodean Zephyr III said clearing his throat and raising his $8,000 Ralph Macchio shirt above his man boobs. "I need to get these relocated."

In than instant, everything became as clear as fragments of tiny crystals viewed through the world's most powerful microscope. Horse and Horse nodded knowingly.

"We can do that," Horse said.

"The Man Boobs Relocation Programme is a life changing experience," Horse added as if uncertain whether a sale had been made. "But you'll be glad once those things are hanging from other parts of you. You do want to keep them, don't you?"

"Fucken-A, man," Bodean Zephyr III remarked.

"Good, because they're fucking enormous," Horse said. "I couldn't imagine the waste should you have decided otherwise."

With the assurance of everything going as smoothly as milk through an udder, Bodean Zephyr III, Horse and Horse played out the remaining sixteen hours of golf on their way to a thrilling playoff hole involving Horse and Horse. Along the way, they restored trust in the Man Boob Relocation Programme to the glory that had made it the Number 1 relocation programme in the world in the good old days of yore.

IT COULD HAVE HAPPENED LIKE THIS

2005-12-04T19:17:00.000+10:30

It was brought to the attention of the United Nations Security Council (UNSC) that a blog of unknown origin, somewhere in the region between the sun and the planet known as Jupiter, had been breaching the revised code of the Freedom Act through what the UNSC was told was "heinous and objectionable propaganda using pseudo literary means."

Acting with post haste, representatives of the UNSC called a meeting in an undisclosed location to discuss the course of action on behalf of the people of Earth and God.

As usual, communication between UNSC representatives took time and effort typical of a planet without a united language, although steps were taken to ensure a smoother transition towards united global understanding with three solid hours of Sesame Street allegedly screening on a giant screen at the undisclosed location.

"We were keen to settle the matter promptly," said one member of the UNSC, who wished to remain anonymous, "which is why I suggested military involvement was paramount to the cause.

"As it turns out, there was a far simpler way to get the job done; the mere flick of a switch by a guy who one of our guy's eldest nephew's best friend's daughters knew ensured the bastards in questions would have several sleepless nights in Seattle, or wherever it is that they are, if they were to interfere again with our global plans for freedom."

In other theories: Drakvork 4V, leader of the Voltorzon Five, has categorically denied any involvement in ridding the world wide web of the two teamsters known as BT3 and DDC, said to be responsible for the mildly amusing though thoroughly deranged Fudge Puppets blog a.k.a. Neutralising the pH Level.

"Fuck out (sic) clit-lapper," Drakvork 4V exclaimed when asked if he knew what had happened to the site in question.

Neutralising the pH Level had been experiencing a steady decline in quality, as evidenced by the diminishing comments on the site's posts, since its decision to include graphics who-knows how long ago.

"When vitriol and alcohol collide the resulting mess won't be mopped up by me," Ursula Major Hardbody, Drakvork 4V's wife, said. "I heard a rumour those two could levitate while juggling, which is one better than those geeky Penn and Teller clowns."

It's doubtful that the matter will rest there. More news ahead as it comes to hand.

CHANCE MEETINGS II

2005-11-24T21:11:00.000+10:30

If it doesn't make sense, chances are you haven't read the first one or it's just plain old crap. Scroll down to Chance Meetings and then come back to this one.

"I think I may know what's happening here," Yoiklop said, nodding his head knowingly and taking diminutive steps sideways towards the cluttered bookcase. "My recollection of events is sketchy at best but from what I can recall my presence in your room can be explained by my condition."

"What condition would that be?" Virginia enquired, genuinely relieved that the situation was progressing beyond the stalemate of cyclical dialogue.

"I have a sleeping disorder."

"Narcolepsy?"

"Kind of," Yoiklop replied, releasing two tentacles directly in line with his body behind his back and out of Virginia's view on a mission to scan and map the contents of the bookcase. "It's closer to a fusion of narcolepsy and sleep walking, where I'll fall asleep without warning and occasionally go wandering without being aware of where I'm going. I know it's happened to me before because I've woken up in places I have had no recollection of going to."

Virginia was intrigued by Yoiklop's latest explanation, having been reminded of how emotionally moved she felt by Donnie Darko and, to lesser extent, My Own Private Idaho, where main characters had sleeping disorders similar to what Yoiklop was describing.

Yoiklop's story was aided by the manner in which he told it: the whites of his eyes, which Virginia could partially make out in the moonlight, had narrowed the credibility gap from when he had begun; his tone, which reflected the confusing nature of his predicament, made everything he had said seem legitimate. In Virginia's eyes, Yoiklop had transformed from a potential homicidal maniac to a gentle soul with a troubling condition.

Slowly, Virginia lowered the wrought iron statue back to its rightful place and asked if Yoiklop had ever injured himself during his unplanned travels.

"No," he replied as his tentacles completed their mission and gave him knowledge required for his next move; a move so unforeseen and instantanous that if video cameras were mounted to every part of Virginia's room and aimed solely at Yoiklop, they would be found wanting with a plausible explanation of how he could do what he was about to do.

"I remember one time I was in a similar situation to this," Yoiklop said as his eyes darted behind his left shoulder.

Virginia was listening intently to every word but felt it was high time she saw the man behind the odd name that had told her a story of improbable and sympathetic dimensions. She reached for the light switch, turning her head as she did.

In less than the definitively shortest measure of time, and with the instinct of survival as his guiding light, Yoiklop did what only he was capable of.

[End of Part II]

AND ON THE DAY OF JUDGEMENT

2005-11-24T10:24:00.000+10:30

Shorty from DDC:

The seas boiled with cider and the land crawled with evil things and everything was quite ghastly. God woke up, rubbed his eyes and had a closer look at what was going on.

"This will never do."

And so it came to pass that the day of judgement was pencilled in for Tuesday, and penned in after talking to Death, who was busy modelling for Heavy Metal album covers.

Tuesday rolled around and God decided that one person should stand as a representative for all of their kind, as he hadn't counted on there being quite so many people. "This is what happens when you put things off," he said.

First up was the company chairman. God told him that he was only allowed two tickets for the pearly gates and that should he be found wanting in judgement he would be turfed out upon his ear by St. Peter and his heavenly goons.

The company chairman thought, scratched his arse and said, "I will save myself and my company."

God said, "But what of thy workers and various staff?"

The chairman thought, "Surely someone else will look after them."

St. Peter came forward and said, "Get ye hence, and all like ye. Off to hell with no supper!" And so all the company chairpeople were sent to hell with no supper to enjoy the great works of Britney Spears and all like her.

Next up was the Father. "You can save but two of your family. Who do you choose?"

Father said, "I choose the mother and the father. The kids should be able to stand on their own two feet by now."

Father was judged and sent to dwell with the company chairpeople, and dine entirely on food from McDonalds and the very cheapest lager in the very cheapest booze-shop.

Up came Mother, who was shown the same two tickets into heaven. It reminded her of Millionaire. She said, "I choose myself and my children, for they are my purpose in living."

And God said, "But what of your husband, who half worked himself to death to feed and clothe your children. And give them expensive comodities like play-stations?"

"He smells and would make heaven smell of socks."

St. Peter came forward and said, "You had two tickets to heaven. You now have.... one ticket to spend eternity stuck in the lift with all the hosts of Millionaire." She was sent off to reside in an exclusive circle of Dis presided over by Chris Tarrant.

Next up was the Child. She had the choice explained in simple terms. Her brow furrowed. "I choose my Hamster and myself."

"But what of your Mother and Father?"

"The only person I love is my hamster and she would die without me." The girl hugged the hamster.

The Child was dispatched to the hell of grammar school for all of eternity.

Last up was the Hamster. He was to be held responsible for all the animals. His mind hadd not been idle while the various aspects of society had been dispatched to squirm on the griddle for all eternity.

"I choose some orphans and all the people that were good to me."

God turned to St. Peter and his goons. "Is that everyone?"

St. Peter looked at the list and nodded. God said, "Who's in there?"

"Just the hamsters."

"Right then, what's for tea?"

REVEALED: HOW TO ACHIEVE FOUR ORGASMS IN TWO DAYS

2005-11-23T21:11:00.000+10:30

It's a simple matter of pressing the button until it goes click.

CHANCE MEETINGS

2005-11-22T16:55:00.000+10:30

Virginia was mortified to see the figure of a man in her bedroom.

She had turned off the light less than forty minutes ago and was settling into a slumber that would recharge her body's energy to face another grueling day at work after the earth had turned sufficiently to again witness the sun's overwhelming spectacle of light and heat and such and such.

During the time of her body's gradual shut-down, when her brain's function was transforming its primary role from a multitude of tasks during consciousness to peaceful regression into automatically guided serenity, she was initially startled by the sudden manifestation of the man. But then she wasn't.

Fighting natural instincts to defend herself; within a parsec of time she had assessed the situation didn't require hand-to-hand combat, Virginia did not scream upon seeing the man, nor did she reach instinctively for the wrought iron statue on her bedside table; a worthy adversary in a moment of potential confrontation and the same item she had instinctively turned to when her neighbour's cat had unknowingly made the last of its nine fatal moves.

"Who are you?" Angela said calmly as she sat upright in bed.

Her eyes were getting accustomed to the tones and contours of the room. She tingled in an area not too far from her hips. The figure before her seemed somehow unusual, like a man whose body was in uneven proportions. The sixteen tentacles wriggling high above the outline of his body were another distinct sign that something odd was afoot.

"What?" the man said as if surprised by Virginia's spoken words.

The sixteen tentacles instinctively retracted into the man's body, or so it appeared to Virginia's sleep deprived peepers.

The man did not move, though his silhouette from the moonlit sky cast a foreboding figure in front of the solitary window. The curtains had not been drawn as the man's broad shouldered figure loomed ominously before the dancing willows outside, yet Virginia was at ease.

"What are you doing here?" she said.

"My name is Yoiklop," the man began. "I don't know why I'm here. Where is here?"

"You're in my bedroom. How did you get here and why are you here, Yoiklop?"

Yoiklop took a moment before speaking again. He familiarised himself with the surroundings; his head pivoted to all parts of the dark room as if scoping every millimetre of the foreign landscape; to him the various trinkets, gadgets and knick-knacks Virginia had accumulated within her lifetime were as foreign as he had ever seen. It gave him a thrill of unlimited sexual expectation, the likes of which his reproductive system had never encountered.

"If you've come to steal something, you're wasting your time," Virginia said during the seconds of awkward silence in which Yoiklop was reaching an unannounced climax. "I don't have anything of value. And if you think you're going to rape me then I'll let you in on a little secret you may care to know before your next move: I have a scorching case of herpes and I'm a black belt in karate. I'd be delighted to hospitalise you should you so desire. So, what's it gonna be, Yoiklop?"

If Virginia could see Yoiklop's face, she would have noted its change of expression from that of ejaculatory success to fundamental confusion.

"Oh, no, you don't understand," Yoiklop said as blandly as his vocal cords would allow upon computing Virginia's convincing portfolio. "I'm not here to steal from you or to rape you."

"Then why are you here?"

"Honestly, I don't know," Yoiklop said, his voice returning to normal. "And that's Bemezulah's truth."

Virginia's patience was now at the end of its short tether. She despised talking in circles, let alone talking in circles to a stranger who had mysteriously appeared before her in her bedroom as she was under the willful spell of sleep and who then proceeded to display his sixteen tentacles and occasionally utter words in an unrecognisable tongue.

"Look," Virginia said tersely, sickened by the thought that Yoiklop was a religious twat from another planet who was sent on a mission to recruit unwilling believers. She detested the thought of riding on a UFO with disease ridden humans incapable of stringing together multi syllabic words and sentences not beginning with 'what'.

Reaching for the wrought iron statue on her bedside table, she said, "If you don't start explaining why you're here right now, they'll be prying pieces of your arm bones from your brain in order to identify you. Stop stalling and start singing, Yoiklop!"

With two deft movements, Virginia sprang to her feet and held the wrought iron statue above her left shoulder, gripping it firmly with both hands. Her cat-like movement and attacking stance gave the indication that her story about being a black belt in karate rang true, though her diminutive figure and pink cotton jimjams displaced the balance of credibility.

Yoiklop sensed the situation could get ugly quick-smart should he not be forthcoming with a valid scenario of his presence and should Virginia yell the horrid 'hai-ya' squeal that had so startled him when accidentally flicking the channel to The Muppet Show one time.

He contemplated how to best alter his explanation of why he was in Virginia's room, though his initial explanation was still as legitimate as the birthmark on the longest of his tentacles.

"I really don't want to cause you alarm, Ma'am," he said, sounding remarkably convincing, like the gun-slinging sheriff he had also accidentally encountered on TV, "but the nature of my presence here is not easily explained."

"I'm listening," Virginia said, holding her ground and maintaining the offensive pose that had commanded a most impressive presence.

Yoiklop cleared his throat and began...

[End of Part I]

OMDC TOUR DIARY - DAY FIVE OR SO - THE CCV

2005-11-21T21:11:00.000+10:30

DDC is suffering from near death by alcohol poisoning:

Mum turned up at the station in typical dogchop style, two hours before work finished and demanding to be picked-up and bought booze. It is endearing when I do it, but I hate it when other people do it. Anyway, I dived out of the door and piled into the Guzzler. It was the first time I have finished early on a Friday in about two years, so I suppose she has her uses...

I found them clawing at a beer dispensing machine, a machine which passed beyond their wildest imaginings. These are typically found on street corners with cans ranging from 330ml up to 1.5l. That's right, they have one and a half liter cans!!! Anyway, this concept could not find its way into their entrenched dogchop psyches. If you can imagine a one pound fifty coin, that is the kind of concept they were wrestling with. A basic unit of their lives had been thrown to the four winds. When I pointed out that all one had to do to buy beer was put coins in the slot, she passed out and her bloke slung her over his shoulder. Seeing right to the heart of the matter, as I did when I first saw them, he asked if the school kids could use them. I said they could and frequently did. Then I pointed out the fag machine and he said it was a god job that OMDC was asleep and unable to see that the fags are one pound fifty a pack.

Being as we had had such a dose of culture-shock straight off the train, it was decided the best possbile course of action was to buy some beer, so we went to my local mecca, a place withthe monicker "Liquor Mountain". There was a bit of a frenzy and before I knew what was going on she had spent about eighty quid on booze. I had just enough sense to ask for a point card before the tasting started. We fired off back to the flat with the suspension creaking like a tea-clipper in a gale.

The DogChop Residence, or Chez Chien Decoupez when we are feeling saucy, is not big. Like a mini is not big. Like a mini-skirt is not long. Like a mini-roundabout is not safe. There are basically four rooms in the place, while OMDC has at least five and a half rooms of personality all to herself. As we entered the white glove went on, metaphorically, and was drawn along the top of the metaphorical sideboard. A complaint was tendered. A door was pointed out, road beyond.

I said, "my house, my rules", with my biggest smirk. "Do you remember that?" I toyed around with this for a while telling them that there was to be no hanky-panky under this roof. I had been saving it up for a while so it was pretty good fun. Further festivities were blocked by the arrival of Mrs. DogChop home from work. There was the usual exchange of pleasantries done in a girlfriend-and-mother-meeting-for-the-first-time tone of a voice, until they told me to stop.

Actually, they got on like a house on fire, having so much in common (beer, fags, spider solitaire) and things got off to a good start. The only downside so far has been the vicious habit of vegetarianism being practiced be her boyfriend. The guy has the most plausible reason I've heard yet, which was, "I used to live downwind from an abatoire." Vegetarianism just does not exist in this country, so it can be a bit of a hassle.

Me: He can't eat meat. Do you have anything without meat?
Shop owner: How about this chicken curry?
Me: No. Chicken is meat.
Them: What about fish?
Me: No, that is meat too. Nothing that moves around by itself.
Them: Ok, what about a shell-fish?
Me: No.
Them: How about a shrimp doria with the shrimps taken off?
Me: No. No kind of animal / fish / bird / molusc product or derivative.
Them: How about a salad?
Me: Sounds good.
Them: Bacon is ok, right?

We carried on in this vane for about a quarter of an hour until they finally worked out what the issue was. I would love to say the gratin turned up with anchovies on it, but alas, it didn't. I then had a go at the waitress for ruining a perfectly good story. I asked her for some kind of twist, so she my nipple a half-turn to the left, so that was allright.

So I am back at work today and they have headed into the big city close by, which for the sake of our "secret location" wasn't Kyoto but some other South East Asian city. I actually had to write down on a piece of paper what was and wasn't acceptable for the boyfriend to eat, so he is now a card-carrying veggie.

AUTUMNAL LARK

2005-11-18T21:11:00.000+10:30

STREAM OF SEMI-CONCIOUSNESS

2005-11-17T22:19:00.000+10:30

DDC has been extracting his car out of the shit:

And damnably unpleasant it was too. No wait, hang on, I've been extracting the shit out of my car. and it was unpleasantly damnable.

It all started last night, with Mrs. DDC fretting about having to endure my old Mum for a week. They have never met, so there is some justified grounds for worry, if only she knew it. Anyway, the young Mrs. DDC, or should we say the common-law DDC, was idly wondering if Old Mrs. DDC would be able to bear the stench, given that she first found somewhere to sit amongst the garbage and detritus of the ages. I asked her if she was suggesting that my car was anything other than in the state which it arrived. She said yes so I sentenced her to an hour on the rug and half an ounce of semen in her hair.

Anyway, though i couldn't admit it to her, it got me thinking so I went out to inspect the old guzzler. "A pox on this goddamn tinitus!" I screamed as I opened the boot. Finding nothing there I moved round to the front. Interestingly, my tinitus got louder as I did so. I popped the bonnet with a healthy clunk mingled with a comedy boingy/twangy noise. I don't know why, I just like making sound effects when I do stuff.

"Christ on a bike", I yelled! "How the shittin' crikey did that get there?" After months my car-linked tinitus was explained. I'd been ready to put the farm on Asian Dub Foundation and the 400 watt sub in the boot. I would have lost the farm. There, nestled beween the leaky turbo, the exhaust manifold and the engine block was a human child with a harmonica.

"What do you think you are doing? What do think this is? Who do you think you are?" My brain often resets to these kinds of questions when challenged with things beyond the ordinary.

"Take it easy", he said, "Who were you expecting?"

"I was expecting a dead cat covered in flies, maggots and oil from the leaky turbo."

"Why?"

"Because that's where I left it. Where is it?"

"Dunno guv."

"WHERE IS IT?"

"I threw it through the window of a school."

"I see."

EXTREME RISK

2005-11-17T21:11:00.000+10:30

DDC is upping the warning to severe and alerting the riot squad:

Old Mrs. DC is MIA somewhere in SE Asia. MIA means missing in anger. She apparently landed in the country sometime yesterday and promptly dropped off the radar. This is a worry, because it probably means that she is raging round like rugby player with Deep Heat on his glans. She mood-swings like a coffee-fed one-eyed batsman in failing light. I'd love to say she is more of a danger to herself than others, then snigger, but I won't.

I've been scanning the papers to find out if she has cut loose but all they can tell me is that Junior clitoris is in the region, laughing and grinning to himself about his own private joke (his continued existence). Some Chinese people have caught bird flu, which is like bird pain - completely incomprehensible to a bloke. Also, on the subcontinent, England contrived to loose the first test in baffling fashion. No news of a middle-aged pom crucifying the poor Asian crowd for liking something other than normal northern British culture (Hah!).

Meanwhile our vague agreement to meet "at a station" has progressed no further. No dout she knew, as I did, that she would loose her rag over her the hotel room not being clean, or the bar not selling bitter or something. I make no exageration when I say that she paddled her brothers arse with a cricket bat for "shoutin' his lungs out" from the bedroom window. At the age of seven.

Presumably it will all work out. She has a habit (probably a nasty one) of coming out on top. Until she docks within my sphere of influence I can't stop her, so I am hiding under the covers covering my eyes and humming "I don't know you are there" over and over again.

THREE REASONS WHY I AM SO BUSY

2005-11-16T21:11:00.000+10:30

DDCs turn to do a bit of a nothing post. tw oreasons to worry:

Old Mrs. DC is due in the country iminently. Two DogChops on the same continent is high risk. Two in the same country ought not to be allowed Here is a sample which was comitted by phone:

Mum: I'll see you in a week.
DDC: OK.
Mum: You know my boyfriend is veggy don't you?
DDC: Oh, for fucks sake! Well, we'll work something out...
Mum: I don't know how they get away with eating [censored food]. And if that's not bad enough, everyone over here is eating it too. and liking it.
DDC: ...
Mum: It shouldn't be allowed.
DDC: Weellll, when you get here you can tell them all about it.
Mum: Right. I will.

I think they can like whatever they like and good luck to them. I happen to agree with Mrs. DC on the actual food itself but I don't feel the urge to go round making the world eat steak and kidney pie. On the positive side of matters she is bringing some real food with her.

Mrs. DDC has just got a new job. This is also a mixed blessing as the dinner / washing / cooking fairy will be coming round a bit less and I'll have to work harder at ignoring all the mess. Here is another verbatim sample of what came to pass last night. Present are MDC, off stage left, and DDC in bath.

MDC: Do you want to see my new uniform?
DDC: OK.
MDC: It looks bad.
DDC: At least I won't need to worry about your virtue while you are on your way home from work.

The, um, item itself is a kind of ironed cargo pant affair with big pockets on each leg. The jacket, which is also pants, is a bit of what I might refer to as a "Kim-jong-iller". It is a kind of polyester creation the like of which man was not meant to ken of.

DDC: Well, you can keep your sandwiches in your trouser pocket... What is it you are doing again?
MDC: Cad.
DDC: I say, that's a bit strong! Anyway, how did you find out?
MDC: I'm designing airbags with CAD.
DDC: In an office?
MDC: Yes.
DDC: Then why do you have to dress like a third world storm trooper?

Once I realised what she was doing, I stopped worrying about the clothes and spared a thought for the thousands of people who might suffer if she clicks the wrong icon.

TERRITORIAL PISSINGS

2005-11-14T09:11:00.000+10:30

"90% of the time I have no fucking clue what they are talking about but I read on, because it's totally different than 99% of what else there is to read out there. And I really like it. It's just all mixed up and fucked up and somewhat anarchic with a mild overprint of organization as forced by a blogger template. They seem like a couple of decent bastards (said in the good humoured Irish sense, out of my Irish side). They seem to be in the U.S. or Canada somewhere as expats from the UK (?) and Oz...just enough info to put them in or out of context. Anyway, good off the wall stuff for after a few whiskies on a week night." - TXYankee

I think everyone ought to have an Irish side. I know if I could get my parents to fuck again and give birth to me again I'd prefer it to be while I wasn't watching the scenario unfold like a porno scene with a trumpet carrying the music score - and while within Irish borders.

Since that sounds too lame to be mildly interesting, I'd prefer the preference went further by them being in a seven-seater plane above Ireland with House Of Pain, Bono and Daniel Day-Lewis aboard. I'd prefer my rebirth to feature Daniel Day-Lewis acting as the character he portrayed in My Left Foot and the House of Pain lads acting as themselves while thinking that they were cast members of Gangs Of New York; one of them recording the experience with a top-shelf cam job that they wouldn't notice seemed somehow 'out of place.'

I'd prefer that the House of Pain lads manhandled Bono in an aggressive though non-sexual way - although I endorse spontaneity - and opened the door with him struggling in the manner of a sow that's about to receive a stake through the cornea. I'd prefer that Daniel Day-Lewis pushed his wheelchair towards the King of Plop and booted the fucker with every ounce of strength he could muster out of the plane. I'd prefer for the House of Pain lads to use their trusted crossbows with cyanide-tipped arrows and aim at Bono's fast disappearing body and then grab Daniel Day-Lewis, his wheelchair and a massive parachute in pursuit of Bono's earth-bound body, which they'd kick and run over until his bones turned to dust and vanished with the breeze once they safely caught up with him.

[It wouldn't be half bad if the chicks from The Coors (are they Irish and does it really matter anyway?) undressed slowly in an aside dream sequence inside Daniel Day-Lewis's head during the pursuit sequence.]

Meanwhile, my mum gives birth to the most sinister looking nine pound turd whose use of expletives is both poetic and disturbing for a one-minute old poo.

I'm fine with the notion of Bono becoming a martyr as a result as it would mean that I wouldn't have to deal with his incessant phone calls demanding his soul back, and I'd live my life without having to justify my own odour.

In short: thanks, TXYankee, and sink a fine whiskey or whisky for us.

Note: This post was posted in lieu of anything mildly reasonable on offer in its place and is in no way representative of the usual standard the contributors of this site pride themselves on.

THERE IS A MESSAGE IN THIS SOMEWHERE...

2005-11-10T21:11:00.000+10:30

DDC has absolutely nothing to say about god, God, homosexuality, single mothers, manboobs or ninjas. This is for the other remaining reader:

Dave finally spoke. "Who are you?" He was talking to the conspicuous man stood behind his desk. His conspicuity varied from low in his pile of paper, through medium in his torch, to high in his aparell.

The man leered at him.

Dave asked, "Why are you behind me and why are you naked?"

The man smirked and asked, "aren't you going to ask about the torch and the pile of paper?"

"After the day I've had," said Dave, "I'll settle for the biggies now and the minor details later. Who are you?"

The man flashed his torch on and off a few times and grinned at Dave. Dave swung around on his chair and faced his computer. Out of the corner of his eye he saw The Poster. The Poster got capitals because it symbolised the attitude of the place where he worked. It said, "lets make less garbage", on it. When it had arrived the cleaning staff had thoughtfully removed half of the bins. Presumably, they were working along the principle that less bins equalled less garbage. Dave wondered if the man behind him had had something to do with the exercise.

He was interupted by the wholy unwelcome feeling of what seemed to be a top-bollock being stroked against the back of his skull. Without turning around he asked, "that wasn't a man-mammary, was it?"

The naked man behind him cackled and said, "No, but I am glad you asked. I lost mine in nam in a horrific shell-suit / fart-lighting accident. It was like being shrink-wrapped in hot psychadelic plastic."

Dave couldn't help but say, "They didn't have shell-suits during nam!"

The naked man said, "They did in the '80s when I went. Anyway, they had to ampitate my bloke-chebs to save my life. If you can call it that."

Dave finally turned round. "You dirty fucker! You lied!" He pointed a finger at the offending nork. "What is that?"

The old man sighed and said, "It's an udder. I nicked it off a cow I hit on my scooter. Anyway, don't you want to know why I am here?"

Dave was livid at himself for getting drawn into the conversaion. "Why the fuck wouldn't you tell me before?"

"I wouldn't be who I was if I told you straight a away. You see this?" He flashed the torch on and off a couple of times. "I'm the light at the end of the tunnel!"

Dave started looking round for cameras and grinning colleagues. There were none. "I'm not sure I understand."

"See, it's a metaphor, init? You have a bit of a hard time of it, it's like a long dark tunnel. Right now you're busy, right?"

Dave nodded. "Speaking of which..." he said.

"Big workload, hoards of cunts around you that don't understand, a boss that doesn't understand...."

Dave said, "yes, yes! I understand the long tunnel bit. You wasting my time is helping me with that one."

"And the light at the end of the tunnel is supposed to be the end right! Do you see? The way out of the tunnel!?"

Dave drew a hand down his face, over his eyes. "Is this some kind of joke?"

"Thatta boy!"

Dave spoke slowly. "So the light at the end of the tunnel is, a, a shrivelled old man with a torch and a prosthetic udder? A shrivelled, naked old man with a prosthetic udder and a torch?"

"Don't you just love the irony? And I haven't even turned round yet! Just wait til you see the rectal polyps!"

Dave pondered over each word. "And the pile of paper. Let me think. That would be more work, right?"

"Symbolically, that would work, but I couldn't manage it at such short notice. Your boss says he's going to bring it round later. The best I could do was a Geofrey Archer novel that I downloaded off Kazaa. I did it on your computer so it will be hopelessly riddled with viruses and spyware by now."

Dave said, "I see." Then he thought for a while. "Are you a service, like a strip-o-gram?"

"Nah. This is just a hobby. I wandered in off the street. The security guard wanted to stop me. Evidently, not enough to physically touch me, though. He said he was calling the police."

"So," said Dave, "you thought of this by yourself?"

"Yep. I'm doing lady luck tomorow."

"Will she be smiling?"

The old man bared his gums.

HORSE & HORSE

2005-11-09T21:11:00.000+10:30

BT3 stays true to his word to the lads at LENNON & McCARTNEY by writing:

Horse and Horse walked into the Lonesome Cowgirl Saloon with a swagger in their step.

"These suspenders are a frightful discomfort," Horse said as he made minor adjustments to the clasp which held the suspenders to the red fishnet stockings on his long and freshly shaven legs. They glistened in areas where the sensual fabric wasn't masking their perfect form, attracting the attention of all manner of species as they did.

Horse didn't enjoy seeing his mate in unnecessary discomfort so he offered to lend a hand.

"Can I be of assistance?" he enquired with gusto, eyeing an opportunity of copping a feel of his trusted friend's pins of perfection.

"No, Sweetness, I'm fine," Horse replied sounding ruffled but not agitated enough to disperse expletives with machine gun precision into the crowded room.

"Oh, these fucking suspenders!" Horse erupted a second later, accidentally marking his territory in ungainly fashion while waving the white flag before one of life's mysteries: the suspenders clasp.

The crowd - consisting of blacksmiths, loaners, rustlers, hustlers, cowboys, farmers, prostitutes, the destitute, drunkards, philanderers, halfwits, rednecks, junkies, cows and seamen on day leave - simultaneously ceased all manner of movement. The automated piano that had fathered seven different tunes during its three year tenure ground to a screeching halt; birds that had been travelling south-west for the winter plummeted from the sky, demanding shots of water and ecstacy as they did; donkeys keeled over as if struck by an anonymous parasitical force the likes of a microscopic locust plague; a fleet of Martian aircraft landed and took off without so much as a raised middle finger; soup atop the saloon's stove boiled and overflowed as endless supplies of super-conducted broth spilled onto the floor, casting six dozen millipedes and fourteen tarantulas into the next life; gravity momentarily reversed itself, throwing everyone onto the spider web encrusted ceiling and back onto the filthy floor where they belonged; cannibalistic leeches reluctantly sank their teeth into horseradishes and regurgitated the contents into jaws of unsuspecting ants that had marched their way, and a whole bunch of other shit unaffecting the outcome of the present situation happened.

It was a fucking great big mess as silence, boasting a defiant grin, ran the show.

"Zatsh a mighdee impweshive peyah o man boobsh," the toothless banjo player mouthed matter-of-factly when he could no longer stand the silence.

"Right he be," added a man in a beige suit as the revolvers in his holsters slowly hoisted themselves laterally.

"What would you know about man boobs?" enquired Horse in defense of his buddy Horse.

"Well, I hads me man boobs once," the man in a beige suit replied as the progress of his erection maintained its steady but firm path.

"Oh, really?" Horse said lacking a more impressive line of spontaneous questioning. He raised his left foot onto a chair and attended to his faulty clasp. Parts of both of his testicles dangled underneath his purple underwear until he coughed and adjusted the heaving parts.

"Yeah, really," the man in the beige suit confirmed while spitting chewing tobacco into the spittoon at the base of the bar and partially onto the boot of a Protestant sheep fucker. "Back in '72, when I was knee high to a whatchamacallit, I hads me the biggest man boobs y'all damn did see. Reckon it was from all the milk and buffalo rump I ate as horses wasn't as common back thens. Gave me the biggest man boobs y'all damn ever did see."

"Oh, really?" Horse said on behalf of his buddy Horse by way of question, eyeing with a steel cold stare at the gawkers, whose eyes were darting between his buddy's voluptuous man boobs, his recently arranged ball sack and his flawless legs.

"Yep," the man in the beige suit confirmed while throwing a shot of tequila to the back of his throat. "Ah-huah!" he exclaimed tenaciously, adding, "that hits thems spots. I reckon I hads me more trouble than I ever dids back thens because of my superior sized man boobs," he continued.

"What kind of trouble?" Horse's buddy Horse enquired on behalf of his buddy Horse.

"Well," the man in the beige suit pondered while tugging at his billygoat beard, "mostly with men wanting to squeeze 'ems and slap 'ems arounds in their hairy palms," he continued gesturing in the manner of juggling a hot potato with his hands, which were spread at shoulder width. "And thens there was the troubles whens they wouldn't quit suckling," the man in the beige suit continued. "Then there was the troubles in the kitchen whenever they was exposed to flames. No matter whats I did, my superior man boobs always caughts on fire. Looki here," he said ripping open his shirt and exposing his hideously scarred chest and his pride and joy; the superfluous third nipple.

"Is that a superfluous third nipple?" Horse enquired on behalf of everyone in the room.

"Wesh, it shoor ish," the toothless banjo player replied. "I shuckt and shuckt hore goodwess nose how wong, but nahfin ewah did kaym owt," he continued.

"It's as trues as the murderous sons of leeches on your head," the man in the beige suit continued.

"You had three man boobs?" Horse questioned in disbelief.

"Yep, it's true," the man in the beige suit said while nodding his pumpkin sized head disappointedly and tucking his hairy enclave back into his torn shirt. "But I had to get riddem."
"Why?" asked Horse, unnerved at displaying his distinct lack of understanding.

"Because when you have thirteen mens vying to suckle your man boobs for thirteen consecutives days, you don't much feels like living no mores. Everywhere I wents, people squealed and trieds to push their ways onto a nipple, but the thirteen mens wouldn't allows anyone new to suckle. They kepts suckling and interchanging and suckling and interchanging and my man boobs kepts getting longers and longers."

"What did you do, dear man?" Horse asked on behalf of his buddy Horse with concern in his tone that would insense a gorilla to snap a baby's head with its jaws.

"I shot 'em," the man in the beige suit said while spitting chewing tobacco into the spittoon at the base of the bar and partially onto the boot of a Lutheran pig banger who had taken up residence in the chair formerly occupied by the Protestant sheep fucker.

"Why?" enquired Horse.

"I don'ts know!" the man in the beige suit yelled as tears welled in his eyes. "I really don'ts know!" he continued, the tears now flowing as prominently as internal organs from a lamb with Japanese bloodlines and suicidal tendencies. "I miss my superior man boobs so much. Oh, Gods, why did I have to go ands shoot my precious superior man boobs? Why, Gods? Why?"

That evening, and every other evening marking that same evening, the Lonesome Cowgirl Saloon would serve barbecued buffalo rump with milk and observe a minute's silence in remembrance of the man in the beige suit's fallen comrades.

[If anyone has ideas about the next installment in the Horse & Horse man-boobs series, I welcome all suggestions care of the comments.]

IS THIS THE END? a.k.a. AM I IMPOTENT?

2005-11-09T09:11:00.000+10:30

My brain doesn't allow the rest of me access to my dreams. It's strictly a love affair between my brain and itself and no matter what I do to convince it otherwise or think in attempt to trick it, my brain simply won't allow any other involvement. It's been going on since I can't remember and even though I know I do dream, I can never place my fingers or toes at the scene of what transpired while I was in a vegetative coma-like state; a state I hope is filled with good times, like the show of the same name.

Last night, I had a doozie of a dream that was as vivid as anything from thirty seconds ago, though it lacked the regular thwack-kazoink of a more common occurrence. I refer to the rush of blood to my hot beef injection. On a conscious level I'm pretty fucking glad about the whole lack-of-erection connection with this dream as my sister at age nine featured prominently. However, it has caused me to re-evaluate the dream several times over for I'm certain that I dream every night as I wake up every morning with a case of full-blown erectionitis. For the record, I don't have a sexual attraction to my sister. Debate that all you want if you so choose.

The Crux:
There was a party going down at (insert a name here)'s place. We were shooting pool on one of those full-sized tables that requires a telephone call and an etch-a-sketch graphic delivered by taxi in preparation for the next shot. Reefers and sparkling white wine were being passed around per norm though the effects were flaccid; foreshadowing my first tentative steps for the morning that lay ahead.

As (insert a name here) played and missed everything on the table our attention turned to commotion outside. It was past middle of the night and well into early in the morning as pretty much only uni students and thirty-somethings that had abstained from finding a suitable mate could be heard arguing amongst themselves about all things trivial. Nobody bothered throwing bricks over the roof in protest of the verbal diarrhea disturbing our chi as the floodlit tennis court in the backyard would have given the game away. (Insert name here) suggested tranquilizer darts at thirty yards with camo gear on to roars of approval but empty boxes on the barbie marked with 'Extra Effective' soon cast a downer on the proposal.

(Insert name here) handed me the night vision goggles to further my pursuit of a more precarious lifestyle. (Insert name here) handed me the fattest of the spliffs, which I took to like gangrene takes to blood tissue to further my pursuit of knowing as much about the afterlife before I get there.

Everything around me suggested surreal dimensions as I ignored the Shaun of the Dead type scenario unfolding outside. Focus was diverted to the sky where Mars, other planets and constellations I had more knowledge of in Primary school than now had gathered. Everything was so close it was within reach had I had the energy to pick up a pool cue and poke stuff or swish it around with the chalked end, which I didn't. I slumped down on my ass and looked upward through the night vision goggles coz it worked wonders for me on multiple levels and was as easy as sitting down. I'm guessing I drooled though I can't be certain: it's one of those odds-on assumptions I've come to accept as true.

Pretty shortly after that (insert a name here) potted a shot from the next post code. My attention was redirected from the lightshow going on above my head to the shiny black ball that lay dead in the cellar of the pocket. I may have said something like "Feekwahn amayzbeen" in absence of judicious speech but I doubt it as I was too impressed being perplexed by shit I had momentarily forgotten about.

I witnessed a dung beetle make love to a praying mantis; a bird headbutt then devour a lamp post; a dog's stomach implode from the consumption of too many worms and a mosquito the size of an earthmover hover next to my right ear no matter how many slow motion swipes I made.

Meanwhile, a light show of indescribable significance had formed in the split second it took me to swat the mosquito with a rhinoceros. Meteorites and comets showered countless helpless species with rocks, dust, ice and bong water. (Insert a name here) ducked for cover under the pooltable. So too did (insert a name here). I was laughing my ass off as debris from all angles showered me to the point of near suffocation. Half a dozen blows flush to the face only made the situation more comical as I witnessed each chunk of rock arrive in real time through the night vision goggles; helplessly drowning in dry stasis as the goggles remained glued to my face.

Then I heard music blaring from a window at the side of the house. Figuring it to be mainstream as it wasn't anything I recognised, I sprang to my feet as quickly as a thoroughly stoned man with night vision goggles was capable. The investigation would be gradual and serious as the octogenarian tortoise explained. I motioned to my friends with one of those wanky two-fingered salutes that everything would be spiffy once the source of the infuriating music was found. Their cowardice prevented a response.

I opened the side door to the house. When I entered, I saw my sister; young and pudgy from being overfed by my mum. She was sitting in her nightgown with a set of big-assed headphones - the quality, expensive as gold spaghetti kind - on her head.

"You have to plug that end into the stereo," I yelled pointing to the exposed end at the base of the three-metre cord. She couldn't hear me over the blaring music though she mouthed something in my direction. She seemed happy in her night attire and additional kilos. I felt happy for her too. She seemed equally unaware of what was going down outside so I didn't want to bother her; waved and left all the while wondering what she fancied about that song.

The second I stepped back outside it's all over. I'm not dead. Nobody is dead. Yet everything is over.

The Hollywood ending that I had dreaded was upon me as bells rang to signify the arrival of six o'clock.

Unlike every other morning, I remember the dream and unlike every other morning I don't have a hard-on. I'm amazed and pissed off. I'm frantic and calm. I'm thrilled at the clarity of what happened only moments ago and I'm devastated that it's nothing more than just another regular day on this regular planet where a large part of the regularity has been downsized considerably and remnants of what was an amazing experience of internal circuits remain. I should be more ecstatic that I finally remembered a dream but I can't be because it's so forgettable. When I awoke I wasn't bleeding from the face. And I wasn't erect, damn it. No answers have been forthcoming. I haven't learned anything I didn't already know and if nothing else there's another question to leave me pondering: Why didn't my erection join me today?

I DON'T CARE IF YOU WERE A GOOD PERSON

2005-11-08T09:11:00.000+10:30

Another shorty fom DDC:

St. Peter sat and thought for a while. He still hadn't gotten his pun quite right when three people arrived. They looked around in the usual way, as if they had had GBJ do a number on their ass. St. Peter did in fact have all the time in the world, so he waited.

The three people were an atheist, an agnostic and a born-again Christian. The Christian spoke first. "I told you so," he said. After a bit of a smug smile he looked round at the towering angel before him. "I've heard that you get get five words to tell your life."

St Peter said, "Sorry mate, that's Mondays. Tuesday is limerick day."

"Can I have a minute?"

St. Peter said, "Time has no meaning here, but yes, you can have a bit of time to think about it. I'll deal with these two first." He gave the other two a dark look. "You, the wishy-washy liberal. I expect you like jazz don't you?" He didn't wait for an answer. "If you went around saying the Landlord of a pub didn't exist, do you think you'd be welcome for karaoke at the Dog ans Duck on a Thursday?" Again, he didn't wait for an answer. "Well, you can fuck off for all of eternity. I doubt anywhere else will have you, either."

The atheist sagged a bit, said, "I wonder if the druids will have me," and dissapeared.

The heavenly bouncer turned to the agnostic and said, "It's up for you too, I'm afraid. What kind of message would it send out if we started letting you lot in? Quite fankly, this sea-lawyer talk puzzles me. He might exist, but..." St. Peter sighed a long sigh. "If he did exist he is almost certainly not going to go for the wait and see approach, so I don't see the point. Off you go then."

The agnostic looked a bit put out and said, "But I lived a good life! My actions coincided exactly with most of the ten commandments and the other minor teachings of the bible."

St. Peter said, "That's a bitch, eh? Better to go to hell for a multitude of sins than a trifling gamble over the existence of your creator. Anyway, the rules are the rules and I can't change them."

The agnostic dissapeared and the born-again Christian piped-up. "I'm ready!"

He drew in his breath and began,
"There once was a young man from Devon,
Who wanted to get into heaven
He mended his ways,
God he did praise,
and remembered that god was seven."

He looked at St. Peter, who said, "I'm with you right up to the last line. What was that about?"

The born-again Christian said, "It is a line from a pixies song. I couldn't think of any rhymes for 'heaven'. Can I get in?"

St. Peter thought about it and asked, "Why were you re-born?"

The born-again Christian thought for a while and said, "It was around the time that my dog died, and..."

"Enough", cried the angel. "You were just hedging your bets with that other poor sinner." He looked down at his clipboard. "I'll put you on the waiting list. If we have any cancellations I'll let you know."

HEAVENLY BOUNCERS

2005-11-07T21:11:00.000+10:30

DDC HAS JUST TEN MINUTES TO SPARE:

St. Peter sat before the pearly gates humming to himself. He was musing on the gates themselves, their name and how to work it into a pun about a popular sexual manouvre at the next AA meeting. He was cut off, as he often was, by a drawn-out shriek.

"I'm not ready......"

A mortal soul appeared with a poof on the downy, cloudlike avenue leading to where St. Peter sat. He looked round and wandered in a lackadaisical manner up to the gates, looked them up and down. He looked St. Peter up and down, the sign behind him left to right. It said, "To enter this heavenly paradise, you must tell your life story in five words." St. Peter sat there looking bored.

"Excuse me, there has been a terrible mistake..."

St. Peter took his time, exactly like he had all the time in the world, saying, "Too many words, I'm afraid."

"No, I mean I shouldn't be here."

St. Peter took his time again. "There is another place in the basement, if you'd prefer that." A pause. "Other than that there are a few other places. Valhalla is very nice if you like that kind of thing. Going back to that other place isn't on the cards, though."

"I see. Give me a minute will you?" He scratched his arse and thought about it for a while. "It's not very good, but I'll have a go. Here goes: "I came, I saw, I...."."

St. Peter conjured a clipboard. He ran his finger down a line and said, "No, I'm sorry. That one has already gone. Might I suggest you try Nirvana next? They limit you to one word but almost anything will do. They're not as picky as us."

The poor soul wandered away from the gates of heaven.

St. Peter looked up again. "You can fuck off too!" He glared at the poof. "We don't want your sort round 'ere, corruptin' the school kids and souring the milk."

The poof duly fucked off as directed.

THE BOOK LAUNCH

2005-11-04T21:11:00.000+10:30

My face felt confined as I sensed the first bead of sweat trickle from my brow onto the bridge of my nose. I was well fucked off by the time it transcended to my upper lip as it left me no option but to react; something I despised as it displayed weakness at the most fundamental level. I could handle sweating like a prized lamb on a rotisserie if I was in the batter's box awaiting the next pitch or diving at full length to field a line-driven ground ball to make the miraculous out at first base, but this wasn't the cup of tea I usually chose when it came to physical exertion. Book launches were for tweed jackets and fine print, not rubber masks, loud red suits and enormous cod pieces.

The disguise was necessary, police commissioner Gordon assured me, for the good of mankind and to lesser extent for the good of the kids; my kids, whom the Facists, the Christians, the bankers, the Communists, the krauts, the chiropractors, the minimalists, the Shiites, the anti-Semites, the capitalists, the pro-lifers, the U2 fans and the anonymous masses of every town would target first as a token gesture; forewarning that my own life was not as sacred as I gambled it to be.

"You're far from Oz, Dorothy," commissioner Gordon said in his hackneyed way in reference to my question of where the dunnies were.

I should've known the fucker was on the take from the way he sucked his extended middle finger past the second knuckle. How else would he know about the potential disturbance to my children's lives? Who was his source and how much could they be bought for? These questions would all have to wait as I was distracted by a flaming erection; mine.

Despite such assassination of comfort I could see clearly through both eye slots and sensed that my sudden and vigorous shaking of the head displaced sweat to the lower reaches of the mask, as intended, where it fused with the purple turtle neck sweater my wife had chosen for me in autumn recently passed. An undesired pool of liquid that comprised 30% salt, 20% water and 50% tequila was forming below my neck line.

Must remember to wring it out and reverse my lavish state of assumed sobriety when the pain of these surroundings becomes too overwhelming to endure.

Farts didn't help matters along but I'm shit at controlling anxiety of this type as I rarely fall victim to its groping effects. It's a feeling as alien to me as guilt and the fucking fat Catholics that jump over the false doormat pit to peddle it to my doorstep.

So, the unannounced jerking motion of my head startled a few elderly housewives who had grappled with the shitty November rain to stand in line for a brief peek at yours truly. I'd better remember to show some skin during the signing. Secretly, I'm applauding their effort to be here just as much as I am secretly sickened by their crabby appearance and smell. Couldn't they do something about those rain drenched clothes, like shove them down the shitter or donate them to the Goodwill bin? And couldn't they wear longer skirts? Women of that age really have no manners at all.

Humanity has me by the shoulders and is shaking me senseless.

Maybe Leon was right about the vaginal wallpaper and cod piece being too over the top and maybe I wouldn't have argued with him as much had I not skulled the entire El Toro. What's done is done. Ole!

Now that I recall, the old fart didn't look half bad with a mop and bucket in his hands and fishnet stockings as far as the eye could see. What was that all about, anyway?

Maybe Beyonce will finally show to one of my official private gatherings instead of keeping the rabbit ears relationship cindering with saucy mpgs and personalised subliminal messages in her video clips at regular intervals in the lunar calendar. I've seen stranger things: like the time that diva showed the world her testicles in a jar. I'd have to think on my feet and have legitimate sounding excuses at the ready in case any of this makes it to air. The wife would no doubt see every incriminating second and be into my spine with sharpened teeth aplenty should those fuckwads from TV actually show.

Speak of the devil's spawn.

I'm glad the erection has subsided; no telling what could have happened.

Oh, for fuck's sake, there's that cunting Lavinia from F! Entertainment. Check out those falsies. What a botch job. Her plastic surgeon must have a plan that no longer includes her.

"Yo, Lavinia, you flagrant skank! Has Walter been dropping bowling balls from the third floor onto only one of your fun bags again?"

No reply. How fucking typical. Maybe she didn't recognise the voice through the mask. It did sound kind of muffled.

"Ladies and gentlemen, Bricktop351 will now accept any questions you may have about his latest offering. Please be sure to raise your hand and await confirmation by way of name recognition before asking a question. Yes, Lavinia."
"Lavinia Love from F! Entertainment. Do you think that anyone will want to read about bowel movements?"
"Rrrrar!"
"I'll take that as a 'no' unless you have anything to add."

Of course I do, you corporate fuck rag, hence the book. What a dumb fuck; the devoid of sense reporting to the devoid of sense and punctuating the experience with emphasis in the wrong places.

" 'No' it is then."
"Yes, Edward."
"Greetings, Leon. Greetings, Bricktop351. Edward Earnmore III, the New York Post Haste. Would it be incredulous of me to conclude by having read one tenth of the preface that your apolitical disposition to the world's present status can be summed up in a word: excrement?"
"Rrrrar!"
"Perhaps Mr Bricktop351 would answer your question if you rephrased it, Edward."
"Very well. Do you hate everyone?"
"Rrrrar!"

How fucking hard was it to say that? Four simple words that any knuckle scraper could understand instead of that pompous educated crap you initially sprayed. I hope the cameras caught that moon. I'm sure there's a few grams of shit still stuck to my hairy ass. Mental note: sock this fucker in the teeth with a rake a few times the next time he's snooping in the yard; give the tooth fairy good reason to fatten his purse. Education doesn't agree with some people and I don't give a fuck what anyone says. The cameras and reporters are here for me, not you, you schmuck. And the answer to your questions is no, as I'm in favour of having people over at various times, especially when the quota of buds per square inch reaches critical level. Let the show continue, Leon.

"Yes, Clarissa."
"Clarissa Stokes, Independent Thrush Daily. Is there any truth to the rumour that you're a woman?"
"Rrrrar!"
"I see. What about the rumour that you and Dr. DogChop are the same person?"
"Rrrrar!"
"Right. What about the rumour that this book was largely funded by terrorist money."

Yeah. There's no doubt in my mind whose finger is on the pulse.

"Rrrrar!"
"Is there anything you'd care to say that we could actually fuse into a story as what you've said thus far is largely useless."
"Rrrrar!"
"I see I'm wasting my time."
"Rrrar!"
"Perhaps Mr Bricktop351 would appreciate questions about the book: how it came about, why the main character is a compulsive juggler-slash-manic depressive beetle collector, how graphic the chapter A Symphony of Diarrhea was; things of that nature. Yes, Jeremy."
"Jeremy Kendall, Associated Leather and Spandex Union of Europe. May I enquire why you chose a Randy 'The Macho Man' Savage' mask for your latest book launch?"
"Finally, a sane question with relevance minus the usual theatrics and political correctness of dodging an issue that I've come to expect from the motherfuckers around you, Jeremy. And, by the way, offense was intended to include you, Ray, you fucking twat, so quit staring at the refreshments table without asking a question all night. Jeremy, I can best address your question by answering it. They were fresh out of Paris Hilton masks."

EXCERPTS FROM AN ACQUIRED DIARY 4

2005-11-04T09:11:00.000+10:30

Connor is such a fucking dick. Today he slapped me on the ass and said, "Jen, you rock my world," as if he were some kind of B-grade movie star that hasn't had a decent part for longer than Mickey Rourke and I was some kind of homoerotic sexual monkey that would dance on the spot and slap my miniature cymbals together the second he vomited that line. I mean, seriously, what a fucking cockhead. I wonder if all guys think that by being irritating sexist pigs they're somwhow going to tap into the secret nether world of women that hasn't witnessed the light of day for thousands of years because if they are then these deluded sods aren't limited to my work environment.

Per normal, I was at Dermott's Cafe today for a quick bite and a read when a fairly good-looking ethnic guy with one of those chiseled faces you read about in romance novels, who was also in desperate need of a shave, walked by and winked at me. I fail to see the connection between winking and making a favourable impression on someone as there isn't a lick of attraction to a member of the opposite sex behaving like a stereotype. At least not for me. I can imagine his opening line to be something equally ridiculous: 'Hi there, hot stuff. I'm a looker, I'm ethnic, I'm into your sassy sense of fashion and I'm suitably available for the next hour. Wanna get serious?' Pulease! What was I supposed to do, flutter my eyeslashes like a virginal fifteen-year-old and giggle uncontrollably, rendering myself powerless to his casual way? I mean, for fuck's sake! What is it with blokes and their utter stupidity at doing anything remotely realistic to get a woman's attention? Does that kind of crap actually work and if it does, who does it work on?

Which magazines are these delusional apes reading that tell them this behaviour is acceptable AND likely to get them into our pants? If that guy was hung like a donkey, kneeling down on one knee with an engagement ring in his hand as his impressively sized pecker was laid out like a delicate wedding dress on red carpet with the words 'For You, Sweetheart' hand-written on it in red lipstick, I wouldn't be impressed.

Well, I would, but I'd want earplugs. And a gag for him.

THE BEST WAY TO BLOW 250 QUID IN ONE GO

2005-11-02T21:11:00.001+10:30

DDC is one step closer to where he sees himself in a year and a half:

OK guys, I've had my epiphany. It has lead to two posts in a day, which I think is a record for this site. From now on it is just the lead up. Fuck the test. Fuck Christmas. Look what I found on one of those auction sites!

Can anyone give me a better way of spending 250 quid? "Mum, look! It's a snowboarding tiger!"

Curse my credit rating! If only I had a card, it would be mine now. Mine, I tell you, MINE!

AS I TOOK DOGGY TO THE RIVER TO SLAY, STUDYIN' ABOUT THAT GOOD OLD WAY AND WHO SHOULD WEAR THE RUBBER GOWN, GOOD LORD SHOW ME THE WAY

2005-11-02T21:11:00.000+10:30

DDC hapened to be wondering past the castle yesterday:

Bert: It just doesn't look right. We've co-ordinated three different shades of orange with the sky-blue, but it doesn't seem to be enough. Who would buy it like it is?
Edgar: I know what you mean. Daahling, it is just too functional. Nobody wants mere function from these things anymore. They need a whole lifestyle microcosm.
Bert: My God, you're right!
Edgar: Mwaahh! I know! We need more complexity. Let's stick a bunch of lace round the top!

Edgar: I failed you. It didn't work - I swoon. The truth hurts me too. I can't even motivate myself to squawk.
Bert: Rome was not built in a day. Let's tinker with the colours a bit more. How about some gold?
Edgar: Daahling, it sounds like a winner.

Bert: This time all my kisses are crosses. Damn, I thought we had it that time.
Edgar: Mwaaak! It looks better than it did before. God, but we need more sparkle.
Bert: You're right. Let it never be said that your sense of what is appropriate failed us in our time of need.
Edgar: Bertyboy, I have it! A twelve volt battery and a string of fairy lights could augment the impact. For preference, we should write something with them in big whirly letters that you can barely read!
Bert: How about "bunnies"?
Edgar: A peck on the cheek for you, my boy!
Bert: I've worried about you since you came back from Thailand.

Bert: It's good but it isn't great... It needs something else.
Edgar: You're a little diamond, but I think you hope for too much.
Bert: That's it! We could jewel-encrust it! They'll have to go on that straps because there is no space left anywhere else.
Edgar: I concede. But there must be a bow. We can make tinsel bows and put them over possible failure points to hide them.
Bert: I think we've cracked it! All that's left is to send it down to the sweat shop in Myanmar to be mass-produced by twelve-year-olds.
Edgar: Who wouldn't want to buy this?
Bert: Well, men, obviously. Well, most men.

DDC had heard enough. He was damn near disturbed enough to go to a musical. Like all shocked amateur surgeons, he turned to poetry:

Fled DDC over the wall to cry
Now he knew the how and why
of Mrs. DCs fashion scar,
Caused by gaudy, dangerous bra
His tears were caused not by thought
of magpies' design badly taught,
But instead by hideous spectre
of birds two, they who'd deck'd her
Spoiling item itself not bad
with items glittery, all they had
With fripperies they had builded
Classical lilly, guilded
For who would take item swell,
In itself shapely, belle
pure of form, best in white
and cover it with such shite?

KEEF'S STORY

2005-11-01T21:11:00.000+10:30

A man stood and took ten steps forwards. Another man, in a white lab coat, was already standing. He also took ten steps forwards. The man thumped the microphone several times with his stubbly thumb.

"Keef is true champion fucking," the man said, as members of the substantial crowd gasped and threw expressions of repulsion, disgust and disbelief on their already swollen faces.

Realising shortly thereafter the error in his way as repeated jolts of electricity permeated his temple from the man in a white lab coat's expertly wielded stun gun; the man sank to his knees screaming for mercy.

As his convulsions subsided he somehow found strength to pick himself up off the ground, clear his throat and adjust his Bolo tie. The throng of onlookers made it plain to see that ignoring the smell of searing flesh would be easier said than done. They covered their noses anticipating the stench would get worse before it got better. It did.

"My sorry!" the man exclaimed into the microphone after a brief sabbatical from anything resembling recognisable speech - even by his standards. His brow was down turned and bleeding; his forehead was a virtual minefield of potholes; his nostrils were flared exposing their impressively hairy internal walls. He delicately dabbed with a used handkerchief fished from his trouser pocket sweat and smoke atop his bald cranium.

"Great Keef is a man," he continued as the handkerchief was returned to its cotton sheath. "We when is kids, we will go play the creek to. One time slipped my and fell on ass I. Keef will what do? Cry? Away run? No! Keef does pick up my and my and Keef does laugh and laugh and laugh. Ha-ha-ha-ha does my and Keef laugh. Ha-ha-ha-ha. And ha-ha-ha-ha does my and Keef laugh."

The man in the white lab coat briskly raised his stun gun-bearing hand which raised suspicion in the man cowering behind the microphone that he was prepared to repeat his previous course of action.

"Keef and my playing footy do twenty-three years," the man said feigning for cover and watching closely the armed hand of the man in the white lab coat. "Twenty-three years be long, long time," he continued, having discerned that the stage was momentarily safe. "Keef and my premierships eleven win do and every time drink and drink and drink do. Me drink like a much. Much! Keef hero my is and my remembering Keef forever. Thank youse."

The man took ten steps back from where he came and seated himself on the plastic chair from which he had risen. The man in the white lab coat followed closely behind, gave the man a cookie and patted the man several times on the back of his left shoulder. The man in the white lab coat stood beside the man.

A man missing his right ear got up and took fifteen steps forwards. He cleared his throat as though he was on official business. He spat.

"Thanks for that, Darryl," the man said in his effeminate voice. He cleared his throat once more and pivoted his head. He spat. "I also knew Keith for flamin' ages," he said, "but that didn't stop me from likin' the bloke. He was a fair dinkum mongrel when it came to livin' his life and tellin' me what was wrong with mine, but I'll grant him this: he didn't have a skeleton in his closet. No, sir; not a single one. Keith was as straight-shootin' as straight shooters get, which is why I liked the bloke. He was a ridgy didge right up front sorta bloke who always spoke his mind whether others wanted to hear it or not. I never had ta read between the lines with Keith and I never had ta tell him to stay away from my woman. Not the once. Keith had a kind of mutual respect for other blokes' women that's difficult to explain. Ain't that right, blokes?" the man said by raising his voice and scanning deep into the crowd. The crowd murmured.

"Keith was a man of men," the man continued. He liked his women like he liked his footy - tough and no holes barred - which is why he and Shazza made such a great couple. Shazza, love," the man said looking into the direction of Mrs Keith Jervis, "you'll never walk alone, love. You'll never walk alone."

The man tipped his bush hat and cleared his throat. He spat. He took fifteen steps back to his plastic chair from which he had risen and he shook the hand of another man before he sat down.

A man in a black robe rose to his feet and took three steps to his left.

"Is there anyone else who would care to say a few words before we continue?" he said calmly into the microphone.

A solitary sheep stood on its hind legs. It took thirty-two delicate steps forwards and tapped the microphone with a leg.

"Keith didn't believe in condoms," the sheep said with one leg directing the crowd's gaze to the paddock where a flock of forty or so sheep that bore an uncanny resemblence to the recently departed were grazing, "and he preferred it in my rear."

WE ALL KNEW IT WAS COMING

2005-10-31T21:11:00.000+10:30

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!

HALLOWEEN SILHOUETTES

2005-10-30T21:11:00.000+10:30

DECISIONS, DECISIONS

2005-10-28T21:11:00.000+09:30

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."

C3

2005-10-26T21:11:00.000+09:30

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.

CITIZEN OF THE WORLD CARD

2005-10-26T09:11:00.000+09:30

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.

I WAANA HOLD YOUR FLIPPER

2005-10-25T09:11:00.000+09:30

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.

MANNY AND HIS LITTLE NUGGET

2005-10-24T09:11:00.000+09:30

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?"

THUS SPAKE BERNIE THE SPIDER

2005-10-21T09:11:00.000+09:30

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."

NATURE'S MOOD SWINGS

2005-10-20T21:11:00.000+09:30

Title suggested by Andy.

COUNT BLOODULA AND THE GHOULIES

2005-10-20T09:11:00.000+09:30

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.

NIGHTMARE IN BLACK AND WHITE

2005-10-19T21:11:00.000+09:30

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.

THE LIFE AND TIMES OF RAY SAMBORA

2005-10-19T09:11:00.001+09:30

'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.'

JESUS PANTS

2005-10-13T09:11:00.000+09:30

"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.]

THE MONITOR

2005-10-11T21:11:00.000+09:30

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.

THE TAMING OF THE DIET BONGO BANANA JUICE

2005-10-05T21:11:00.001+09:30

"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."

TRIVIA

2005-10-04T21:11:00.000+09:30

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.

EXCERPTS FROM AN ACQUIRED DIARY 3

2005-10-03T09:11:00.000+09:30

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."

BARRY'S BITCHIN' ADVENTURES IN BACKWARDS LAND

2005-09-30T09:11:00.000+09:30

This post goes out to my dawg, G.

Barry awoke to sounds of violins. He promptly ordered the quartet to get out of his room. The three men and a woman looked at him as though he were an angry penguin flapping its flippers. They cautiously walked backwards to the door and showed themselves out.

Barry couldn't be sure why he wasn't suffering from a hangover. The last he knew, he had consumed more than his and five other people's share of alcohol the previous night, yet his mind was like a precision Swiss made watch. He was in tune with the world to the extent that he could hear the wallpaper peeling from the walls. The unfamiliarity of the situation sent waves of panic through his body.

'Think I'll pop my head outside for a while,' he thought, 'and get some fresh air.'

He jumped into his pants, threw on a T-shirt and locked the door behind him. Nearing the elevator, he was impressed by the 1920s style iron cage. He pressed the down button and continued to admire the design. He waited.

Several minutes later, the elevator light came on and a noise similar to a brick smashing on concrete announced the elevator's arrival. An elevator operator, dressed in a crimson uniform with gold sashes around the jacket's wrists, noisily opened the iron cage door to the elevator. It opened inwardly. He then opened the iron cage to the floor where Barry was waiting. It, too, opened inwardly.

"Sir, to where?" the elevator operator asked as Barry stepped inside the elevator. "What?" Barry questioned, wondering where the elevator operator had learned English and how much he had paid the incompetent fool that had taught him. "Sir, to where?" the elevator operator repeated. "To the Lobby, thanks," Barry said.

The elevator operator, whose name badge revealed he preferred to be known as Kcam, pressed the up button.

"I said the Lobby, Kcam, not the roof," Barry reminded Kcam. "Going we're where that's, know I," Kcam said politely. "Years four almost for job this doing been I've. Around way my know I," Kcam said with an automated smile which had supplemented his income for many a year. 'I guess he knows what he's doing,' Barry thought.

Barry replayed the conversation in his mind. It became clear that Kcam was speaking English backwards: fluently. Barry smiled proudly at his fabulous discovery.

The elevator's progress was slightly slower than a wounded giant tortoise from the Galapagos. It made Barry sleepy. He avoided succumbing to sleep by thinking of the only thing that would keep him awake: Beyonce's inner thighs draped around his neck.

"There got you've erection an of cracker a that's," Kcam observed, pointing to the bulge in Barry's pants. "That's very observant of you, Kcam," Barry duly noted. "Do you mind not pointing at it in such an animated way? You look like someone out of a Disney cartoon."

"All at mind don't I," Kcam said after pointing to the bulge in Barry's pants for another minute or so. His expression returned to its original straighfaced demeanor.

The elevator didn't stop at any other floor on its way to the lobby. It didn't increase its speed at any time either. Time was passing like a driver inadvertently caught in a funeral procession and Barry's restlessness wasn't helping his claustrophobia. His stomach was at odds with the confined space and his mind gave him the false impression that the pair was heading to the 100th floor.

"How long is this going to take?" Barry asked. Anxiety was causing his stomach to salivate trickles of bile into his mouth. "There almost we're. So or minute another about, oh," Kcam said matter-of-factly, not noticing Barry's pale complexion.

When a noise similar to a brick smashing on concrete announced the elevator's arrival at the lobby, Barry's stomach settled and his mind sensed relief was but a stone's throw away. Kcam opened the two iron doors inwardly, did the same with the iron cage on the lobby floor and then wished Barry a pleasant day.

"Day pleasant a have," Kcam said. Barry nodded and slipped a fiver into Kcam's hand. He raised his right index finger to his mouth and pointed at his groin with his other index finger.

Stepping out of the elevator, Barry began walking towards the reception desk in the lobby. He looked behind as he walked forwards and saw Kcam in the elevator. Kcam was saluting the wall with his back to Barry as he and the elevator sank out of view.

"Hello," Barry said to the smartly dressed woman behind the reception desk. "You help I can how, goodbye?" the woman said. "I seem to have lost an important part of my brain and I think it was because I drank too much last night. Can you please tell me the name of this hotel?" Barry said. "Land Backwards of district Hctalcabmab the in hotel Glenelg the in are you. Sir, certainly," the smartly dressed woman said.

"Thank you, Dirgni," Barry said after reading the smartly dressed woman's name badge. "Can you please show me the way to the front door?" The smartly dressed woman pointed in the direction of the front door. Barry instinctively walked in that direction. "Way that. Way that not. Sir, me excuse," the smartly dressed woman said, still pointing in the direction that Barry was walking.

Barry stopped, turned and walked in the opposite direction in which the smartly dressed lady was pointing. "Thank you," he said as he passed her on his return journey. The smartly dressed lady turned her back to Barry and saluted the wall.

When Barry arrived at the front door, he saw that he was on the roof of the building. A muscular man with enormous weights strapped to all parts of his body said: "Down going?" Barry answered in the affirmative. The muscular man eyed Barry from head to toe and said: "These need you'll, here." The muscular man handed Barry a 78 kg weights jacket and a pair of size 13 rubber soled boots.

Barry put the jacket on, slipped into the boots and looked at the muscular man for the next imperative. "Day nice a have. Then go you off," the muscular man said. He picked Barry up and threw him off the edge of the roof.

Barry screamed at the top of his voice as he was falling. He bounced once and then twice as his feet made contact with the ground. By the third time he was already in regular walking motion.

'This is going to be one hell of a bitchin' adventure in Backwards Land,' Barry thought.

TOO MUCH INFORMATION

2005-09-29T09:11:00.000+09:30

BT3 declares war on too much information:
I haven't had a rant for a while as I've felt like writing meaningless stories - coming soon: Coolio The Anorexic Pig - so here's a bit of a chin wag to ensure the angry pills aren't going to waste.

On my way to one of my many well paying jobs yesterday morning I noticed two spectacular incidents of natural wonderment that made me go 'Woh' in true Bill & Ted fashion. The first was a hawk circling towards the ground with the greatest of ease. I witnessed the talons sinking into a rat the size of Jay Leno though I would have been more impressive had it been the fat fuck himself squirming for his life. As I looked through the windscreen, a murder of crows flew slightly above the height of powerlines in the opposite direction. I'm guessing the murder was on its way to unleash badassed colloquialisms at the hawk and / or send it packing for trespassing in its 'hood. Has anyone else noticed how crows lose their sense of humour when it comes to turf, be that terra firma based or aerial based? To me, they're remnants of the colour wars that were so frequently publicised in the U of the S of the fuckin' A during the '80s. Where's mah homie Ice-T when I need a superhero?

The second incident that I mistook to mean everything was finally tilting the way of the Dark Lord was a kindergarten kid crossing the road at a pedestrian crossing. The youngster had the courtesy to stick up a hand - not just a finger - and wait for the light to turn green in his favour prior to toodling across. I knew there couldn't be any other explanation: the world was surely going to end as we knew it.

And I felt fine. So I sang along to the Garden State soundtrack.

As I waited for the mini person to cross, a memory seeped from a part of my head I call my brain. It was like the trickle you sense at the onset of a blood nose - sans the aching pain from a fist. The memory then sparked a series of thoughts, most of which revolved around the delight I take in shoving my tongue to all parts of the female anatomy, but the one thought that stood out from the rest was one that took me completely by surprise. It was from about two weeks ago, whih technically made it a memory as well, when I was light headed from an over ejaculatory stint during Slap-happy Sausage Week, while I was lazily evaluating a compensation claim in a neighbouring district. One of the women there had unleashed some information my way - both aural and visual - that caught up with my fragile emotions.

As you may know, I have a kind heart and I'm usually the first to volunteer my services [provided the price meets my standard rate] to all manner of good causes: throwing biohazardous waste at Russell Crowe, playing Totem Tennis with Stephen Hawking, neutralising the pH level for Ian Thorpe so he doesn't cry like a nancy boy about the chlorine stinging his precious eyes. But I also have my standards with the shit I'm willing to commit myself and my name to; Big Brother not being one, no matter how many times they ask.

One of those standards includes being handpicked from the crowd as someone willing to lend an ear and nod as though suggesting empathy. Fuck that. Fuck that twice over if I know you. This incident featured a lady - whose claim I was assessing, no less - who began to gesticulate about her personal problems. I pretended to be busy brushing lint from my suit when I was unavoidibly sucked into her dramatic sound effects that resembled grapes being mashed in a blender. Keep in mind the distinct language barrier as I dinnae speak her lingo and she kennae bring me to my knees with her English prowess.

Following the dramatic mini-series of hand gestures and sound effects that focused on the region of a woman's body that most other women don't readily point to, let alone emit groans while pointing to, she was then lost for words with the most important aspect of the story: the exact nature of what she was talking about. I felt rejuvenated in my pursuit of removing myself from that blasted place and leaving her and her cohorts the fuck alone to combat whatever disease was spreading through that woman's body.

After voicing in her native tongue what she was alluding to, which had too many fuckin syllables for my liking or comprehension, she then set about finding someone who would adequately translate so I could enjoy the full benefits of knowing the fatal disease she had. Thanks, lady. Thanks a fuckin million for your persistence. At that point I was more concerned about getting the fuck out of there as I had plans involving an early lunch and many bottles of beer prior to knocking off for the day and stripping down in front of the fuckwit box for another quality look at CHiPs and several more bottles of beer. I could have sworn the speed with which I rejected her claim would have silenced her once and for all, but this woman was as determined as a mosquito that had survived several unsuccessful swipes from a hand and she simply wouldn't take fuck off for a suggestion.

Hoo-fuckin-ray: out came the dictionary.

Moments later, there was a deep sigh and a shrug of the shoulders. Apparently the dictionary was a piece of shit as much as a piece of shit is a piece of shit regarding the definition of the thing she was telling me about: her thing. Not satisfied with multiple rejections from life, the universe, the ever after and death stares from yours truly, out came the mobile phone; technologically designed to give people like me no respite from disease ridden wenches whom I didn't know or care for. Hoo-fuckin-ray: the mobile dictionary. I waited with baited breath wanting all the while to witness her being struck by lightning as she fumbled and sighed time and time again.

She didn't die.

"Hem...orr...oids," she finally said by way of elongating each syllable.

I knew instantly what her first thought for the day was when she had awoken: 'Must. Tell. Complete. Stranger. Of. My. Hemorroids. As. It's. Such. Compelling. Information. Share. And. Share. Alike. Information. Is. God. I. Have. Hemorroids. What. A. Fabulous. Talking. Point. I. Have. Hemorroids.'

It took my brain more than two weeks to come to terms with this incident as I hadn't given it much thought up until yesterday morning while a junior citizen of the world was in the process of crossing the road the way mankind had intended.

If there's anyone else out there who knows me as well or slightly less than a bar of soap and who'd like to share essential personal information with me, feel free to fuck yourself in any way you see fit as I'm gonna do it with a rusted crowbar wrapped in barbed wire if I ever meet you, for I am The Crow [no relation to Cinderella Man] and I'll chase your dilated veins, your anal tissue and your fuckin grapes in a blender out of my 'hood if you start spinning shit about your bumhole.

DESIGNER BARBIES

2005-09-28T09:11:00.000+09:30

The human and the doctor were in a small office:

Doctor: We have finished gene-mapping your child. The retroviruses have been prepared and we are just waiting for the final ok from you to create your own designer zygote.

Human: Fine, fine..

Doctor: We have analysed the questionaires you and your human mate filled-out for us the other week. I am afraid there were a few inconsistencies that had to be hammered out at the last moment. I'm afraid that your busy modern lifestyle didn't allow us to contact you so I took the liberty of putting the finishing touches to your son myself.

Human: Fine, er hang on! What do you mean?

Doctor: The physical attributes didn't match with the projected lifestyle. Taking an example - the american football and your hopes that he would follow you into the law trade were at odds with each other. The genes would effectively work against each other. Granted, this would create what we might call a "balanced individual" but who ever heard of success from such a multi-faceted family man?

Human: I want a successful beautiful child above all other things!

Doctor: I thought so. I opted for the law end of matters. The package includes an ulcer resistant stomach lining and a really fucking big bile duct. I bundled in an extra large liver and a spare kidney, for the meals that go with the turf.

Human: Excellent! I've had renal failure twice and it really interfered with my income for those years. Luckily, I was able to write-off the tax on a new set of organs.

Doctor: This model is probably the best I have made yet. I was able to use the information from recent brain mapping experiments to eliminate his concience and turn the brain-space over to cold calculation and verbal dissembling. Finally, I have located his pity-gland-gene and turned it off, for good. I took the stimulus and added it to the blue eye genes you wanted put in there.

Human: Physically, what's the damage?

Doctor: Well, he will have grey hair from the age of five. From the age of ten he will only be able to wear a suit without looking ridiculous. To the right woman he will still be an attractive match.

Human: What sort of woman will he attract?

Doctor: Money hungry upper middle class trash. But on the positive side, I've manage to nail his growth spurts to match the exact sizes made as standard by tailors. No made-to-measure suits for this boy apart from his birthday suit!

Human: If I were to meet this son of mine in a crowd, how would I know him? I mean both physially and emotionally.

Doctor: Well, imagine the brutal homosexual union of Bill Gates and Rupert Murdoch. That should bring you close. Both the event and the product come close.

Human: Doctor, you are a genius! He sounds like a complete cunt! Despite knocking out most of my genes his life will mirror mine most effectively. I'm proud to have had a hand in his design!

Doctor: I am afraid that home life may become a little strained at times...

Human: But of course, someone so completely goal-driven can't fail to be unliveable with. I fully expect him to divorce us by the age of twelve.

Doctor: You must be aware that I can only do so much to create this economically sound baby. Nature can only provide about forty percent of the amunition to fight this battle.

Human: Of course, we already have a series of racking dissapointments with which to furnish his childhood. The childhood psychologist Dr. , er...

Doctor: Dr. Proctor, we have worked together before. Our latest triumph is the next scion of the Bush Dynasty.

Human: yes, indeed. Dr. proctor has made a plan which should have completely annihilated his soul by the time he reaches infant three.

Doctor: I think that is us finished for now. If you could wheel in your female I can have her impregnated by tomorow morning.

I LOVE SHY GIRLS

2005-09-27T21:11:00.000+09:30