Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Your teeth are not white - they're yellowy-white.
I like your new hairdo, though it's not that crash hot,
And somewhat less black than the night.
I am really quite fond of your crimsony scarf -
It brings out your bloodshot eyes;
Your bum certainly does not look big in that dress -
It's much more moderate sized.
Your voice is as soft as a slightly lumpy pillow,
Your skin, nearly as smooth as a three-quarter bitumened lane:
I'm more or less certain that you're my third-and-a-half favourite person,
And you're really quite good - in the main.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
T S Eliot
Hello Charlie! Hello Dora!
Thursday, September 13, 2007
I asked one of my workmates, Phil, if he might be interested.
He responded by telling me that the only good reason he could think of for running would involve his arse being on fire, and a bucket of water being a good distance away.
I said I could probably think of at least fifteen other good reasons for running, and they're listed below.
Please let me know if you can add to the list, as I'm quite fond of winning unimportant arguments.
1. Being chased by a big angry dog.
2. Being hungry and in a group of three or more people, with a single piece of cake visible in the middle distance.
3. Being threatened at gun point.
4. Being offered a place on a rocket ship exiting an imminently exploding Earth, with fitness being the single most important criterion for getting a seat.
5. Being in the carpark at the beach and seeing your girlfriend drowning a fair way out in the water.
6. Being followed by a swarm of killer bees.
7. Being followed by a group of Seventh Day Adventists.
8. Being thrust into sudden fame, and hence constantly chased by the paparazzi.
9. Being at a party, with "My Heart Will Go On" on permanent rotation on the stereo, which is broken and hence the volume is stuck at eleven, and can be heard by everyone within a five kilometre radius.
10. Being in the Amazonian jungle and having just stolen a valuable artefact, but being caught in the act by some surprisingly fleet-footed pygmies.
11. Being quite near a building that looks like it's about to collapse or explode.
12. Being three blocks away from a bank robber who looks like he's just about to empty his sack full of non-sequential, unmarked bills into the air to avoid capture, just like they do in the movies.
13. Being told you have to jump a long way or your family will die, and needing a decent run-up.
14. Being obsessed with Superman movies, but not able to fly, so seeing if just running around the world really fast will make the world turn backwards so you can save Lois.
15. Being in the main hall of a Comic Expo, or what you thought was a Comic Expo, but discovering you got the date wrong, and you've arrived just in time for the grand final of some kind of running-based competition, the prize being a lifetime pass to all future Comic Expos worldwide.
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
You will need: functioning liver, things to drink, access to a range of corporate media.
The rules are quite simple: whenever one of the following things happens, you take the appropriate drink. Please note that vomiting is not only allowed but is actively encouraged.
- Newspaper headline includes one or more of the following words: "SHAME"; "ANGER"; "FURY"; "UNAUSTRALIAN": drink shot of vodka. If headline includes exclamation mark, drink a further shot.
- Andrew Bolt has apoplectic fit: drink two large gulps of beer or wine.
- Awkward on-camera conversation between John Howard and any Asian leader: take a swig of whiskey or other hard spirit.
- Phalli at the ready!: drink your choice of cocktail.
- Morris Iemma looks stern: drink five raw eggs.
- Protester wearing Che Guevara t-shirt: drink a six pack of Jack Daniels and Coke.
- Reporter uses phrase "plastic cups of urine": drink plastic cup of urine.
- Riot police remove or cover name badges: poke tequila worm up left nostril.
- World leaders pose for group photo wearing ridiculous "cultural" jackets: drink the little bit of sick that has come into your mouth.
- John Howard baffles assembled leaders with cricket references: skol fifty-two cans of VB.
- Dirty bomb: drink everything you can lay your hands on.
Cross-posted at Sterne.
Monday, August 27, 2007
‘Yes,’ Charles replied, muffled by the feather-filled pillow into which he spoke as he lay upon his bed, ‘yes, drab, drab, drab. Perfectly, utterly and absolutely drab!’ And with this he sat bolt upright and pointed a single accusatory finger at the awful weather beating insistently upon the window like a dull acquaintance demanding entry.
‘If only there were something to do, something exciting!’ Alexandria said.
‘Oh yes, something exciting would be wonderful, just the tickety-boo for a day such as this,’ Charles said. Their nanny Molly had suggested ‘snuggling up to a good book before the open fire’ until she was forced to retreat under a hail of publications that might have been good books had anyone paused to crack them open.
‘What we need, brother dear, is an adventure!’
‘Goodness, how welcome an adventure would be at this very moment.’
There was a long pause as the twins watched drips of rain roll down the glass.
‘I –‘ Charles began but he never finished his sentence. At that very moment, the bottom drawer of their chiffonier sprang open and the most curious creature leapt out. It had the legs of a goat and the body of a small man. Its chest was well proportioned and it carried a set of pipes slung across its back. It breathed heavily and quickly through a thick beard matted with various kinds of grasses.
Pausing only a moment to take the room in, the creature ran over to the children and grabbed their wrists.
‘Quickly, quickly, there isn’t a moment to lose! You’re needed for the sequel!’ It said in a high reedy voice that sparkled in the air like gold dust.
The twins stared at one another in amazement.
‘Oh do hurry, children! The Winter Queen has seized the Pumpkin of Deyar and her army of Isslings is marching on the Tam river which has frozen over for the first time in a century. Oh, everybody thought that when you pushed the Queen into the Abyss of Xar she would be gone for good, but she’s not! She’s back! Come, you must help us!’
‘I’m very sorry, er, sir, but we don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Alexandria said. The faun, for it was a faun, suddenly grew angry and his face reddened in a most impressive way.
‘Please children, there is no time for childish foolishness. The fate of Pimslandia hangs in the balance. We must act! There will be time for games and japes later.’
Charles felt his face darken.
‘Listen you goaty little cunt, we have no fucking idea what you’re talking about. Now get your hairy dingleberry covered arse out of our bedroom and out into the fucking street. We don’t need your sort in here,’ he said.
Alexandria folded her arms across her pink ribboned chest and nodded her head seriously, her blonde curls bobbing.
‘Charles is right. Get your randy little goat cock out of here. It’s disgusting. You smell like a barnyard in springtime. Would it kill you to put some fucking trousers on?’
The faun’s jaw dropped in surprise and it coyly covered its swinging genitals. It peered quickly at a note rolled up behind one pointed ear.
‘Is this,’ it said, pausing, ‘is this number four, the Pinnacles, Shropshire? I hope I have the right chest of drawers.’ He looked around, suddenly unsure of himself.
Charles shook his head firmly
‘Number four, the Pines and this is Kent and that, you ignorant little half-man half-twat, is a chiffonier. Now get your fur-trimmed rectum out of here before I start using it as a place to store my 200 die-cast metal Duke of Cumberland’s Own Royal Fusiliers!’
The faun backed away towards the chiffonier, eyeing Charles warily as he turned a toy soldier over in his fingers. And then he was gone, bolting back into the drawer as he quickly as he had come. The drawer shut behind him and the twins ran over to it and pulled it open.
It was empty.
‘Hooray!’ They said. ‘Hooray!’
‘Golly, that was exciting!’ Alexandria said. ‘And you were awfully brave, standing up to the beastly little man like that!’
‘Oh I know how to deal with his sort, see his kind every day as I walk past the State school. They don’t frighten me.’ Charles said, puffing his little chest out. Alexandria shuddered.
‘Well they frighten me.’ And then she smiled a bright smile.
‘What an adventure we’ve had! I can quite feel my appetite coming back! What a story we shall have to tell Mother and Father over dinner!’
‘Goodness, it’s five’o’clock already!’ Charles exclaimed. ‘How time has flown! Dinner will nearly be on the table! Do lets rush down and tell cook all about what’s happened. And Molly too, if she can forgive our earlier temper.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Alexandria said, giggling. And they both agreed it was quite the most exciting rainy day they’d ever had!
Friday, August 24, 2007
Former child-star, perky but balding seeks Jamaican professor of economic history for fun times. Must have own crampons.
Smooth-talking lothario with leather trousers and waxed chest seeks attractive women of all ages for long-term emotionally satisfying relationship and possible marriage with children. Is your biological clock ticking? Let me put my head to your chest to find out. If you don’t receive a reply immediately, don’t worry – am working my way around the country, will get to you eventually.
Amateur surgeon seeks woman who likes walks on the beach, romantic candle-lit dinners and secluded mountain cabins. Must not ask too many questions. Medical insurance a plus.
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
Door open + stall vacant + lid closed + can of air-freshener present + thinly disguised odour of beef = toilet recently poohed in, smears present.
Door closed + one foot present + sound of crackling plastic wrapper = workmate has period
Door closed + soles of shoes visible + groaning + retching + sound of can of chickpeas being emptied into bowl = workmate has food poisoning or bulimia.
Door open + stall vacant + receipt from Target present + discarded tag from new underwear on floor = workmate is dirty stop-out.
Door open + lid closed + traces of white powder present + no recent evidence of bowl or paper use = you work in an advertising agency or record company.
Door closed + four feet present + underwear visible + grunting audible = office Christmas party currently underway.
Door closed + two feet present + sound of box being opened + sound of urination followed two to five minutes later by word "Fuck!" = workmate is pregnant.
Door open or closed + two or more females present + tears + word "bastard" audible = Chad from marketing is the father.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Well, I'm glad to tell you that youtube is finally achieving the legitimacy that has eluded it despite near total internet saturation.
Below is the Man at the Pub's take on John Howard's latest youtube appearance. Now I just put it up because right now I'm desperate for content but damn if it isn't pretty good. Mad skills and all that.
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
You not only clean and cook;
You rock your neat-pinned up-do,
And your beige Dior New Look.
Howard, you're the patriarch;
The king of hardware shops;
A member of the Leopard Lodge,
And chubby 'round the chops.
Chuck, you're off in college,
So we see no sign of you,
In fact, your excommunication
Is complete by Series Two.
Joanie, you love Chachi;
As romances go: sublime,
Although you had a crush on Potsie
For a brief, disturbing time.
Richie, you're a Ginger,
And you comb your hair so neatly;
Why, who'd've thought, much later,
It would fall out so completely?
Ralph, you're not so funny
With your silly rhyming name.
You keep insisting "you still got it",
But you've not got what you claim.
Potsie, real name Warren,
You're a singer and a saint
But with your cardigan and big blue eyes,
Jim Morrison you ain't.
Fonzie, you're so cool that
Even water-skis can't spoil it.
You jump things on your motorbike,
And hang out in the toilet.
Sunday, August 5, 2007
But Stalin's speeches were the merest rehearsal for the tedium of his writings. It was particularly brutal of him to call his personally penned missal on the theory and practice of communism The Short Course. There was nothing short about it except its length. - Clive James, Cultural Amnesia
|Stalin was a really crap writer.||Oh, awful, Clive, what are you saying?|
|Stalin wrote very long, very bad books.||Terrible|
|The only thing short in Stalin's books was their quality.||Ewch! Hideous!|
|The only thing in ||No, no, no, no, no!|
|The only short thing in them was literature.||Oh, too, too pretentious by half, darling.|
|Stalin was ||NON! (To quote Mel Brooks)|
|Stalin was ||Obvious, in more ways than one. Plus, I think J might get offended. She's a commie.|
|Stalin's books were really ||Much too honest, the publisher would never let that through. Also, J.|
|The only thing short about them was ||Banal.|
|Oh GOD, Clive, can you get any worse?|
|The only thing short about them was their length.||Hmmm, I'll stick with this one for the moment. God, this writing is hard work. I really need a coffee. And where did I leave my pills? Aaaaaaack! J! J! HELP ME!|
Animal misogyny humour
A man walks into a bar with a Shetland pony and orders a beer. The barman says: ‘we don’t serve ponies in here.’
The man says: ‘That’s no pony. That’s my wife.’ The pony whinnies and then the man says: ‘Shut up bitch, I’ll get you a fucking bloody mary when I’ve finished my beer.’
Department of Finance humour
A Treasury official walks into a bar and orders a round of drinks for his friends.
Professional regulation humour
Three brain surgeons walk into a bar and one of them orders drinks saying:
‘Three beers, my good man, and make it snappy – my colleagues and I are operating in twenty minutes.’
And the bar man replies: ‘Being a barman is only a part-time job. My full-time job is as chair of the Medical Professional Standards Review Board. And I’ll being bringing you up on charges of Consumption of Alcohol while on Duty. I must also say that your rude and demeaning attitude to perceived inferiors will not help you as you defend your case before a sitting of the full review board in August.’
Inappropriate disability humour
A blindman walks into a bar and orders a beer. He says to the barman: ‘lot of weather we’ve been having.’
And the barman replies: ‘That’s not weather. The other patrons are pouring their drinks on you as well as spitting and urinating on you.’
European Union humour
An Englishman, Irishman and a Frenchman walk into a bar and order three beers.
The barman says: ‘well, it’s just gone closing time but I suppose there’s no harm in getting your drinks.'
To which the Irishman replies: ‘well actually we’re officers of the Directorate of Economic and Corporate Affairs, Consumer Division, Liquor Licensing Branch, Investigations Inspectorate, Beer & Allied Beverages Unit. That simple decision to serve three drinks is probably going to cost your entire livelihood.’
And the barman replies: ‘Actually your ad hoc judgment in this affair seems clearly inconsistent with clause 17 of European Directive 31 of 2005 (‘Transitional Arrangements for Certain Types of Business Establishments’). Also, this is Latvia and you have no jurisdiction here until 2009.’
South African humour, circa 1968
A black man walks into a bar and orders a beer. The bar man says: ‘we don’t serve kaffirs in here. Get out.’
The black man replies: ‘Your attitude seems somewhat unreasonable. I have only walked into this public bar seeking momentary refreshment. I will drink up and leave presently.’
‘It’s not unreasonable. This is South Africa circa 1968. Didn’t you read the title to this joke? Stupid kaffir!’
Soviet humour circa 1921
A Bolshevik walks into a menshevik bar and orders a beer. The barman says: ‘We don’t serve Bolsheviks.’
And the Bolshevik replies: ‘Oh but shortly you will. At the recent Party Conference, our faction seized control of the Politburo. All of Russia now belongs to us. The other Republics will follow swiftly. Also, your wife and children and currently being transported to a re-education camp in Novosibirsk.’
Sexual non-sequitur humour
A man walks into a lesbian bar, stands next to two lesbians kissing passionately and orders a drink: ‘I’ll have what she’s having and also two small bowls of pork scratchings.’
Professional non-sequitur meta-humour
Three agronomists walk into a bar and order a beer. The first agronomist places a large mound of cow manure on the bar. The second puts a large pile of sheep manure next to it. The third follows this up with what appears to be human faeces but is actually artfully sculpted alpaca manure.
The barman stares at the three agronomists silently for 30 seconds before he says: ‘there had better be an unholy punchline to this joke to justify putting all this shit on my bar.’
The first agronomist says: ‘punchline?’
The second agronomist says: ‘joke?’
The third agronomist says: ‘bar?’
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Part One: The Whimper of Whipped Cream
Then he woke up and realised it had all been a psychotic episode.
Dr. Hercules wiped the sweat from his brow and smiled sheepishly at Margaret, his Lover, who was standing in the ensuite doorway, shielding her modesty with an origami swan.
"I apologise if I said or did anything to cause you concern," Hercules told her. "I deduce from the scratch marks on my arms that I was having the 'burrowing cockroach' hallucination again."
"You...you said they were trying to get into your veins so they could eat your [gulp] immortal heart!"
Hercules roared. Then he laughed.
"Oh, the grotesque consequences of a psychotropic drug habit! I keep meaning to give the things up, but then I think, no, what if next time I don't have visions of vampiric sandwiches or I don't attempt to ride the neighbour's dog to Spain? Think what I might miss out on!"
Margaret fled the room in tears. Captain Mustaki entered, twirling his multifarious moustaches.
“Ah, my dear Captain,” said Hercules, “friend, confidante and subordinate partner in the most successful crime-fighting duo since Cagney and Lacey. How goes it?”
“Poorly, Hercules, poorly,” replied Mustaki. “For you see, there has been a murder!”
“Tell me Mustaki, were there any chickens involved?”
“Chickens. You know, fowl?”
The Captain’s left moustache drooped. “No,” he said quietly.
“Mustaki," Hercules said sternly, "you need to find yourself a good woman, impregnate her with your moustachioed seed and have her gestate you a sense of humour.” Hercules leapt to his feet, almost knocking Mustaki sideways with his flailing appendage.
"Thank you for the tip, sir," Mustaki said as he watched Hercules dress.
"Well, best be careful or I'll give you the rest," replied Hercules, donning his pince-nez and codpiece.
"This crime..." Mustaki paused for a moment, lost in thought, "...it disturbs me, Hercules."
"Well, by virtue of its being a murder. You know how sensitive I am about that sort of thing."
"And, sir," Mustaki paused again, before gulping down the oyster of trepidation and continuing: "and there is also the minor fact that the victim is, well, your exact physical double!"
The house trembled as Hercules hit the floor.
"Bastard floor," he said. "That'll learn you to creak in my presence! Now, Mustaki, what was it you were saying?"
The Captain's right moustache drooped.
"Never mind, sir. However, your inattention reminds me of a story old Grandma Moustakopoulos used to tell on dark nights when the goats were in season and the olive preserves were nervous."
Suddenly the power went out, plunging Hercules and Mustaki into slightly less light than they had been enjoying. Simultaneously there was a scream from downstairs.
"Margaret!" cried Hercules, racing out the bedroom door.
"Hercules!" cried Mustaki, racing out after him.
"Mustaki!" cried Hercules's valet who had all this time been standing silently at the foot of the bed. As the valet began spot-cleaning Hercules's mattress he pondered the fate of his master and his master's faithful servant, Mustaki, of whom his master was also master.
"What adventures they will have!" he remarked, shaking his head and kneeling to better attack a particularly crusty deposit. "What adventures they will have!"
Will the valet's prediction come true? Will Mustaki be allowed to finish his doubtless fascinating Old World folk tale? What is the fate of Margaret? And what of the body, Hercules's mysterious doppelganger? Answers to these questions and others should be sent to the usual address because frankly we're all out of ideas.
This story originally appeared in Amazing Sterne Stories! Vol. 18.
Sunday, July 29, 2007
So you kick back with some mates and make a noose
But don’t put that piece of rope round your head
Or your neck will snap and you’ll be dead dead dead!
Remember: mates don’t hang mates!
It’s Sunday morn and you don’ wanna go to church
You’re cheesed off with their tired meaning search
But talk to your priest with his musty old smell
Before you sell your soul to the devil in hell!
Pray safe, stay safe: black rites are wrong!
You’re rollin in the park and you gotta go bad
So you skate off home with your bladder goin’ mad
But take off those skates after you do your tricks
Otherwise you’ll slip on the tiles and break your coccyx.
Be safe, wee safe: bathrooms and roller blades don’t mix
Your folks are away and you’re feelin real cool
Nothing seems finer than a little alco-hool
But don’t hook yourself up with a little wee dram
Or wake up thinkin’ you got hit by a tram
Watch that scotch! Kids should never drink aged single malt whisky!
Her hair’s real blonde and she seems real swell
And you like the fact she’s not from Isra-el
But good Jewish boys should never scratch their itches
By getting’ intimate with those shiksa bitches.
Goyim girls are bad news for jews! Only fuck inside the faith!
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
"Police said they suspect Munis, an avid hunter [who shot his wife with a sniper rifle], could be hiding in the vast, rugged wilderness regions to the west of the city.
Captain Jeff Schulz of the Cheyenne Police Department said police had received no contact from him since the killing."
That's outrageous! Everybody knows the core skill of a great homicide detective is waiting by the phone for the perpetrator to ring.
"Hi, it's me. Yeah, I shot her. No, I don't regret it. Um, OK, I guess, they say it'll be about 28 degrees with a chance of light rain. Yeah, well, the farmer's'll be happy at least. I'm sleeping rough in a ditch, cradling my M-16 and communing with the vengeful spirit of my dead wife so I'm not so crazy about precipitation. OK, same time tomorrow?"
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
I know the end of the world is nigh.
I know this, because there's a girl in the office today who has made the decision that it's okay to wear tracksuit pants to work.
Sulphur will rain from the sky. Oceans will boil. And slobs will bring their lack of self-respect to the office in polyester-cotton form.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Laugh all you like, but while you're off indulging your trivial pleasures, it's good to know that somebody is out thinking about the important things.
The Lord Mayor, Clover Moore, is urging Sydneysiders to prepare a "Go Bag" - packed with maps, running shoes, energy bars and even sticky-tape - so they can be ready for any disaster that may strike the city.(Via Caz)
For me, the only surprising thing in all this is the baseball cap. One would think in the event of the world ending, or an imminent disaster, you'd want to be wearing something a bit classier than that. Personally, I favour fedoras.
Still, it's a good idea, and for the edification of Snarkeology's wide readership, I have undertaken the task of presenting, extempore, a likely scenario in which the 'Go' bag could be used. If anything, I think that this scenario is too pessimistic, but see for yourselves...
Thank God I am finally able to come out from underneath the table! The bombing has stopped, and I have had time to survey my surroundings. I appear to be trapped in the fallen rubble of the Sydney Opera House: (and what a splendid performance of Tosca I just saw. Who thought that it would have been the last in the world, eh?)
I have just completed a survey of the room with my torch. There is a corpse, just opposite me, on the lounge, and a cat lurking on the other side of the room.
Hopefully someone will come to get me out shortly.
Thankfully, as an active citizen, member of the Australian Greens, and supporter of Clover Moore's bid for the Sydney Mayoralty, I have with me my trusty GO Bag! Pith helmet in the case of nuclear fallout, sunblock (well - may not need that down here), a set of keys (mysteriously, I have no idea what they open), four cans of baked beans, and this notepad.
The cat is eyeing the corpse on the couch already. I am going to have to do something about that.
Oh, GOD, when is someone coming to get me out?
Well, that was satisfying. Incidentally, now I know why cannibals use pots instead of frying pans. Or shishkebabs. I had similar problems frying kangaroo meat once - you see, once I had chopped it up and...
But I'll spare you the details. Anyway, let me just say that it was certainly thoughtful of Clover to suggest we take a set of keys with us - in the absence of knives, they do a surprisingly good job!
In other matters, what day is it? The minutes and hours and days creep by in a desultory fashion, and I have lost all sense of time. Sometimes it seems like merely hours since the bombs started falling; sometimes, years.
The cat is looking at me strangely, now the corpse has gone.
I had better turn this torch off. I do not know how long the batteries will last...
Is it Monday yet? What time would it be if anyone still had the time? Is anyone who still has the time still alive to give it to me? Who was I used to be? (Only kidding...)
The cat is still staring at me. It has a distinctly obsessed glint in its eyes: I am not altogether sure that we make the best of flatmates. (It reminds me, incidentally, of the time I used to live in a divided warehouse in Newtown. Another flatmate used to look at me in exactly that way - I thought he was gay, but considering the current circumstances, I may have entirely misinterpreted his intentions for me.)
Life here has completely gone to seed. I am down to a diet of two baked beans a day: I am not sure how long it will be before someone comes to get me - or even if they do. If they are. If they were...
At last! Monday again! Every time it is Monday, I give myself a treat - three baked beans instead of my usual two. O, what a glorious feast I have then! I have begun to give the cat a bean on every second day in the week. (As I'm not sure where every first day in the week has got to, this works out quite economically).
But there are fights. Yesterday, the cat spilled the can of beans and managed to eat quite a number of them before I uprighted it. It becomes harder and harder every day to perform the simplest tasks.
Only one and a half cans of beans between myself and oblivion. I must pace myself...
I have lost all sensation in my legs. I find it harder and harder to fend the cat away from the baked bean can: every day is an exhausting struggle. I usually find that waving my hand in its face as fast as possible helps.
We are down to seven beans - one for each Monday of the week. I shudder to think of what will happen when...
The cat has begun eating my leg. It kind of tickles.
I can only move my hands and so cannot throw it off. However, thanks to the thoughtfulness of Clover Moore, I am able to record the event for posterity on this notepad. I am sure glad I voted for her?
How long does it take for one under-sized tabby to eat a person's hip?
In other news, ouch.
VOTE 1, CLOVER MOORE!
But whose colonoscopy?
I'm guessing that either:
(1) the Supreme Court examined one or more Guantanmo detainees very closely before reestablishing Bush's ability to suspend habeas corpus... or
(2) President Bush is actually Superman and somebody lodged a chunk of kryptonite where the sun don't shine.
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Sunday, July 15, 2007
(1) I am a vast quivering formless omnivorous plant-animal hybrid covering the equivalent of six city blocks.
(2) I prefer Grey's Anatomy to House and Gilmore Girls to Sex and the City.
(3) I used to really like fairy floss but have gone off it since I've got older.
(4) I think I look like Ethan Hawke but talk a little like Ben Stiller (though I'm neither American nor Jewish).
(5) I was inadvertantly responsible for the Great Fire of London.
(6) Even though I worry about climate change (a lot!) I can't stop using my Honda CR-V all the time because I just love how it handles.
(7) I hate waiting in line but hate queue-jumpers even more.
(8) I subsumed my last girlfriend, Megan, into my throbbing plasmic mass and have added the remnants of her consciousness to my hive-mind. She still bitches incessantly about my so-called commitment issues *sigh*. I'll have kids when I'm good and ready to inject carnivorous larvae under the dermal membranes of unsuspecting teenage human campers and not a moment before.
Thanks for reading!
Friday, July 13, 2007
New Zealand couple P. and S. W. don’t understand what all the fuss is about.Ebenezer,
They have attracted worldwide attention because of their fight to be allowed to name their infant son "4Real."
They chose the name, they say, because after viewing an ultrasound during the pregnancy it suddenly hit them that the idea of parenthood had become - you guessed it - for real.
Or Richard Biggs,
Or Pritchard Richard,
F. L. Horatio,
P. N. S. Voratio,
Ralph F. G. Barffman,
Ron Wong White,
Or Thomas Witt;
Or Mary Hitt.
Peregrine Oliphaunt Ormond,
Fassbinder Uther King,
Simon Horace Ignatius Thomas,
Allemand Roger Sing;
And especially not:
Gina va Biggs,
and Hope-Polly Bumin,
Peter O. Ennis,
And Mary-Lee Cumin.
For example, this morning, after walking to work past many other people scurrying to their offices, and after stopping to buy toast and coffee in a crowded shop, and after greeting several of my workmates en route to my desk, I asked myself:
"I wonder how long my fly has been open for?"
Thursday, July 12, 2007
"He has had to enforce, brutally, his policy of enlightened moderation."
They also used to say of Hitler that:
"He came to enjoy implementing his policy of invasion and genocide in a light, almost whimsical fashion and with an all-pervading sense of fun. He was, above it all, a good sport."
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
A chicken and some grain
Wanted to cross a river
And it caused him mental pain.
His problem centred on the fact
That rivers have two sides,
And he wanted to transport things
With economy of rides.
The other point that caused him grief
And almost had him beaten
Was getting all his chums across
Without them being eaten.
For centuries, mankind has pondered
Over this one puzzle –
The solution lies in just two parts:
Some ether and a muzzle.
It's really not so hard to get
This poor chap off the hook:
Put the muzzle on the fox and then
Anaesthetise the chook.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Monday, July 9, 2007
Containing the partially cremated remains of the Emperor
Liu Shang, inventor of Shantung Chicken and
Laughing-Duck brand MSG-free black bean sauce.
I am spinning, spinning
Through the long-stay caravan park of your heart,
one thousand years after
Civilisation has crumbled away, leaving only
Rusting recreational vehicles and empty
Denuded now of mayonnaise and ketchup, drifting like
Factory-assembled tumbleweeds, manufactured in Malaysia
to high precision standards
mandated by head office in Zurich.
The Korean yuppie cannot order coffee in Starbucks
because his voice has been degraded by karaoke
and oral sex. Also this:
When you gargle La Marsellaise with a hang-over,
is it because you secretly believe yourself
to be descended from the French pirate Jean Lafitte
or because you once saw
Francois Mitterand peeking at the
special bumper Autumn issue of
Home Beautiful in an airport lounge in Cleveland?
Sunday, July 8, 2007
Step one: Go to your local
Step two: Discover that aforementioned lentil salsa from heaven costs $5 a pot.
Step three: Realise that you have a tin of lentils that cost you 60 cents already in your pantry.
Step four: Realise that the list of ingredients of aforementioned lentil salsa of the gods is proudly displayed next to the pot.
Step five: Realise that ingredients required for best lentil salsa in the world are actually really fucking basic.
Step six: Go home and make your own damn lentil salsa that rocks the cazbah.
Step seven: Sit down with a nice Tassie beer and post your recipe on the internet so everyone may enjoy lovely lentils straight from God's lunchbowl.
Mix washed and drained tin of lentils with finely chopped red onion, fresh coriander, a splash of lemon juice and some sweet chilli sauce. Add salt and pepper to taste. The end.
Friday, July 6, 2007
In an earlier scene of the uh, movie which hasn't been made yet, Hermione and Harry discuss quidditch tactics when Ron notices a mysterious ghostly sandwich for the first time. Defence against the Dark Arts teacher, Mama Cass Elliot looks on, disgusted at their lack of respect for the new Minister for Magic, Mal Brough (not pictured).
Before Harry could react Voldemort raised his wand and another jet of green light streaked at him, knocking him to the cold flagstones of the crypt.
"You are a fool to defy me, Harry, like your parents were, like Dumbledore was." A dark smirk spread across the Dark Lord's ashen features like a slick of oil. "Only your fate will not be destruction, your fate will be to rule the world at my right hand."
"No!" Harry screamed and dove across the floor towards his wand but Voldemort moved quickly, too quickly.
"Paralytica!" He said and Harry felt something cold brush against his heart. He fell to the stone again, harder this time where he remained, staring upwards, seeing and hearing all. In a twirl of his cloak, Voldemort transformed hismelf into the image of Ron, grinning fiercely in a sickening parody of Harry's friend's true smile.
And then Harry heard a noise which almost stopped his heart. Hermione. He suddenly heard her voice and her careful footsteps. No! Harry screamed within his silent rigid body. No! Get away! That's not Ron! But it was no use, he was unable to make even the smallest sound.
"Oh, Ron," she said. "Ron! I was so afraid that you'd be hurt! And where is Harry?" 'Ron' gestured down at Harry's supine form.
"It's OK, he's just sleeping. Old Voldy must have hit him with some pretty powerful stuff before he went down. Pooped poor Harry out and now he needs a rest. He'll be fine. Here, have something to eat. I bet you haven't eaten since breakfast. You're no good to Harry starving to death, are you? Eat this." Ron/Voldemort produced a strangely glowing sandwich from under his coat which Harry immediately recognised as the fearsome throat-blocking Deathly Hallows sub. No! He screamed silently inside again. No!
'Well I am a little peckish,' Hermione said, tearing delicately at the sandwich with her small incisors. And then it began. The terrible choking which Harry had observed in Hogsmeade. The choking from which there was no return."
Amazing stuff, huh? Bad luck about Hermione, eh? Still, Harry gets Voldemort in the end.harry potter
"You draw animals in a zoo while I go and do a poo". - Lars Empoli Crittenden
With quill in hand, dear father, thou wilt sit;
Marking out the bestiary of thy wit:
Whilst I atop the water closet will remain -
And force foul faeces from my buttocks twain!
I bidde thou sitte, my father deare,
I canne nae lenger remaine hier
Butte dost thou bidde the fancies traine
To floweth free from outte thy brain.
& so: the Adder, Aspe & Asse,
The KRAKEN in the tight sea-passe,
Nae lesse the Sheepe & Milch-kine,
Thanne noble Bull, & Eagle & the Lion!
Neglect not thanne the seelie Worme,
As well, the Virus & cold Germe:
& Noblest Creature ever borne:
The most majestic UNICORNE!
& whilest thou draw - why! if it should happe
To please the Lord - I'll take a crappe.
Let the wild creatures of the zoo leap, crawl, fly and flee free across your page!
Let freedom reign across history's page!
Let the ink flow!
Let the imagination run free!
Let the heart run free!
I will sit!
While the world turns, this I vow, I will sit
Sit with all my heart and soul and mind!
I will happily sit! - Freely sit! - Sit as a man should sit! - Sit as an American!
I will sit proudly, patriotically, stoical, determined, wondrous:
And shit happily, joyously, happily!
It will start with a fart and turn into a turd: joyously, happily, joyously!
A thing of great beauty!
A thing of great life and great beauty!
A hymn to creation!
But mostly a hymn to shit!
William Carlos Williams:
This is just to say
Gone to hang a crap
In the dunny.
Forgive me. I was
Farting all morning.
There was an old man with a pen
Who drew two larks, an owl and a hen:
His son said to him: 'sit,
While I go hang a shit,
You funny old man with a pen.'
Oft when, in later years, I pensive scan
With inward eye the creatures of my mind -
(The worker ox, the stallion proud and free,
The throstle singing in the linden tree -)
Then does an innocent come up and declare
"I'm going to the dunny, dad, to crap!"
Thursday, July 5, 2007
"You draw animals in a zoo while I go and do a poo".
Charming. And it rhymes!
It's even more appealing as a haiku:
"Father draws captive
Beasts while number one son lays
Shit on porcelain."
I'm now working on a six sonnet series and a performance art piece. Can anybody lend me a zebra and a small quantity of pink-dyed human faeces? Also assistance in filling out the Australia Council grant forms would be appreciated...
Wednesday, July 4, 2007
It started sometime in the 18th century, one morning last week. I was sitting at my breakfast table eating a little meal of pince-nez and fob watches marinated in Marsala when Nick came galloping up on a runcible spoon.
"Who the devil are you?" I said, not realising that, my mouth being half-full of crumbled fob, what I was saying would come out as a half-squeal, half-screech: "Don't hurt me! Women and children first!" An understandable mistake.
Anyway, furthermore, and to cut a short story long, Nick threatened to run me through with his lapels if I didn't accompany him forthwith, not to mention straightaway.
As we proceeded along, Nick began to tell me the details of his little scheme: he had begun a group blog, and he would consider himself greatly dishonoured if I could participate. I naturally found myself moved by his tale, and would have complied there and then. But quite suddenly, Nick said this:
"What is your opinion on periwigs?"
"Periwigs, sir, periwigs. Do you grow them? What is your opinion on their cultivation?"
"Only if authentic baroque instrumentation is available", I replied, vaguely.
This conversation ringing ominously in my ears, we arrived at the beach where the cameraman and the other members of Snarkeology had already arrived.
Tim, Jo, and Pettstar greeted me with a welcoming chorus of jeers and growls. As I drew nearer to them, they insisted on pressing cups of hot cocoa and bovril on me, even going to the lengths of pouring it over my face and into my trousseaux and dashing the empty cups over my heads. (Something of a faux pas, as in my family, this is never done until after dinner, but I was more than willing to let that slide.)
Meanwhile, the cameraman had set up his equipment on the sand. This being the eighteenth century, cameras had not as yet been invented, and so the doughty tradesman had to improvise, which he did, (somewhat in the manner of Ellington.) He set up the rolls of film on long trestle tables, and then proceeded to yodel in an aleatoric manner at them, at a distance of exactly 25 feet, all the time ensuring that we were within hearing distance of his right ear*.
The results, I'm sure you'll agree, were remarkable:
Jo (centre) was attempt to foment revolution amongst Nick (left) and Tim (right), though they were having none of it. Note the beaver, by the way. The beaver is very important.
This is Pettstar: she was just putting the curtain back on this when the picture was taken. I considered showing this picture, in which she appears in a slightly more benevolent mood, but eventually decided against it. It scares the hell out of me.
These are just a bunch of Satan worshippers who happened to be out for a Sunday stroll at the time. They take a nice picture.
And this is myself (left). I had encountered the beggar on the right drowning in the surf and dragged him out of the high tide with my left ear. He immediately vowed to be eternally in my debt, and now works around my house as a kind of serving man. I call him Saturday**.
It was certainly a capital day, and I look forward to working as closely with each and every member of Snarkeology as the words 'keep away from me!' and 'take a long walk off a short pier' will allow!
*I asked him that evening how he filmed a movie, and he replied that it was done in exactly the same fashion in a moving train, so long as the upholstery has been covered thoroughly in mammoth fur.
** I checked with the registrar of names, and apparently Thursday, Friday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday were all taken.
On my pillow, clothes and lounge room, and a couple on the stairs.
B's for Botulism, and I'd do some more analysis,
But I can't seem to hold my pen with muscular paralysis.
C's for constipation, and although I'm eating fibre,
I can't get things to move from my intestine to my Khyber.
D is for Dyslexia - I find it hard to write
Without mixing words my up, and hence not looking very bright.
E's for epilepsy, and no matter where I'm sitting
You never know when I'll begin a-foamin' and a-fittin'.
F's for Frotteurism, and I simply can't refrain
From rubbing up against you on a crowded peak-hour train.
G's for Gonorrhea – I gave in to sexual yearning,
Now I have a yellow discharge, and I can't pee without burning.
H is Halitosis, and I'm finding, through my day,
That the more I talk to friends, the more they seem to move away.
I's for Indigestion, and the cake I had at four,
Is sitting just beneath my ribs, repeating evermore.
J, of course, is Jock Itch – it's as if a thousand ants
Have bitten, simultaneously, the parts around my pants.
K's for Kidney Stones, and no – the medicine's not helping -
I find it hard to pass my latest lager without yelping.
L is Lyme Disease, and now I'm feeling pretty sick,
Because I played too long with pigeons, and got bitten by a tick.
M is for Mad Cow Disease, and now I really wish
Instead of the Beef Wellington, the waitress brought me fish.
N's for Narcolepsy, and it's really hard to keep….
AWAKE! Because the bastard always sends me off to sl…
O's Osteoporosis, and the chalky, crumbly way
That it creeps into my spine, disintegrating vertebrae.
P's Psoriasis, and you can tell where I've been lying
By the flaky bits of skin – it's almost like my scalp is crying.
Q's for Quadraplegia – I cannot move, of course;
My limbs are just as useful as a siren on a horse.
R's Rheumatoid Arthritis, and it's useful joints I'm lacking;
When I'm standing up or sitting, you can hear my bones all cracking.
S - Somnabulism – I can go and get a cup
Of coffee and a biscuit, without ever waking up.
T is for Tinnitus, and my ears are always ringing,
It's like a choir of tone-deaf angels in my head, all singing.
U is for an Ulcer, deep in my oesophagus,
Spewing forth its gastric juices just like Mount Vesuvius.
V's for Vaginismus, and I'm left with little doubt
That, despite attempts at foreplay, nothing's going in or out.
W's for Whooping Cough, I don't know what the fuss is;
I've completely come to terms with my developing pertussis.
X is just for X-Ray, disappointing, yes – but true.
It's all that I can think of, and it looks inside of you.
Y is Yeast Infection (not the stuff you mix with wheat),
And I'm itching, and I'm burning, and I'm squirming in my seat.
Z isn't for anything. What am I – a doctor?
Baby, uuunh, you wanna know the score?
Mmmm, darlin’, our love can only soar
Once I find out if that’s a cold sore
Baby, I like you jus’ fine
And you gotta sense of style
But I need a little info that’s not
On your Internet profile.
Mmmm, damn, baby you hot
You got me tied all in a knot
But I find myself wond’rin’ a lot
If you had your Hepatitis B shot?
Mmmm, baby, you’re one tasty honey
Baby you’re better than money
And you may think I’m funny
But I gotta know f’you ever boiled a bunny?
Tuesday, July 3, 2007
When I have a cold I like to perform a Haitian voodoo ceremony – hang a chicken upside down, slit its throat, drink its blood and then dance myself into a wild trance-state where I invite various Loas to possess me and hopefully cure my illness. Sometimes it doesn’t work and if it doesn't, well at least you’ve had chicken ‘soup’, just like my mother used to make for me.
If it does work, the downside is that sometimes you wake up six days later on a bulk carrier heading to
Monday, July 2, 2007
The four team members are moi from Whale Sushi, timt from Will Type for Food, Jo from Jo-blogs and Petstarr from Bland Canyon. Also, God is our co-pilot.
Alas, he's not our graphic designer. I spent roughly 3 hours on the unsatisfying header graphic you see before. It used to be a lot more...something...and then I cropped it all out. Crazy!
Adjust your links, check back on the hour, every hour, make us rich, whatever floats your boat.