Tuesday, July 31, 2007

The Adventures of Dr Hercules: A Serial

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!”

“Most foul?”


“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."

"How so?"

"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

Lesser known child safety songs

Dude, the day’s real boring and you’re feelin’ loose
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

Harderned criminals just don't phone home like they used to

From the Sydney Morning Herald:

"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

War. Famine. Death. Pestilence. Adidas.

Bugger the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.
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

The devolution will not be televised

Or, was that Armageddon, or just my pussy farting?

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.


In the news

Bush regains powers after colonoscopy is the headline.

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

you can has ur freakin cheezburger and eat it too

Move over lolcats. Because I was too lazy to push my way into this already crowded field, I came up with an innovation so witty, so edgy and yet so gob-smackingly-why-did-no-one-ever-do-this-before obvious, it may just take over the whole internet and end the Iraq war in an afternoon.

I give you -- the loltrophy.

Sunday, July 15, 2007

Eight random things about myself

TimT tagged everyone with the 'Eight random things about myself' meme. As that set often includes me, I consider myself tagged and will return fire appropriately.

(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

Each child comes pre-packaged with its own parental trauma!

Or, what not to name your baby: an instructive poem
New Zealand couple P. and S. W. don’t understand what all the fuss is about.
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.

Adolf Caeser,
Garttub Wheezer,
Richard Small,
Or Richard Biggs,
Or Pritchard Richard,
Or Pips.
Or Desiree;
F. L. Horatio,
P. N. S. Voratio,
Ralph F. G. Barffman,
Or Hepzibah.
Ron Wong White,
Yorwick Wright,
Darcus Wight,
Or Thomas Witt;
Mary Harry,
Mary Carrie,
Uriah Gaye,
Or Mary Hitt.
Hester Leicester,
Foster Costa,
Barry Larry,
Roland Ronald,
Johnston Johnson,
Mary Myra,
Peregrine Oliphaunt Ormond,
Fassbinder Uther King,
Simon Horace Ignatius Thomas,
Allemand Roger Sing;
Cary Hunt,
Ima Runtt,
Canning Stunt,
Or Ming.

And especially not:

Gina va Biggs,
and Hope-Polly Bumin,
Peter O. Ennis,
And Mary-Lee Cumin.

Come Fly With Me

So many challenging questions are thrown at us in our working lives – some asked by others, some that we pose ourselves.

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

A mailed fist in a velvet glove holding a brick

From today's Sydney Morning Herald about Gen. Musharraf's assault on the rebellious Red Mosque:

"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

Quandary Poem

A gentleman who had a fox,
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.

Google search for "stupidity"

Pop quiz: are you a moron? I am!

Tuesday, July 10, 2007

Roger, Charlie.

I could never be one of Charlie's Angels.
Like, I've got nice hair, an acceptable rack, an excellent bottom, considerable smarts and awesome, dangerous skills.

But fuck, I hate conference calls.

Monday, July 9, 2007

Petals on a wet black garbage bag #1: a poem

Petals on a wet black garbage bag
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
            whopper-with-cheese wrappers
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

How to rip off a small business

G'day, Petstarr here with a quick lesson on how to save money, feel self-important and rip off a small business all in a few easy steps.

Step one: Go to your local overpriced yuppie organic food rip off festival farmer's market and find an utterly DELICIOUS lentil salsa.

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

World Exclusive Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Scoop! **Spoilers**

[I was walking down the street, whistling and minding my own business, when I saw a car hit a tree and burst into flames. Heroically and without a thought for my own safety, I pulled the driver from the burning wreck which was just seconds away from exploding. She turned out to be J.K. Rowling and in return for my selfless deed she handed me a page from her new book, the final Potter installment, Harry Potter and Deathly Hallows. I present it here for your interest.]

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.

The Dark Side of the Moonie Wedding

Towards a Poetics of Crap

Or, Variations on a Theme.

"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!
Draw, father!

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
I have

Gone to hang a crap
In the dunny.

Forgive me. I was
Farting all morning.

Edward Lear:
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

An offer you can't refuse

From my four year old (let's call him Lars Empoli Crittenden for the sake of convenience):

"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

If You Were A Horse

If you were a horse, my what a horse you would be! Hocks and fetlocks to take one's breath away, and cannon that just wouldn't quit. Your gaskin would be among the great wonders of the world, although I confess I am more of a pastern man myself. Out in the fields, I would stroke your flexor tendons, tickle your stifle, run my fingers lightly along your beautiful withers, slowly, one perfect vertebrae at a time. You would whinny and take some feed, and I would laugh merrily, my lips at your throat latch, my hand upon your poll. What a pair we would make, you and I, if you were a horse.

In Which the Heroes of this Story First Meet, plus I'm there as well

For my starting post, I thought I might tell you all how I first came to meet all the other members of Snarkeology.

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.

I'm not actually sure what happened in this picture, but anyway, that's Nick (right) holding me down in the teapot in an effort to intoxicate me. To the left, Frank, the bunny from Donny Darko, has appeared for some reason. Let this serve a lesson to all the little children out there: do not commit dangerous excesses on green tea, and read the Psalms every morning.

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.

Diagnosis Poem

A's for Alopecia, and I'm leaving all my hairs
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?

Awkward questions: a love song by Barry White

Baby, mmmm, I’m lovin’ you more and more
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

Mother Haggard's home remedies, vol 1

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 Indonesia with another man’s blood all over your torso and the taste of cat in your mouth. Or vice versa.

Monday, July 2, 2007

Hi, I'll be your snark host for this evening...

The snark has landed. Snarkeology, possibly the most promising group blog since the dinosaurs ruled the Earth and maybe before, is finally here.

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.