planes, trains and paedophiles...

One of the really crappy things about being a well-off, middle-aged, single white man from Cunt Point is that when Kevin Krudd and His Merry Wad of Mediocrity decide to hand out free money to every under-performing moron, every pregnant semi-literate check-out chick engaged to her seventeen year-old apprentice sign-writer boyfriend, every card-carrying male member of every violent ethnic minority street-gang, every bone-headed parent with legal proof he/she/they have done their bit and sired the next generation of unemployable poorly-groomed drug-addicts…and every other lucked-out sap with the misfortune to live west of The Anzac Bridge…I didn’t get a dollar of it.
Not one.
And it’s not as though the cash-splash was ever intended to be a social-security net for the nation’s hard-done-bys to help them cope with the tough times ahead as a result of the Global Financial Crisis; no…it was intended to be spent on plasma TVs to prop up the ailing economy. And right away too…
Well, why should all this cash be wasted just on the apparently-needy? I mean of course most of them will eventually piss their bounty up against the nearest wall but who’s to say I couldn’t spend the cash even faster or more recklessly than these wretched, pathetic orts and leavings of the financial feast.
Giving poor people money to spend frivolously is an economic strategy fraught with danger; what if they don’t spend it. What if they simply use it to pay down their credit-card debt, or pay off their mortgage…or worse still…stick it away for a rainy day or their kid’s education??
They might…the unstimulating cunts.
I on the other hand, with more money than I deserve and no dependents to worry about financially other than my champion Bengals and their ongoing health arrangements, would be a lay down misere to have that cash back in the economy quicker than you can say ‘Dunhill sterling silver ashtray’.
It makes far more sense to give economic-stimulus handouts to people like me than it does to risk giving them to people who might actually need them…but like I said earlier…there’s been nothing from those government fuckers in my Cunt Point mailbox addressed to ‘Fingers’ that indicates I’ll be getting anything.

Meanwhile, the really good thing about being a well-off, middle-aged, single white man from Cunt Point is that as soon as this flight from Hong Kong took off, the nice stewardess came over and removed the seven year-old child from the seat next to me. Oh sure…afterwards she said it was more for my benefit, that I’d appreciate the peace and quiet but secretly we both knew it was more to do with Virgin Atlantic’s in-flight, after-dark, anti kid-fiddling policy than it was to do with any nagging concerns for my comfort.
Hey…what do I care; the little shit is gone and I have two seats to stretch out on…

Note to self: get ‘Convicted Paedophile’ t-shirt/baseball cap made for wearing on all future flights…

the last comeback tour...

So, enough about rapist footballers and rapist cabbies; let’s talk about rapist entertainers.
Like John ‘The Voice’ Farnham.
As my good friend ‘Simmo’, music buff and gay FX icon, pointed out to me recently, John Farnham has announced plans for a comeback tour. This makes him a rapist in my eyes because when I forked out my hard earned (well, not that hard…but I still earned it) cash for a ticket to his ‘farewell’ tour in 2002, I assumed he was serious, rather than just semantically pulling my pants down and fucking my ass for a bit.
Yes, I know ‘The Last Time Tour’ was a tour based on an album entitled ‘The Last Time’, in much the same way as Madonna might have done her ‘Material Girl Tour’ to coincide with the release of the ‘Material Girl’ album.
So, theoretically this may not have actually been a farewell tour and I may have been wrong in my assumption. Perhaps I had been unintentionally fooled into thinking this after reading the official ‘John Farnham Serial Entertainer Rapist’ website, which stated, “Farnham-mania has gone through the roof since John announced his farewell tour `The Last Time` on August 19th at the Rod Laver Tennis Centre.”
Obviously this WAS a bona-fide farewell tour, his later appearances at ‘Live With The Sydney And Melbourne Symphony Orchestras’, ‘Spirit Of The North Benefit Concert’, ‘Two Decades Of Whispering Jack: 20th Anniversary Special Performance’ and ‘The Voice Fucks His Gullible Fans In The Ass Again For Personal Gain’ notwithstanding…
Now I like Whispering Jack, and I don’t begrudge anyone the right to earn a living.
I’d be happy to see Farnham still performing live even after he’s been dead for ten years…but when you fleece me out of my money under the pretense of it being absolutely the last chance I’ll ever have to see you perform again…at least have the courage of your convictions and fuck off.
And if somewhere down the track you find you’re short of cash and need to go back to work, have the decency to say ‘Hey, I thought the $10 million I made on that ‘Last Scam Tour’ would have been enough to see me through but it turned out my doughnut bill was closer to $20 million and I need to put my fat, grubby hand in your pocket again.’
Don’t invent a ludicrous story about the raging public outcry for your return, or hide behind pithy quotes like, "I'm tired of being retired.''
It’s not really the ‘Live By Demand Tour’…is it ??
Just like the 'Closing Down Sale' which Cadry's, an Indian rug store in Edgecliff, has been having since 1972 that I know of according to the huge banner draped over its front window...isn't really a closing down sale at all.
It's a standing joke; like the one John Farnham is becoming.
Why not just call it the ‘Hey I’m A Lying Sack Of Shit But I Can Still Sing And I Will If You Come Up With Some More Cash You Dopey Cunts Tour’ ??
At least then I might have a giggle and buy a ticket…

it's the RSL cabbie show...

OK, time to put the serious hat on for a post !!!
Hassan Nagi is by all accounts a decent, hard-working bloke.
Hassan Nagi has recently pleaded guilty in court to raping three women, aged 31, 23 and 27, in 2003, 2006 and 2007.
Fatima Kazan, his sister-in-law, said she had known Hassan Nagi for ten years and had been “utterly shocked” to learn of his crimes and that, "This was out of his character, this is not him." She stated in court that she saw her brother-in-law daily, adding that, "He is always crying, he is always depressed."
Fatima Kazan also said her brother-in-law, Hassan Nagi, was "very, very sorry" for his offences and that as long for as she had known him, Hassan Nagi had been an "honest, caring person who would not harm a soul",

Why then, if the character evidence from people who really know him well, supports Hassan Nagi so convincingly, and why, if he has already pleaded guilty to the crimes, which were committed a long time ago anyway…and more importantly why, if he said he was sorry…not just sorry but very, very sorry…does the NSW judicial system seem intent on giving Hassan Nagi a lengthy custodial sentence ??

Well, Hassan Nagi…perhaps if you were a current/former representative NRL player/media-performer, instead of a Middle-Eastern cab-driver, you’d have got a hearty shoulder rub and a ‘Well said, mate,’ from your colleagues instead of twenty-five to life.

Anyway, bad luck Hassan ...and now on with the show…

one giant leap for man...

One of the many physical attributes that distinguish Man from the rest of the beasts is the miraculous opposable thumb. This extraordinary piece of evolutionary engineering allows Man to grasp an object with far greater force, and then wield that object with infinitely greater precision than that which would be possible without it.
With the arrival of this magnificent appendage Man was suddenly able to hold objects such as a tree branch firmly in his hand and get started on the job of hitting other animals over the head with it. Animals that until then had a predatorial advantage over Man, by virtue of their superior strength or bite capability, were now firmly on the menu because Man, armed with his opposable thumb and high-tech killing stick was now able to do harm from a safe distance.
All very informative…but do I have a point ??
Well as a matter of fact I do.
Given a survey I’ve just read which stated that the average length of time it takes a young male surfing the internet for the first occasion to navigate onto a porno site is around nine minutes, I would suggest that even with his not so highly-developed cave-brain, it probably took Man, with his new-fangled opposable thumb, around the same length of time to put down the killing stick…grab his doodle and play with it. Of course we have no idea who the first male human to conceive of it was, but in deference to his legacy to Man, let’s call him The Man.
For he certainly was all of that.
Along with the discovery that pig meat tasted better when you put it in the fire for a while, the idea that you could use your opposable thumb to hold your pee-pee against the palm of your hairy hand and apply modest friction must surely rank as one of Man’s happiest moments.
Until then Man’s only chance of getting his prehistoric rocks off would have come by way of reproductive necessity and involved the decidedly unappealing prospect of poking his hairy cave-chick in her abundant, unwashed whiskers, however the addition of the ‘Digitatus Magicus’ must have heralded the dawn of a new age; The Leisure Era.
What followed was surely the most rapid and vigorous development of consciousness in human history??
Within minutes of inventing auto-eroticism, The Man would have tapped into his previously unused prefrontal cortex and had his first abstract thought; most likely a lesbian fantasy.
Perhaps a minute later The Man’s hitherto irrelevant vocal chords would have unseized themselves and sputtered to life with the first word ever spoken; ‘Ooooooooh’. This would have been followed almost immediately by the creation of God, which was probably also the second word ever spoken, to act as both a focal entity for giving thanks to.…and as an unseen mate to whom The Man could forevermore explain how good this new activity felt.
And if anyone needs further proof of the evolutionary importance of Man’s ability to toss his own salad then consider the dimensions of the human arm. It's just the right length to reach the wing-wang. Notice that Nature did not give Man little Tyrannosaurus Rex arms with which to simply play with his breasts, nor did it equip him with King Kong arms to tickle the backs of his knees. Nope, it gave Man arms that are perfectly proprtional for the job of knocking his own top off.
Though I often wonder why Nature did not smile on Woman too, and instead of giving her opposable thumbs, simply fuse her fingers together...

so the weekend's over and you think your life is shit...

Inspired by the tireless legions of people who will try to bring you down by reminding you it's Monday, I offer this different view of the world and ask you to consider what Life might be like had Fate seen fit to make you a blowfly...

'I remember my first impression of the world as though it were last week; unsurprising really given that it was only last week. Abandoned in a putrid dumpster by a well-meaning mother, the world seemed utterly devoid of anything. Total darkness, complete silence…
Of course with hindsight…and hindhearing…I realize this initial impression was almost certainly due to the fact I’d been born both blind and deaf, though I didn’t know that at the time.
However what was apparent was that in one of Nature’s crueler ironies, taking into account the immediate surroundings, I had been given a magnificently acute sense of smell. It’s commonly accepted that when you’re a maggot you have to expect these types of bad breaks? On the other hand when you start life as a maggot there’s another school of thought that says you’re also entitled to some sort of assurance that things can’t possibly get much worse.
That’s the thorny philosophical quality-of-life issue I had been contemplating when the hunger pains kicked in…
Just light tremors to begin with...but lumbered as I was with a larval body-plan consisting of seventy-five percent stomach those tremors quickly turned into a full-blown hunger-quake. As my minimal luck so far would have it, mother had had the instinctive good sense to provide for this eventuality; when she flew off, she did so leaving me perched atop a vast expanse of steadily-ripening hamburger. Its rancid stench was music to my nose; a vast desert of salmonella it may have been to some…but to me it was a tropical island of filet mignon.
Rolling my cumbersome body over to take advantage of the situation, I just hoped that cunt Nature, which had so far overlooked me in the eyes and ears department…had bothered to give me a mouth…'

to be cont'd...

epic fails...or were they...

Some of you may remember my inspired ‘Amnesian’ gag from a few months ago; the one where my dinner-partner, a beautiful girl of seemingly non-specific Asian ethnicity, told me she was the product of an American father and an Indonesian mother…to which I replied ‘So, I guess that makes you an Amnesian.’

At the time I was quite proud of that gag and fully expected it to guarantee my safe passage into her panties although it had precisely the opposite effect as things turned out.
By contrast there have been other gag opportunites which have presented themselves over the years that were always going to be sure-fire date-killers. These were lines so obviously crude and distasteful that their chances of failure were utterly assured by all the known rules of dating etiquette and common decency.
And yet they were lines that needed to be said even though it meant crossing lines that some say should never be crossed. At the time I may have agonized briefly over the relative pros and cons of allowing these gags to see the light of day…however ultimately what’s a lifetime of relationship happiness compared to a lifetime of comic regret ??
And so, from the vault of personal experience, I present to you a short-list of things never to say on a first date if you ever hope to obtain a second date…

To a slightly-built chick who’s just wondered out loud what the pain of childbirth might be like and confessed she’s more than a little frightened by the prospect of the ordeal: NEVER SAY…’Well when you get home tonight take a #12 chicken out of the freezer and see if it will fit up your nose without any discomfort.’

To a well-mannered chick who’s just mentioned how embarrassing it is when her male Labrador humps the legs of her dinner guests under the table and is at her wit’s end as to what to do to curb his disgusting habit: NEVER SAY…’Have you tried sucking the dog off before the guests arrive.’
(This one not only killed the date I was on but also got me censored on ‘Sparsely Kate’s’ blog a while back too.)

And finally…

To an aspiring model who’s made the observation that you seem a bit unusually hostile towards chicks who earn their living in that superficial field of endeavour and suggested that perhaps you are intimidated by attractive women in general: NEVER SAY…’I think it all stems from my childhood. When I was five I used to take baths with the neighbour’s daughter who was of a similar age. She was a bit of a slut for a five year old too. She used to take out my pee-pee and play with it till it got hard…then right before I came she’d stop playing with it and hit me on the helmet with her ‘Barbie’ doll. I guess it traumatized me more than I care to admit at times…’

this is an all day sucker...

Not to be confused with me...the all day and all night sucker...
For the past year or so I’ve been actively pursuing this certain chick…
Not systematically chasing her like I would have in the old days when I was a mighty hunter armed with a quiver full of sharpened spears and arrows. Those days are long gone. I’m less of a hunter and more the collector now.
And since I’m down to my last rusty arrow it’s probably for the best.
Nevertheless, this chick has become my obsession, my Holy Grail…my White Whale; except that I call her ‘The Elephant’. She earns that title not because she looks anything like an elephant; in fact she’s more of a gazelle, a very hot gazelle, with amazingly hot gazelle-legs. No, I call her ‘The Elephant’ because if I somehow manage to bring her down on what’s sure to be my last expedition…I will never have to kill again.
Anyway, enough of the metaphors; you get the drift.
We go out on these dates…apparently. I assume they’re dates because she calls them dates, gets all dressed up like she’s on a date and I always pick up the bill.
However this is where the similarity between our dates and actual dates (the ones I remember going on in an earlier life) ends.
Our dates mostly consist of my asking how she is…and her spending the rest of the evening telling me; in excruciating detail. Not just recent detail either…recent detail mixed with historical detail…reams of past-relationship detail, a list of complaints about ex-boyfriends/husbands and a full psychological deconstruction of her early childhood and its connection to her poor relationship decision-making.
If she wasn’t so fucking hot, I’d stab her in the eye with my oyster fork…
So I sit there and listen while she blathers on and on about it. Actually, I don’t even listen anymore since I know the spiel off-by-heart. Mostly I do long-division in my head and nod occasionally…and think about her legs…those amazingly hot gazelle-legs…parked behind her ears…or mine…or both.
Not that this has happened yet.
Sometimes, to relieve the tedium I play a game with her, changing the topic to something preposterously left-field and noting how many degrees of separation it takes her to segue back to the regular programming. For instance the other week, just as she was about to launch into the “…Honestly, Fingers I just seem to attract these losers…”, I cut her off with a tricky, “Hey did you see that Foreign Correspondent episode on the cholera epidemic in Zimbabwe ??”
I had this figured for a four-degree segue at best…
‘The Elephant’ smoked me in one move.
“No, I didn’t see it…but I remember in Singapore last year I got some sort of stomach-bug and ‘Fuck Knuckle’ just left me in the hotel room and went out for two days sight-seeing and drinking…”
“That was awesome.”
“What ??”
“Nothing…you were saying…”
“Honestly, Fingers I just seem to attract these losers. What is it about me that says ‘Losers Apply Here’ ?? I mean do I have a sign on my head that proclaims I’m only available if you’re a loser ??”
“Well, I’m here now, baby…so you don’t need to worry about that anymore.”
“Yes but why can’t I meet any nice boys…banker boys, good-looking with brains and a sense of humour??”
Have I mentioned what amazingly hot gazelle-legs she has ??
“I don’t know. Sometimes I wish I weren’t made entirely of chopped-liver and onions though.”
“What ??”
“Nothing. You were saying how difficult it was meeting a nice boy…sorry for interrupting. Shall we get some more wine…??”
“Yes, can we get another bottle of that nice shiraz ?? Seriously though Fingers…where does a girl go to meet eligible guys these days??”
“Yes, I know what you mean. I don’t seem to meet any single chicks these days either. Not good-looking, successful, smart or funny ones…”
And I’m secretly wondering whether she’ll take this outrageous bait.
“Well thanks a lot. That makes me feel really special.”
Have I mentioned what amazingly hot gazelle-legs she has ??
“Fucking hell, Fingers…it’s not like I’m asking for the world here…it’s just that…”
And I can see her lips moving and I hear some words coming out and I feel the overwhelming urge to yawn, which will surely kill the date stone-dead, so I clench my teeth as the yawn rolls over me like a wave of liquid Rohypnol…and I wonder whether right at the point of yawning my eyes will cloud over and give me away ?? Is it dangerous to try and stifle a yawn ?? I once heard that keeping your eyes open during a sneeze could kill you…perhaps this is the same ?? Three-thousand five hundred and twelve divided by eight equals four-carry-the-three…

Did I mention the legs though…