the whine guide

an announcement...

2011-04-17T21:27:00.000-07:00

Hi People, I haven't been blogging much of late. Apologies but I've been concentrating my limited creative efforts on writing short plays just recently. Ten minute plays, directed and acted by rank amateurs like myself. It's all a bit new and exciting and I've neglected TWG. I entered a local competition with one of my scripts last week...and here are the results: crash test drama Story of my life...lousy fucking 3 seconds...

don't eat the bananas...

2011-03-16T21:01:00.001-07:00

A summary of the reporting quality of the Japanese crisis as seen on CNN and Sky News...

Q: So, Professor Morkel, at this point in time what are the chances of the nuclear crisis at the Fukushima Daiichi reactor turning into a Chernobyl-like disaster?
A: Almost zero. They are completely different breeds of reactors. This reactor is water-cooled whereas Chernobyl was water-cooled/graphite-moderated and it was the graphite which exploded and sent a radioactive plume into the atmosphere. That cannot happen here.
Q: So, you’re saying there’s no possibility of a huge nuclear explosion with hundreds of thousands of people killed and millions more left severely injured or possibly exposed to radiation and turned into giant mutant insects?
A: No. Not really.
Q: Can you completely guarantee that one hundred percent?
A: No. Not really.
Q: So, you’re saying there IS a possibility?
A: I’m saying there’s more likelihood of you getting fucked in the ass doggie style by Jesus this Easter.
Q: So, you can’t rule it out absolutely then?
A: I guess not.
Q: OK, now that we’ve established this looks like it could be a disaster similar to the one at Chernobyl, can you explain exactly what’s going on inside the core of the troubled reactor right now?
A: Well, without water to cool the core, the uranium fuel rods have been exposed, causing them to heat up and we have assumed they will have begun a partial melt-down.
Q: Can you be sure?
A: No, but the assumption is fairly obvious at this stage.
Q: Is there any way to be sure the fuel rods are melting down?
A: No. Not really.
Q: Why?
A: Because the rods are encased in a solid steel container with four-inch thick walls to keep them secure, so we can’t actually see them.
Q: So, you’re saying there’s no viewing window in the containment vessel?
A: Of course not.
Q: And is this lack of a viewing window in your opinion a design flaw in the reactor that set it on its inevitable course to become a Chernobyl-like disaster?
A: No, you cannot have viewing windows in a containment vessel.
Q: And why is that, Professor.
A: Because it’s a containment vessel for uranium fuel rods and it gets extremely hot in there…like 5000 degrees hot…and even the most heat resistant glass known to science melts at 2000 degrees…that’s why.
Q: Is it possible to send someone inside the core to have a look?
A: I wish it was…I’d send you in right now.
Q: What about an unmanned probe like the ones used to explore distant objects in space? Could a robot-drone similar to the ones used by the CIA to assassinate terrorists in Iraq be used to check inside the reactor core?
A: NO!!!
Q: What about a tiny submarine like in ‘Fantastic Voyage’? Could we shrink a nuclear sub and possibly send it into the core to check the damage and carry out repairs?
A: No!!!
Q: Why not? Is it because there's no water for the submarine to operate in?
A: No. It's because it’s a movie.
Q: ‘The China Syndrome’ was also a movie.
A: Yes.
Q: So are you suggesting we have a potential ‘China Syndrome’ event on our hands here then, Professor.
A: I said nothing of the sort.
Q: OK, can we talk about the massive explosions that have been occurring since last Friday that have convinced you we have a Chernobyl-like disaster reminiscent of ‘The China Syndrome’ on our hands?
A: What? These are just hydrogen explosions. Simple combustion. Nothing more at this stage.
Q: You mean a hydrogen explosion similar to ‘The Hindenburg’ catastrophe many years ago in which all those people died horribly on fire. Are you implying that in addition to a Chernobyl-like disaster similar to the one in ‘The China Syndrome’, that Japan could be engulfed in a catastrophic Hindenburg-like firestorm similar to the one that destroyed Tokyo towards the end of WW2 and killed tens of thousands of people?
A: Of course I’m not implying that, you stupid cunt. This is a nuclear reactor made from steel and concrete, not a balloon made from starched cotton sheets.
Q: I see. Now these apocalyptic hydrogen explosions we’re watching on the monitor; millions of viewers have tweeted their concern that these huge hydrogen explosions seem eerily reminiscent of the explosion caused when The United States dropped the second atomic bomb, a hydrogen bomb, on Nagasaki to end WW2, killing tens of thousands of people and severely injuring hundreds of thousands more and possibly exposing millions more to radiation which turned them into giant mutant insects. What can you say to these concerned viewers to alleviate their desperate fear?
A: I can say that the two are nothing alike; it’s preposterous.
Q: But we’re talking about nuclear hydrogen here, Professor.
A: No we’re not. There’s no such thing as nuclear hydrogen. This is a nuclear reactor which produces hydrogen as a by-product.
Q: Worst case scenario is there any way this potentially cataclysmic production of hydrogen could develop into an atomic bomb similar to the one that destroyed Nagasaki?
A: No, that’s absurd. It’s simple combustion, not a nuclear reaction.
Q: Under what circumstances could a simple case of hydrogen combustion escalate into a catastrophic nuclear event?
A: It can’t. Ever. Never. Never ever. Cannot happen. Unless you dropped a hydrogen-fuelled atomic weapon on top of the combustion event it cannot happen.
Q: So, you seem to be warning the viewers that given Japan’s history of having atomic weapons of mass-destruction dropped on it, the possibility cannot be dismissed lightly?
A: No, I’m doing nothing like that.
Q: Now, in relation to the processes occurring inside the reactor core; can you explain in layman’s terms to the viewers just exactly what is going on?
A: Probably not.
Q: Why?
A: Because it’s very complex and your viewers are almost certainly morons.
Q: So, does this beg the question of whether we should be using technologies that are well beyond our understanding?
A: They are not beyond our understanding. They are beyond yours. We know how this all works. You don’t need to know anything.
Q: Are you suggesting there’s some sort of cover-up going on here?
A: Of course not.
Q: Then why won’t you release the information concerning what’s really going on inside the reactor’s core?
A: Because you won’t understand it.
Q: OK, are you prepared to discuss the alarming levels of radiation that are being emitted from the reactors?
A: Yes, I would love to address this topic actually.
Q: We are receiving reports that radiation levels near the power plants have reached more that 1000 microSieverts…is this cause for blind panic?
A: No.
Q: What about mass hysteria?
A: No.
Q: Well many people are saying that 1000 microSieverts is an enormously scary level.
A: It’s not.
Q: 1000 would seem to be a very large number to many people.
A: It is…but a microSievert is a very small unit of measure.
Q: But if you have a lot of somethings that are very small, can’t that amount to a large thing at some point?
A: In theory I suppose…but it’s not a practical concern. You’re exposed to higher levels of radiation eating a banana than you would be standing outside the exclusion zone set up around the reactor.
Q: With all due respect, Professor…I don’t think you can compare eating a banana with eating uranium fuel rods.
A: I never mentioned anything about eating uranium fuel rods. That’s insane.
Q: Because of the danger?
A: Of course because of the danger.
Q: And what about these radioactive bananas? Should we be avoiding them?
A: What radioactive bananas?
Q: You just mentioned radioactive bananas a few seconds ago.
A: There’s no such thing as radioactive bananas. Bananas contain tiny amounts of radioactive material but not enough to harm you.
Q: How many of these radioactive bananas would someone have to eat before they ran the risk of a meltdown or of mutating into a giant insect?
A: I don’t know. Several trillion I suspect.
Q: The scientific community seems to just churn out these huge numbers glibly but can you put this into context for the average viewer? What might several trillion bananas look like?
A: It would be huge.
Q: Could you give the viewers an example that might be relevant to them?
A: Well, if the tennis-ball size chunk of coke they caught Charlie Sheen with was a banana, then he would have to have a coke-ball the size of the Earth to equate to several trillion bananas.
Q: I see…and at this stage are there any plans to bring Charlie Sheen to Japan to help with what looks like becoming the worst nuclear disaster since the Chernobyl catastrophe nearly three decades ago which killed hundreds of thousands of people and left millions more severely injured or possibly exposed to radiation that turned them into giant mutant insects…

2011-01-18T15:41:00.000-08:00

Of course deep down I knew my mate had to be kidding !!!
I mean what sort of a complete helmet would risk such a pyrrhic victory over the possibility, or even probability of getting his ass handed to him for no real gain ??
Was he expecting the Guinness World Records cameras to be there as we rolled into Lane Cove on the last remaining molecule of petrol…or a tickertape parade through the CBD…or to receive the Nobel Prize for Stupidity ??

‘Um, mate…there’s a servo on the left about half a kilometre down the highway…can you please pull in there for gas ??’
‘No, I hate that place. ‘The Rock’…why the fuck do they have a petrol station shaped like Ayers Rock on the Pacific Highway anyway ?? I’m not stopping there.’
‘Oh right…you wouldn’t buy petrol from there but you’d probably try jumping it in this van if I said you couldn’t do it ??’

OK, no drama; there were two more major stations on the freeway before we hit the no petrol zone about 80 kilometres from Sydney, by which time we’d have the flashing orange dashboard light going crazy and besides, it’s clearly marked with a big, fuck-off sign saying ‘LAST PETROL ON FREEWAY FOR ANY OF YOU CLEVER CUNTS THAT THINK YOU CAN MAKE IT ON YOUR RESERVE TANK !!!’

Fifty kilometers later there was only one major station left as we sailed past the next servo at precisely 120 kph with roughly 1/3 of a tank left and nearly 150 kilometres to go to Sydney.
Seventy kilometers later we sailed past the last servo, still doing precisely 120 kph but now with roughly 1/5 of a tank left and nearly 80 kilometres to go to Sydney.

‘You’re an idiot…and I’m not lifting a finger to help when we run out of petrol.’
‘Mate, there’s still 1/5 of a tank left and we have 80 kilometres to go and I’m sure this van gets more than 400 kilometres to a tank so we’re fine.’
‘What about if there’s congestion ahead and we have to crawl for a while...you’re assuming it’ll be a clear run into Sydney…’
‘We’ll be fine.’
‘Well at least slow down a bit. Fuel consumption increases as the square of the increase in speed…so, if you drive twice as fast you actually use four times as much fuel to do it.’
‘Bullshit. Then why do use more fuel driving round town than you do on the freeway?? Who told you that??’
‘It’s basic physics. Stephen Hawking told me, you cunt. I know you do more driving than him but I think he might have you covered on the theoretical side of this problem.’

Needless to say, the remaining 1/5 of the tank began to evaporate before our eyes. You could actually see the fuel gauge visibly sagging with each passing kilometre…and with more than 30 kilometres still to go the needle finally came to rest on the little plastic nub which pretty much prevents it from falling off the dial completely…

Now, as it turned out we didn’t actually run out of petrol. We did however spend an extra 30 minutes fucking around off the freeway frantically looking for a suburban station outside Sydney, when we could have refueled earlier in five minutes flat.
I’m sure my mate is over on his blog crowing about his ‘win’, citing Google Map distances and average speeds and jerking himself off with generous amounts of Hindsight Lube…but the point is this…
If you’re the racing manager of the Ferrari F1 team, then perhaps there’s some benefit in having your vehicle arrive at its final destination with a teaspoon of gas left in the tank…but when you’re a moron in a furniture van trying to get home in Sunday afternoon traffic on a freeway…IT’S JUST FUCKING ANNOYING…

is the tank half empty or half full...

2011-01-05T19:49:00.000-08:00

I have this mate, a lovely guy but a bit of a know-it-all, who always thinks he’s right about things no matter how often they turn out differently to what he expected. Hey, no harm in that though; certainly beats having no opinion at all.
Anyway, he and I needed to drive up to Cunts Nest (220 kms away), ostensibly to deliver some furniture to the beach house, so he rented a mid-sized van for the job and we set off with a full load in the back and a full tank of petrol.
We got there without a hitch, dropped the furniture off and immediately headed back home again…
About two minutes into the return drive he said to me, ‘Hey, do you think we can get home on half a tank of petrol ??’
I looked at the gauge, which was almost perfectly lined up with the vertical line showing the tank was either half-full or half-empty depending on the way you look at life.
‘I doubt it, mate.’
‘Why not ??’
‘Well, everyone knows the second half of the tank always seems to empty faster than the first half…some design flaw in the ballast needle or something.’
‘But we had a full load of furniture coming up and we’re empty for the return trip so that should cancel it out.’
‘Well, I suppose it might…but what’s the point of trying anyway ??
‘It’d be an interesting exercise…plus I would only have to fill the tank once more before I return the van if we can make it.’
‘And you’re prepared to risk running out of petrol somewhere on the freeway outside Sydney in order to test your hypothesis ??’
‘We won’t run out !!!’
‘We might.’
‘We won’t.’
‘Why even risk it ??’
‘Coz it’d be kind of cool to do it.’
‘Mate…jumping The Grand Canyon in this van would be cool…running out of petrol in it on the freeway would be a pain in the ass.’
‘We won’t.’
‘We might.’
‘No…fill the fucking tank up at the next station, you cunt.’
‘No, I want to see how far we can go…’

Now, at this point I should tell you something about my mate. Apart from being the most indomitable optimist I have ever met, he has a rather acute case of OCD with respect to certain things. He loves order…especially mathematical order. On the drive up he maintained a steady speed of 120 kph while in the 110 kph zone. I asked him why and he said the speed cameras were set with a 10% margin of latitude so that he was fine at this speed. The real reason he likes travelling at that speed is that it’s exactly two kilometers per minute and he can mentally compute his estimated time of arrival at a certain point much easier. Some people might call him ‘anal’, however I’ve never really understood the connection between the compulsive need for neatness and order…and the rather peculiar habit of storing things in your ass. So, I prefer to think of him as just a plain nutbag.
He's a cross between Biggles and your grandfather. Probably inventing some mythical boy's own adventure to replace the sheer mundaneness of this exercise, in which he's just bombed Berlin to smithereens in his Sopwith Camel and is scurrying back to England on half a tank of fuel with the entire Luftwaffe on his tail.
And I suppose part of me looked forward to the satisfaction of us running dry, so I could say 'Told you so,' and then have a two hour nap in the van while he flagged down a car and hitchiked to the nearest servo for a few litres of petrol, although I'm not sure it would have outweighed the aggravation of having to have a two hour nap in the van while he flagged down a car and hitchiked to the nearest servo for a few litres of petrol...
You see I figure life's too long to make it any more difficult that it needs to be !!!

‘Mate, please pull into the next servo and fill the fucking tank…I am not going to get stranded on the freeway because you see this as a major challenge.’
‘We can make it.’ He's Kramer in the episode where Jerry is thinking of buying the new Saab.
‘I don’t care about it enough to try.’
‘Well I do.’
‘Well you’re a cunt and I can see why your wife left you. I’d leave you right now if I had another way of getting home…’

To be cont’d very soon…

cue the 'jaws' music...

2010-12-30T18:47:00.000-08:00

As you may have noticed, I haven’t blogged for a while !!!
Nothing sinister in it: I just haven’t felt like it to be honest.
It started off as a small writer’s block, which then developed into creative apathy all by itself…followed thereafter by a personal catastrophe that rendered me utterly disinterested in making anyone’s life any jollier.
So, I didn’t blog…
And I certainly didn’t comment on many other blogs because let’s face it…if I’m not writing then I’m not reading. It’s the same with conversation; if I’m not talking then I’m unlikely to be listening.
But I’ll be back in the New Year for sure.
Meanwhile, with the New Year theme in mind, I’d like to farewell 2010 with a little game I invented a few years ago called ‘Other Peoples’ New Year’s Blogging Resolutions’…or as it’s sometimes also known: What I Hate Most About Your Blog…You Cunt !!!
The idea is basically to list the NY resolutions you think certain other people should make…because I’d rather nail my pee-pee to a burning building than read anyone’s personal NY resolutions themselves. I mean really…like I give a fuck whether you do drugs, smoke too many cigarettes, are fifty kilos overweight, beat your spouse or secretly drink from the toilet.
So, in order to play this game, when you comment, please choose three (3) bloggers and list one (1) resolution you’d like to see each of them make for 2011 with respect to their blogs.

I’ll start the game off…and please don’t feel slighted by omission if you weren’t one of the three I chose…there are no favourites here at TWG. Rest assured that even though you’re not mentioned…I almost certainly still loathe many things about your shitty blog…

OK…let’s start with…Kitty over at ‘Shrinking Kitty’… (OK so I DO play favourites here at TWG…GFY). Not much to complain about over at SK really. Kitty’s blog is plump, pink and perfect…just like its author. So, I’d like her NY resolution to be that she will self-delete her wonderful blog on a far more regular basis; say twice a week to begin with…

Then there’s Spiky over at ‘Bit Player Reflects’ …no prizes for guessing what I’d like her to do with ‘Drive-By Poetry Day’. I make no secret of the fact I despise poetry. I loathe it. Reading someone else’s poetry is like listening to someone talk about a weird dream they had…or an acid trip they once took. Poetry is nothing more than shitty prose, chopped up into supposedly artistic bits with proper punctuation left out for added ‘meaning’. Of course I am probably the only one who thinks like this…

And finally there’s Bam Bam & Frankie over at ‘BamBamBam’ & ‘The Fifi Dangerfield Files’ …yes I know they are two people/two blogs but in reality they are now one. Siamese bloggers joined at the cyber-genitals, messing up the internet with their syrupy romance. I’m not really sure what I’d like these two love-vultures to resolve for NY ?? Certainly they were edgier when single and bitter…but even I wouldn’t be comfortable for their turgid affair to be butchered in the name of better blogging. So, perhaps the two of you could take your juvenile mutual desire for each other’s slippery bits somewhere else…like FB…and get back to your blogging roots…

And on that note…may I wish you all a Happy New Year and may you all get what you asked for in 2011…

seriously...what are the chances...

2010-10-12T18:04:00.000-07:00

They say that there is someone out there for everybody !!!
They, of course, are full of shit. These are the same ‘they’ who tell losers it’s lucky when a bird takes a crap on them. It’s just not true.
There may in fact be more than one person for some people…but unless you’re the sort of cabbage who believes in the magical healing power of rainbows, it’s time to admit that for other people there just might not be anyone.
I figure it’s a numbers game mostly.
BFNs !!! The ‘B’ stands for big, the ‘N’ stands for numbers…I’ll let you fuckers work out what the ‘F’ stands for.
Take me for instance; what are the chances that there’s someone out there for me ?? Slim, that’s what sort of chance there is…because as everyone knows I’m an asshole…and a very choosy one at that.
But let’s do the BFNs anyway, shall we ?? And let’s assume that for every disqualifying criterion we remove roughly (ROUGHLY ok) 50% of the available number of candidates according to the theory of normal distribution.
So, say there are 6 billion people on the planet; half of them are disqualified immediately for not being chicks, so that leaves 3 billion; still a pretty BFN.
Of course half those chicks are the wrong age, either too young and protected by the law or too old and protected by nature, so that leaves 1.5 billion.
Half of those are the wrong height, either potential draftees for the NBL or trolls that look like they’ve fallen off a key ring, so that leaves 750 million.
Half of those are the wrong weight, either skeleton-like bags of anorexic bones or binge-eating tubs of lard, so that leaves 400 million.
Half of those have heads like watermelons or faces that are interchangeable with their ass, so that leaves 200 million.
Half of those are dumb cunts with the IQ of a pot-plant, so that leaves 100 million or so.
See, not such a BFN now is it…although it’s still not a bad number but we’ve only got through the shallower, physical requirements for my perfect partner.
Let’s look at some of the deeper qualities I’m after…
Half of those are either God-bothering hand-holders, tree-worshippers, fundamentalist suicide bombers or spend every Saturday night on the roof of their Doomsday Church waiting for a spaceship to collect them, so that leaves 50 million.
Don’t like ‘Seinfeld’…25 million.
Hold their cutlery like baboons…15 million.
Can’t drive a manual car or reverse park…8 million.
Are Holocaust-deniers…4 million.
Eat vegetarian…2 million.
Call partner by a baby name in public …1 million.
Take forever to get to the point in a conversation …500,000.
Believe in astrology…250,000.
Follow celebrity news…125,000.
Overlap plates in the dishwasher…60,000.
Constantly ask how they look…30,000.
Pack too many clothes on a trip …15,000.
Allergic to cats…8,000.
Listen to loud music first thing in the morning …4000.
Laugh at their own jokes when they aren’t that funny…2000.
Like to do Yum-cha on Sundays …1000.
Use baby talk during sex…500
Mess up the car radio stations…250.
Turn into quadriplegics when they get sick…125
Leave wet towels on the bed…60.
Over-zealous light turner-offerers…30.
Spread out like a starfish in bed…15.
Brush teeth in lounge room while trying to talk about their day at work…8.
Read self-help books…4.
Spells ‘definitely’ as ‘definately’…2.
Like to interpret dreams…1.

See, we’re down to 1 person already and she has to actually like me…

you know...maybe man didn't land on the moon either...

2010-08-24T18:42:00.000-07:00

Gosh it's been great having the world's hottest blogger back again and commenting on TWG. The one and only 'Steph' of 'Much Ado About Something', the smokingest blonde ever in the entire history of blogging in this country. My goodness she was hot; and not just her either...who can forget the equally stunning but darkly evil side-kick Kylie
They were the salt and pepper goddesses of the interwebs.

OK, so the posts were hardly Ayn Rand...and the stories weren't exactly the adventures of Marco Polo or Aladdin...but who cared ?? Just the thought of these two scorching hornbags tearing around Sydney with their ultra-fabulous friends was enough to have us all wishing we could be them for a day.
And what a tease 'Steph' was too...she'd spice up her posts with a few photos...always careful to blackout the eyes or cut off the heads to protect her privacy and the privacy of her uberhot friends; or as she called them The Supertards.
I always felt sorry for the average 'MAAS' reader because they never got to see the real 'Steph', covered as she was in her giant sunnies, or eyes blacked out...coz boy oh boy was she ever ridiculously good-looking. Luckily, I had become very close friends with her off-blog. We e-mailed regularly...and sometimes, when I'd go in to bat for her on her blog after a hater had taken a cheap shot, she'd blubber her thanks in private and reward me with an uncensored photo of her...or her and Kylie...which I would instantly print out and paper my entire bedroom wall with
Anyway, I think enough time has passed since 'MAAS' went extinct...and I know many of you were huge, huge fans of 'Steph'...so I have decided to release my private collection of photos for your masturbatory pleasure...

Here's one of my favourites. Classic 'Steph' really...and look she's even giving me 'the finger'...coz you know...I'm Fingers.

Or what about this one ?? Brunette 'Steph' with her adorable little doggie 'Lulubelle'...proving that she didn't always have to be blonde to look gorgeous.

And here they are together again. The Captain and Vice-Captain of the All Star Supertards; OMG who wouldn't want to slather themselves in peanut butter oil and slide up and down bewteen these two mega-foxes ??

Let me save you the trouble of fantasizing about that; here's what it actually looks like to get down and dirty with 'Steph' and her A-list party-stoppers. I think this was taken at 'Steph's' last birthday...a champagne-fuelled pillow-wrestle at some top secret nightclub that we mortals can only dream about.

So, hands up everyone who thinks these photos are the nicest present I've ever given my readers here on TWG ?? Hmmm...just counting those hands...that's ONE...thanks Memphis Steve.
Now, hands up those who think I've committed an act of unspeakable cuntery and violated the trust of one of blogging's 'Untouchables'. Hmmm...OK that's a lot of hands. In fact I'd say everyone has their hand up except Memphis Steve.
No, wait...he's got his hand up too; nothing like having an each way bet when it comes to not pissing 'Steph' off.

OK, let's cut to the chase here, shall we.
Firstly, at the conclusion of this post I will be flying off to Stockholm to accept the Nobel Prize for Stupidity.
Secondly, if anyone knows where Memphis Steve actually lives, could you please go round there and hide all the rope, remove all the knives, unplug the toaster and stay with him for a while.
And lastly, I'd like everyone to take a peek at this link; this one here...
http://www.flickr.com/photos/staci_e_cole/

Recognize anyone you know ??
Hey look, it's 'Steph'...
There's blonde 'Steph' and brunette 'Steph'...'Steph' and her Mum...'Steph' and the luckiest dolphin in the whole wide world...they're all there; it's basically a 'Steph Wonderworld'.

Check out page 2...why it's 'Steph and Kylie'...frolicking at the beach party...glamming it up at the local club...and everyone's all-time fave 'Nurse Steph and Nurse Kylie'...

OK, who's got a really big case of the 'what the fucks' ??

Try page 3 then...

Ooooooooh, it's 'Bollinger Steph' and 'Kristal Kylie' chugging bottles of French champagne on their PR salaries as though the world could end at any moment.

OK, anyone whose penny still hasn't dropped...I want you to go and Google 'Staci Cole' !!!

I'll wait here while you do it...

Now...say it with me...OMG...ZOMG...ZOMFG...

More to come on this breaking news story...oh and seriously can someone please go round and check on Memphis for me...

for my mate, bammers...

2010-07-29T21:54:00.001-07:00

A close friend of mine is currently going through a painful separation with his wife of seventeen years. The specific details are not important; suffice to say there is the usual supply of pain, suffering, guilt, regret, denial and anger on both sides.
What’s slightly different about this situation is that I’m seeing it played out for the first time in an arena which includes the social media network.
Facebook !!!
A separation is often similar to the wedding for many guests; friends of the bride on one side…friends of the groom on the other. You pretty much get the same seat for both events unless you’ve managed to cross the floor in the meantime.
Female friends of the groom often cross the floor simply due to the irresistible force of Gender Gravity or an acutely overdeveloped Sense of Sisterhood…whilst female friends of the bride only ever cross the floor when they find out she’s been sleeping with their husbands or boyfriends.
Male friends of the groom almost never cross the floor because they are loyal and true to the bitter end…and it provides excellent camouflage in case they want to take a shot at the outgoing wife somewhere down the track…whilst female friends of the groom have almost no reason to cross the floor other than just to hang out with all the girls and talk shit.
On ‘Facebook’, you indicate your intention towards either camp by using the friend/de-friend button, which because of the accompanying changes to your privacy/privilege settings, necessarily gives you a very different view of the action afterwards, once the post-matrimonial fur starts to fly.
Of course some guests remain loyal to both camps…which is terribly admirable and non-judgmental of them…and for which they are duly rewarded by being branded a spy in the event of any leaks between the camps.
But enough of the cyber-politics associated with divorce-watching…the real point of this post is to solidify the combined wisdom, advice and messages of support that one sees on a ‘Facebook’ separation thread into one universally idiomatic masterpiece.

And the truth is that life goes on…despite apparently being too short for some but long enough for others…to heal all wounds and regrets…although you should never really have them…and that as long as you move on…and keep moving…whilst at the same time remembering to stand tall with your head held high and your chin up…that some doors will close and others will open…proving you can never really know what’s just around the corner…although you can always be sure the sun will continue to shine…because tomorrow is another day…and there are plenty of other fish in the sea…

the world cup...and its world saucer...

2010-06-06T21:13:00.000-07:00

Unless you follow soccer, which I most decidedly DON’T, the make-up of the eight four-team groups in the upcoming World Cup is a bit of a mystery…and to be honest I’m happy for it to remain so.
But as this gigantically boring snooze-fest draws closer, one of the questions you hear asked most often is ‘Hey which teams are in our group ??’
So, on your behalf I’ve written to FIFA and asked them to re-assign the thirty-two combatants in this year’s competition, combine them in groups that make logical sense and give them names that are easy to remember.

Here are the new official groupings:

Group 1: The WW2 Reunion Party… England, Germany, United States, Japan.
Group 2: The European Economic Bailout Brigade… Greece, Italy, Spain, Portugal.
Group 3: The Worthless Sovereign Bond Society… Argentina, Paraguay, Brazil, Chile.
Group 4: The World Vision Project… Nigeria, Ghana, Cameroon, Ivory Coast.
Group 5: The Drug Cartel… Mexico, Honduras, Uruguay, Netherlands.
Group 6: The Terrorist Cell… Algeria, Serbia, Slovenia, North Korea.
Group 7: The Utter Utter Cunts Club… Denmark, Switzerland, France, South Africa.
Group 8: The Punching Bags… South Korea, Australia, New Zealand, Slovakia.

i have a question for you all...

2010-06-01T18:06:00.000-07:00

Apologies for the non-blogging of late; no real excuses other than sheer laziness but since blogging isn't my job I don't really have to explain. Anyway, to tide you over until I resume writing, here's a little cut/paste job from a Facebook thread in which I got heavily invloved.
It took place on a friend's page after she updated the following thought: Georgia Lewis figures it's about time the world admitted that the formation of the state of Israel was a pretty bad idea...
Now, if you know me at all then you also know I have no religious inclination whatsoever; in fact I loathe religion, so any thoughts I have on this subject are not motivated by a hidden personal agenda. I simply detest fanaticism in all its forms.
So, have a little read...the comments are re-published unedited and in the actual order in which originally made. It's a little lengthy but I do owe you, so lap it up while you can. I do not know most of these people and they do not know me, other than Georgia Lewis. Most of them live in or around the UAE from what I gather although I neither know that for sure or care at all.
And then, without necessarily commenting on the rights or wrongs of the original discussion, I'd like you to answer the following question: Am I really a total cunt or just a naughty boy...

Georgia Lewis figures it's about time the world admitted that the formation of the state of Israel was a pretty bad idea...

Adele Schultz
Just reading what happened. At last Israel has shown it's true colours and the world (especially USA) can no longer turn a blind-eye!

David Fingret
excuse me...do you mean the actual formation or the location of the state of israel...

Georgia Lewis
The actual formation of the state of Israel after WWII, hence my use of the word "state". Pretty hard to change the location of sites that have been sacred to Jews, Muslms and Christians for centuries.

Keren Bobker
Don't agree that it was wrong, but handled badly. If you want to be pedantic Jews were in ME for some 5,000 years before Muslims existed.

David Fingret
you're an idiot...that's as stupid as suggesting that if Richard the Lionheart and Phillip II had done their job properly and slaughtered every Muzzie on the planet when they had the chance that none of this would have happened...

Keren Bobker
I do wish people would separate Israel & Jews. The anti-semitism is appalling. The state of Israel does not represent all Jews, most of whom do not support many of the actions of Israel.

David Fingret
BTW...not you keren...for the record i was referring to georgia...

Georgia Lewis
True, it is important to note that there is a difference between being against the actions of the state of Israel and being an anti-semite, but thank you for calling me an idiot...

David Fingret
georgia, your original comment pertained to the creation of the state...a wholly humanitarian solution to the problem of what to do with millions of despised, displaced survivors of the holocaust...no one wanted them...certainly not those hypocritial c*nts in the UK...but sadly for the sake of expediency it was decided to create israel on a useless piece of Crown land which sadly had religious ties to a whole bunch of these savages...jews, christians and mozzies...THAT was the problem...location, location, location...

Georgia Lewis
The events in the last day or so are just the latest in a long, long line of atrocious acts by all sides which demonstrates that an alternative is needed.
A two-state solution perhaps? A new state with no official religion where Jews, Muslims, Christians and anyone else can live side by side? Moving the Jewish homeland to Utah? I'm not claiming to know the answer but I do think that the current situation is unsustainable.

Komal Patwari
Who's David Fingret, and why does he insist on referring to Muslims as a muzzie or mozzie? Since he's a friend of yours I'm inclined to think he probably isn't an inbred farmer from Iowa who plays banjo and probably doesn't even own a passport, but I am often proven wrong about these things.

Georgia Lewis
He is not an inbred farmer from Iowa and I have never seen him play the banjo but given that he gets upset when people level personal attacks at him in cyberspace but thinks nothing of insulting an entire religion and calling me an idiot, then I can see how you may have reached your rather amusing conclusion.

Dave Reeder
david, in fact uk-based zionists were pushing for the state from the end of the 19th century, which led to the 1917 balfour declaration which, simply, stated that the government "viewed with favour the establishment in Palestine of a national home for the Jewish people" after which it was a done deal. the shaoh merely made it more urgent and the stern-irgun terrorist attacks on the occupying british army after ww2 made us cut and run, leaving the palestinians without sufficient protection.

David Fingret
oh yes...of course...'a two state solution with no official religion where Jews, Muslims, Christians and anyone else can live side by side'...how utterly dreamy...we could put it next to Wonderland, the magical country where Serbs and Croats hold hands and sing songs...or The Happy Kingdom, where the Hutu and the Tutsis run free side by side...forget Utah...i think the state you're imagining is Kansas, Dorothy...

Komal Patwari
Georgia: he sounds like an all-round delight, I'd love to meet him. He must have many friends and live a full, engaging life.

Georgia Lewis
Komal, would you believe he is single? Such a shame you're newly married, it could have been a beautiful thing...

Komal Patwari
Him, single? Surely the two do not belong in the same sentence. It would have started out a beautiful thing I'm sure but would have ended in tragedy when I ate him for breakfast the following morning.

David Fingret
yes komal, just as i don't automatically assume you work as a ticket-collector for british rail or manage a 7/11, you pompous ass...

Komal Patwari
Charming and eloquent - how do the ladies stay away?

David Fingret
dave, acceding to the demands of those loony Zionists was never the answer either...dropping a jewish state into an area where they would be surrounded on three sides by their sworn enemies and on the fourth by water was an insane idea...but the UK saw a wonderful opportunity to give those maniacs what they wanted and find a use for a crappy piece of land they couldn't occupy commercially anyway...so they happily gave the stinking piece of desert to the zionists then even more happily turned their backs on the palestinians when the zionists cut loose...a marvelous piece of handwashing...

Komal Patwari
Which is something the British were very good at (when they ran the empire anyway) - this is not so dissimilar to their approach to the India / Pakistan divide - at the end of it all they drew a horrifyingly flawed border across a map of erstwhile India and set sail with the Kohinoor and an arguably unquantifiable amount of loot while leaving India and Pakistan to deal with the mess.

David Fingret
well, well...there's hope for you yet, Komal...but if you believe that then apart from some colourful nicknames i might have used, what's your beef with my argument...

David Fingret
sadly georgia there is no hope for you...unless one day you are granted your own state where you can rule supreme as lord of your own tribe of idiots...

Komal Patwari
The Indian royals held their own in the idiocy stakes, mind - and given the levels of utter lunacy with which they ruled their states and warred with each other, you could almost argue that they deserved to be conquered. Sadly it has always been the common people that have suffered, a fact especially pertinent to Isralis and Palestinians today. David your colourful nicknames are my only beef with your argument.

David Fingret
must...resist...potentially...funniest...and...most...offensive...exit...line...evah...

Robert Evans
Georgia, what nationality is Mr Fingret, I'm just curious due to one comment he made...

Georgia Lewis
He is Australian...

Irina Ionascu
Oh Georgia, you know how to set some people on fire... :)! Love it! This was almost like watching an episode of Come dine with me :). You rule!

Robert Evans
Ah, ok... Well, not to tar you all with the same brush, as I certainly wouldn't wanna be lumped in with all my compatriots, past & present, and forgive my slightly kneejerk nationalism, but I don't think we're the only 'hypocritical cunts' (note to ed, if you're gonna use it, spell it out mate) out there... seem to remember something about some ethnic dispossessed group or another in Oz down through the years... You must be do proud... Anyway, that's me done & out...

Ramesh Moorjani
In 2006, two U.S. professors John Mearsheimer of Chicago University and Stephen Walt of Harvard University wrote a thesis giving valid reasons that the U.S. unconditional backing of Israel was harming the U.S. in many ways.
They were immediately pounced upon and abused and labeled anti semitic etc. Fox News along with all republican and a few ... See Moredemocratic politicians went against them too.
AIPAC or the American Israel Public Affairs Committee is very strong financially and they lobby extensively for Israel.
Even with Obama as the president, nothing is going to happen.
America will use its veto power again and again. Israel will get away with murder again. No one has the balls to tackle them head on. The capital city of the U.S. is Tel Aviv. Israel doesn't seem to understand that the only way forward is to give something to achieve something.

David Fingret
er bob...may i call you bob...we're a bit egalitarian like that down here...not to rain on your brilliant stereotyping parade but in private FB chat this arvo (that's aussie for afternoon) i did broach the subject of the stolen generation with georgia...and i recognize the nonsensical analogy you seem to be mistaking for meaningful irony...however...and correct me if i'm wrong.. the gist of your comment seems to be 'oh yeah well so are you'...

David Fingret
meanwhile i do like irina's suggestion...setting people on fire...what a wonderfully Indian solution to the problem...yeah c'mon komal let's rumble some more...:)

Georgia Lewis
Really? All Indians are hell-bent on burning people??? And what is with the smiley at the end? Either express yourself properly with words or be quiet.

David Fingret
well georgia, since i'm not a character in south park and can't get away with saying that just for a laugh...i used the dreaded emoticon to downgrade the comment from deeply offensive to just pretty offensive...i only wish there was an emoticon capable of expressing my feelings towards you right now...

Georgia Lewis
Except that with or without the emoticon it is still about as hilarious as dead babies (of any nationality or religion...).

Gary Scott
lol Georgia

David Fingret
hey georgia...since your the expert on FB/SMS etiquette...what's worse...emoticons or grown men using 'lol'...

Georgia Lewis
Emoticons. And grown men calling Muslims "muzzies" and making unfunny gags about burning Indians is up there on the scale of shittiness.

Susan Macaulay
Georgia, I SO love your catalytic comments and lively salon guests, particularly Mr. Fingret who adds such zest to the interchanges in which he chooses to engage. Such a, how shall i say it, genteel conversationalist...

Christopher Saul
I think this must be the most historically ill-informed Facebook thread ever.

Gary Scott
Seriously, lol has to be worse than any crime mentioned here.

David Fingret
spot on ramesh...wow TWO university professors wrote a valid thesis condemning the US tacit support for Israel...well that pretty much settles it then, eh...the objections of Fox, the entire republican party and a few corrupt democrats notwithstanding...let's see you also made the diabolically clever observation about the israeli/jewish/money/power connection and shown wonderful insight in declaring tel aviv the capital of the US...nothing wrong with your well-constructed and impartial view...

David Fingret
well georgia...since acronyms speak louder than emoticons...here's one for you...IDGAS...want a clue...the first four words are 'i don't give a...'...

David Fingret
susan...if there's anything more distasteful than calling me a jew it's calling me a genteel...that's pretty racist, dude...

Georgia Lewis
Call me crazy (FIngret, I'm sure you will, I'm already an idiot apparently...), but I'm more inclined to take seriously the work of two university professors than anyone on Fox News.

David Fingret
chris...well that's what you get when you log into FB to study history...try going to uni next time...you cabbage...

Georgia Lewis
Ladies and gents, we are witnessing the world's first ever descent into madness live on Facebook.

David Fingret
not at all georgia...there's nothing crazy about being inclined to take two university professor's work seriously...unless of course YOU HAVEN'T FUCKING READ IT...hmmm...stephen walt...using ramesh's uncanny ability to connect convenient dots...i'd say he changed his name to honour walt disney...the well-known anti-semite theme park mogul...i'd be betting good money professor walt is secretly funded by the PLO...

Iain Akerman
Fingret... if you'd ever been to Palestine, you'd know that it is not a "crappy piece of land". It is beautiful. The level of ignorance here is quite astonishing...

Adele Schultz
David, do you need a hug? Seems like you lack attention in your life and now you have to get it by winding everybody on Georgia's wall up. Isn't there anybody in your life who you can go annoy rather than pollute our eyes? Oh, don't even try winding me up cause I aint going to respond to your adolecent need for attention.

David Fingret
akerman...if you've been to palestine then you're a fucking wizard because there is no such country mate...it's a region which now contains modern day Israel and Jordan amongst other actual countries...and from what i've read of it they didn't grow too many oranges there successfully prior to 1948...it was ostensibly a desert, asshole...interestingly though the arabic word for palestine is philistine...coinkydink ?? i don't think so...

Georgia Lewis
Some say Palestine is not a country, others say Israel is not a country... In any case, Iain is not an arsehole (can't do the American spelling, it hurts my eyes) and the beauty of a place is not dependent on how many oranges grow there.

Iain Akerman
I didn't say it was a country... maybe if you could read then you could learn something. And Palestinians grow olives. And I'd advise against you calling people you don't know assholes...

Georgia Lewis
He won't take advice, he is always right and everyone else is a cabbage, an arsehole, an idiot, a pompous ass... Surely it is feeding time at his nursing home soon.

David Fingret
oh adele...did you think i'd left you out by accident...not at all baby...your first comment was so vile and ill-considered i chose to pretend i hadn't seen it...people like you make me a little sick...

David Fingret
gosh sorry akerman...i wrongly assumed that your reference to the astonishing level of ignorance in here was aimed at me...or maybe it was but you were using it in the positive sense of the phrase...as in 'he's so astonishingly ignorant i'm starting to wish i was him'...i may not know you individually but i'm well familiar with your phylum...asshole...

Iain Akerman
Fingret... would love to meet you if you ever make it to Dubai. Maybe Georgia can arrange something. Then we'll see how you fare in a face-to-face confrontation. This is a gauntlet, not an excuse for more cowardly bile

Georgia Lewis
Fingret, are there any opinions on the Arab-Israeli conflict that you wish to share in a constructive manner? I know you do not agree with any sort of violence by either Israelis or Palestinians but right about now, no matter how tongue-in-cheek you think you're being, you're coming across as an unpleasant dick.
That's the problem with arguing online. You've got to be a damn good writer for people to realise when you are taking the piss and when you're being deadly serious.

David Fingret
akers...see that's the difference...i have no desire whatsoever to meet you...not for a chat...not for a drink...and not to take up your miserable gauntlet...i was right about the phylum too...you just proved that, asshole...

Keren Bobker
Having read numerous of his little diatribes I am firmly of the belief that this David Fingret is a 'comedy' character. No one can hate everyone and everything that much and not combust.

Iain Akerman
what a miserable coward you are...

David Fingret
oh and georgia...one last comment...doing a little expat stint in the UAE doesn't make you henry kissinger's love child...and writing car reviews doesn't make you joseph heller either...in the immortal words of the sagely adele...tonight you have shown me your true colours

Georgia Lewis
Joseph Heller? Catch 22 versus my groundbreaking piece the other week on the Abu Dhabi Bentley workshop?
Shakes head, reaffirms her belief that the truth is stranger than fiction, gets on with her day...

Adele Schultz
Last comment? YAY, at last! Now best you go wash your dirty mouth out with soap and maybe enroll into a course of anger management... ciao ciao

David Fingret
um adele..i thought you weren't going to respond to my adolescent need for attention...then again i did say that was going to be my last comment...gosh we're both so pathetically weak in our resolve...

Ramesh Moorjani
David, i finally read your sarcastic comments. Frankly, don't think you have too much knowledge of U.S. politics but you pretend to know.
If the U.S. has vetoed over 32 or more U.N. resolutions against Israel, what would you call that ?
Just for the record, i am not Muslim nor Christian so my position is not biased towards any one side.
And may i request you to keep a more civil discourse. That way, everyone will enjoy a healthy conversation, even though your knowledge sucks!

David Fingret
oh crap...i've been over at FB's wailing wall hassling the rabid zionists a bit and they don't like me either...now ramesh, glad you brought up the UN...this is the same august body that has presided over atrocities such as Bosnia and Rwanda, China's treatment of Tibet, Japanese whaling...etc etc etc...the same forum that allowed that PLO madman Yasser Arafat to address it while bearing sidearms in 1974 so he could unleash his slobbering fulminations against Israel...the same chamber that tacitly accepts Ahmadinejad's representative's disgusting calls for the extermination of Israel and Jews in general...please mate, i have less respect for the UN than i have for you...and i'm not the slightest bit interested in its resolution record or the number of US vetos...the whole process is a farcically political balancing act...so in response to your request that i keep a more civil discourse i shall treat you like the UN and ignore you...consider yourself vetoed...

David Fingret
now akers...i've been giving you some serious thought and here's how i see it...we don't know each other and yet we are now sworn enemies...your idea of resolving the conflict is for me to come to Dubai and let you tear my head off which from the looks of your photo and the 20year/20kg advantage you have over me, would be a distinct possibility…however the tyranny of distance combined with social convention means that you probably won't ever get that opportunity...so i get to sit here and snipe away while you get madder and madder...which i guess sorta makes you Israel and me Palestine (Hamas specifically)...how do you like that for an ironic stack of kebabs...i'm betting you wouldn't let Israel and Palestine sort their differences out in the same manner would you...because that probably wouldn't go too well for those peaceful olive farmers at all, would it...you silly ginger baboon...

of course it wasn't all bad...

2010-04-27T18:17:00.000-07:00

Now, before you all jump to the conclusion that my marriage to Lady Fingers (LF) was one long, urine-soaked orgy of discontent, I’d like to introduce some balance into the equation by way of a little story about our sex-life.

Soon after I got my first digital video camera I was overcome with a terrible urge to make home- porn!
Having already cut my directorial teeth on the mandatory beginner films, which consisted mostly of interviews with LF, during which I asked penetrating questions such as, ‘So do you have any idea where flies go when it’s raining ?’, while she screamed, ‘Take that fucking camera out of my face !!!’, I then completed a series of fascinating documentaries about our apartment before finally committing the ultimate cinematic indignity and filming our dog licking its own ass.
With no other compelling screenplays on my drawing board, it was an easy leap into the world of Indie Porn.
Deep down I really believe most guys want to try making their own blue movie because let’s face it; we’re clueless dirt bags. I believe that the average male will try to find porn within twelve minutes of logging onto the internet for the first time: though my research is predicated entirely on personal experience.
For most men it’s natural to watch it, so why not try and make it?
And I’m not talking about a grubby, unauthorized peepshow; luring your unsuspecting partner into the bedroom and secretly taping her undressing or performing a series of gymnastically improbable acts, oblivious to the camera whirring unseen in the closet. And certainly not one of those graphically medical, up close and personal ‘twiddle-the-diddle’ clips filmed with vadge-cam and incorporating surround-sound squelching noises.
I’m talking about something artistic; and for mine there’s nothing that showcases that artistry more than a nice, long, slow blowjob. Plus, it’s just about the most thoughtful thing a chick can do for her man! So, I mentioned this to my wife, who enthusiastically (???) agreed to let me film her rendering unto Caesar the comfort of her lips. In truth, we both thought it might be a rather exciting experience; one that would enhance our sex life immeasurably (er...not that it needed it).
So, after some hasty brainstorming with regard to set-location we chose a classic scenario; I would be seated on a chair and she would assume the position on her knees in front of me. We opted for a side-on camera angle, rather than the trendy point-of-view (POV) routine. I knew POV was a trap for young players; you never, ever, ever use POV unless you're hung like a moose. POV fore-shortens things terribly through the lens; the side angle is much kinder. It's why the guy peeing next to you always seems to have a bigger dick than yours. YEAH IT’S TRUE !!! I mean I can accept that some guys have a bigger dick than I do…BUT NOT EVERY FUCKING ONE OF THEM.
Anyway, I set the recording equipment on a tripod, optimized the lighting conditions, grabbed the remote control and took my seat in the director/star’s chair. LF took up her position on the floor, some preliminary adjustments were made to ensure ‘Mr Wibbly-Wobbly’ was looking his finest and the action began…
I won’t go into details regarding the actual length of the scene; suffice to say that duration was the least of my eventual worries. Throughout the entire performance I felt I was managing admirably, whilst LF ran expertly through her extensive oral repertoire with the sort of uninhibited grace I’d come to expect over the years. The finale was predictably spectacular as far as I was concerned; the usual panoply of epileptic spasms and ‘come-face’ grimaces from me, (which incidentally look remarkably similar to my ‘rubber-spider-in-the-lunchbox-face’ grimaces) and some dreamy licking of the lips from her. We could barely contain our mutual excitement at such a great ‘take’ and hurriedly raced over to the camera, hooked it up to the PC and downloaded our first-ever home-porn-movie…
Now, ever the realist I knew in my heart that I wasn’t a genuine porn star but unfortunately, like most young men I’d been brought up on a steady diet of professional work; you know the stuff I’m talking about…

The girl, suitably sweet-looking with just a hint of naughtiness, suddenly dislocates her jaw like a reticulated python preparing to swallow a giraffe whole and clamps her lips around her partner’s dick; a preposterously monumental example of penile super-abundance, seamlessly and somehow impossibly grafted onto the body of a normal male. This is followed by the obligatory bulging of the eyes, the puffing of the cheeks, whereupon the girl commences the act in earnest, a look of sheer terror gradually replaced by one of pure contentment. This is accompanied by an exaggerated, trombone-playing-like flailing of both hands, much lizardly tongue action and the depositing of several litres of saliva in the crotch region, before the salami-sized appendage is magically removed just in time to erupt all over the happy girl’s face.

Well, I wasn’t expecting to see anything on that grand a scale, but neither was I prepared for what unfolded on the screen before me.
There was my wife and there was I…in all our glory, re-enacting what I can only describe as the bit in the pre-flight safety demonstration where the hostess shows you how to manually inflate a life-jacket by blowing through the little valve. She was playing the hostess and I was playing the safety-jacket…

a golden (shower) oldie...but a goodie...

2010-04-20T17:06:00.000-07:00

Apologies for the re-hashed post here...but some people haven't read it...and it needed updating and including in this important body of work...so bite me...

Now, while we’re at it, I may as well get all the urinary skeletons out of the water-closet…
My wife, whom I shall call ‘Lady Fingers’ (LF) and I preferred to sleep in our birthday suits.
Just as in our waking lives, for the majority of the night I was restless, disturbed and burned like the coals in a furnace; she was for the most part motionless, content and colder than polar bear shit. And by cold I don’t mean her general demeanor; she had poor circulation and a core body-temperature of about 75 degrees Fahrenheit. One of her favourite nocturnal moves was to plunge an icy hand between my thighs to warm it up, which for a sleeping man, generates a surprise-coefficient similar to that of having your prostate examined with a Popsicle.
Also, a few months into our marriage, LF developed a habit of going to the toilet for a tinkle in the middle of the night. A quick 4am pit-stop, no flushing (in consideration of my light sleeping habits no doubt) after which she would return to the bed, apparently un-wiped, throw a leg over my thigh and re-attach herself to my body like a heat-seeking oyster. At first I thought it was cute; the tiny wet spot created during the docking manoeuvre didn’t bother me. After all, what’s a little bit of wee between friends…
Then it happened again.
And again.
And again and again and again…
Finally I’d had enough; after yet another dabbing I casually inquired, ‘Is there any fucking danger of wiping your cunt, you filthy animal ??’
LF looked at me a little stunned, eyes defocused, claiming ‘There was no toilet paper.’
‘What the fuck are you talking about; there are mountains of the stuff in there.’
‘Well I didn’t see any.’
At this point I should mention that we had two toilets. One was in the main bathroom down the hallway and the other, substantially smaller was situated just off our bedroom; a 1.5-metre by 1-metre micro-bathroom with just a toilet and micro-basin inside.
The next night, as had become her wont, LF rose from the bed at precisely 4 am, waking me in the process and trotted off to do her thing. That afternoon, I’d purchased six-dozen rolls of toilet paper, half of which I’d stacked along one wall of the micro-bathroom, the other half of which I’d placed in the bathtub next to the toilet in the main bathroom.
Meanwhile, I sat in bed and waited for LF’s return, mentally daring her to come back with a set of wet beef-curtains and drape them across my thigh. After ten minutes there was still no sign of her…
Now feeling like a wee myself, I slid out of bed and headed off down the hallway to the micro-bathroom, which I found to be unoccupied. On completion of my urinal duties, I decided to visit the main bathroom and see whether LF was alright. Amazingly, she wasn’t in there either; the rest of the apartment appeared to be in darkness too.
Puzzled, I went into the lounge room; more darkness.
It was then I noticed a faint glow coming from the kitchen…
Figuring LF was making herself a something to drink and feeling like a bit of a snack myself, I crossed the lounge-room floor and entered the kitchen, where to my utter disbelief I found my wife having a pee in the fridge. There before me was the love of my life, stark naked, semi-squatting, her gorgeous ass thrust through the wide-open fridge door…taking a piss on the vegetable draws.
‘What the fuck are you doing, darling ??’ I asked…more than a little shocked.
‘What does it look like ??’ she replied, completely unfazed.
‘It looks like you’re pissing in the fridge,’ I continued, trying to remain calm.
‘There’s no toilet paper again,’ she informed me, glassy-eyed, unmoved.
‘I see…I’ll just go and get some then.’
‘Thanks…and can you please NOT close the door.’
‘What door…there is no door on the kitchen, darling.’
‘Well just don’t close it or the light will go off.’
‘OK, I’ll just get you that toilet paper now.’
‘Thank you’…
At this point three things became clear: firstly my wife was apparently a sleep-walker, secondly the slightly discoloured liquid I had been removing from the drip-tray under the vegetable drawers with a ‘Wettex’ for the past two weeks was not quite as harmless as I’d previously thought and lastly…I was not going to make myself a salad sandwich that evening.
I’ve always wanted to get this story off my chest; if only to provide an answer to the age-old question, ‘Fingers…why is there toilet paper next to the milk on your fridge door’…

you won't see this in the ads...

2010-04-12T00:04:00.000-07:00

Now, as to the straw that broke our marital camel’s back and led us to this point…
Sadly, the bed-action was a major concern in more ways than one; I could deal with the sex drought we had been experiencing…even though it was threatening to become full-blown climate change.
Ironically it was the increasingly regular Great Floods that threatened to tear us apart; my wife used to pee in the bed…
Specifically, she used to come home after a big night out, full of pills and vodka, then fall asleep and wet the bed. Now, I loved her dearly…and the bed-wetting was not intentional, nor symptomatic of any deep-rooted emotional condition. She just couldn’t control her bladder after a massive night out !!! At this stage I should point out that there are good wet-spots and bad wet-spots in bed. I don’t much like sleeping on either…but given the choice I would much rather lie in a small pool of my own jizz than a lake of someone else’s pee. I suspect most people other than Germans feel the same way.
My wife would fall into bed and literally pass out with a cocktail of date-rape ingredients steadily fermenting inside her, then some time in the middle of the night she would quietly evacuate her bladder.
I imagine that seen from overhead, without the blankets covering her, she must have looked like a little angel lying there so peacefully; like a Snow-Angel…except surrounded by a halo of her own urine. A Pee-Angel if you like. At some point, when her warm little halo cooled, she’d roll over seeking drier, warmer pastures…and I’d wake up with her clamped to my thigh like a limpet.
The next day she would dutifully scrub the mattress with disinfectant after which I would drag it out on to the balcony and let it dry. The Japanese building owners frowned on even leaving beach towels draped on the balconies, yet strangely the matter of our mattress being out there once a month didn’t seem to draw much attention.
Then one day whilst out shopping for groceries with my wife, I saw a potential solution to our problem; adult disposable nappies…oversized plastic diapers…’Huggies’ for Big People.
My wife totally embraced the idea of wearing one when she was off her face in bed, thought it was marvelous in fact and couldn’t wait to try one out. The problem was that what she agreed to when sober was one thing…getting her to put a nappy on when drunk and stoned was another proposition entirely.
Our first live test came a few days later, when my wife rang me at work to say she was going out with her girlfriends and that they would be clubbing and she would be home quite late. No problem…I encouraged her to go dancing with her friends…since it got me out of having to do it.
So that night I waited for my little Pee Angel to come home; I waited and waited and waited. Then at 1-00am I went to bed after first dead-locking the front door and taping her adult nappy to the exterior of it, along with a lovely note explaining what she needed to do before I let her in. There were only two units on each floor of the building and they were on opposite sides, so privacy was never going to be an issue.
At 4-00am my wife staggered home and woke me with her furious banging on the front door, so I got out of bed and went to greet her.
Looking through the spy-hole I could see she was still fully dressed and also utterly spannered, so I put on my best Little Red Riding Hood voice and asked ‘Who is it ??’
She answered in her best Linda Blair voice, ‘You fucking know damn well fucking who it fucking is so let me in you fucking cunt.’
‘Have you got your ‘Huggy’ on like we agreed ??’
‘No I don’t have my fucking ‘Huggy’ on and I’m not fucking putting it on you fucking cunt.’
‘Why not, baby ??’
‘Coz it’s fucking embarrassing and you fucking know it.’
‘No…embarrassing is hanging the mattress out to dry each month. This is what we agreed we’d try instead.’
‘You open this fucking door now you fucking cunt.’
‘Um…no.’
‘OK…I’ll put the fucking nappy on…there I’m putting it on…are you happy now you fucking asshole ??’
‘Darling I can see you through the peep-thingy…and you’re still fully dressed.’
‘Open this fucking door or I’ll kill you.’
‘Put your ‘Huggy’ on and you can come in.’
After about ten minutes of negotiations she took off her clothes and put her ‘Huggy’ on, leaving her club-wear in a pile outside the door. I then opened the front door and she steamed in…giving me the finger as she walked past then ripping off her nappy and throwing it to the floor as she strode down the hall and promptly fell into bed.
In less than a minute she was asleep, by which time I had collected her discarded clothing plus the unused ‘Huggy’ and joined her in the bedroom, where I lifted up her fabulous ass and lovingly put the nappy on as though she were a child; a fifty-two kilogram, unconscious child.
The next morning we awoke to find her ‘Huggy’ full but the mattress completely dry…
‘Oh Fingers this worked perfectly…I’m so glad I put my ‘Huggy’ on last night before I went to bed.’
‘Yes, baby…you were just adorable about it all…’

trials and tribulations...

2010-03-28T18:25:00.000-07:00

The upshot of the trial separation was that I was charged ‘in absentia’ with being the same complete cunt she suspected I was from the very beginning. I was vigorously prosecuted without ever being allowed to take the stand in my defence, found guilty by a judge/jury of one, summarily convicted…and subsequently sentenced to an indeterminate period of singleness. I was not even present when the sentence was carried out, though in all honesty, even had I known about the trial and its inevitable outcome, I doubt whether I’d have been able to mount much of an argument against the complaint anyway. I was a complete cunt; guilty as charged…no question of it.
From my perspective, while the secret trial was going on, I wouldn’t say things were any better or worse as such. We hadn’t had sex, either deliciously passionate with anger or even anaesthetically dull with duty for over a century, so sleeping in separate bedrooms was hardly going to make a difference. Absence and abstinence certainly did not appear to make our distant hearts grow fonder or our respective pink bits itchier. About the only lesson we learned from sleeping apart was that we definitely got a better night’s sleep. It turned out to be a case of he/she who sleeps alone may be alone…but at least they slept.
I was snoozing so well in fact, I’d already decided that at the conclusion of the trial separation, assuming things went smoothly and my wife stopped being insane, I would suggest either continuing to sleep in different bedrooms or at the very least get twin Queen-sized beds. That way we could have perfectly obligatory sex whenever one of us could be bothered going over to the other person’s bed then scuttle back to our own bed for a well-earned rest. I’d even promised myself I would go over to her bed for sex a lot more often than I would ask her to come to my bed for sex too, though of course any decision to visit my wife’s bed for carnal relations was based less on any notion of gentlemanly good-manners by committing to the extensive travel and more on the practical advantages of letting her sleep on the wet spot.
Hey, I said I was a complete cunt; didn’t you believe me?
Just why our sex life had withered on the marital vine so markedly has always been a matter of fierce academic debate. I claim that my wife’s horrendously complex and multi-layered issues of self-loathing, poor body-image and low self-esteem had created a metaphorical lasagne of neuroses through which it was impossible for me to cut. She would probably say I was a lazy asshole with a blunt, rusty knife; both arguments have equal merit.
Now, before I go on I’d just like to say that my wife was utterly gorgeous and I was physically attracted to her from the first moment I laid eyes on her. She was a clone of Sarah Jessica Parker, you know, Carrie from ‘Sex and the City’. And I mean the good Carrie too, the one with the lustrous straight hair and stylish shades, not the tired-looking hippy Carrie with the frizzy hair and windscreen-sized sunglasses. My wife had Carrie’s wonderfully expressive face, she had her fabulous toned legs, her sexily tapered waist and her overly generous breasts…she even had the long, aquiline nose.
When we went out in Tokyo where we lived for a time, schoolgirls would come up to us in the street and ask her excitedly for an autograph. They’d giggle hysterically while my wife signed their ‘Hello Kitty’ diaries, jabbering away in Japanese, oblivious to the fact I could understand what they were saying, most of which centred on how fabulous Carrie looked and how apparently disappointing Matthew Broderick (me) was in real life…

one down...four hundred and ninety-nine to go...

2010-03-23T21:05:00.000-07:00

It was perhaps a fitting, final tribute to the under whelming strength and passion of our dying marriage that it took almost nine days before I realised my wife HAD actually left me and moved out.

And I want you to remember this next snippet of information for the moment; she often came home drunk/drug-fucked at 4am, marching into the bedroom holding a garbage bin she’d found somewhere, on which she used to climb and stand unsteadily before yelling “I’m trashed” (which I actually used to think was awfully clever/cute) before falling asleep and wetting the bed (full story later). The reason I want you to remember this salient fact is because SHE LEFT ME !!! And with good reason too; which gives you a glimmer of insight into what sort of special cunt I am.
Now whilst I might not have been the most attentive partner/husband in the world, you’d think that her vanishing entirely without my noticing, the makeover equivalent of her shaving her head and my asking if she’d done something with her hair, showed either a total lack of interest or a total presence of indifference on my part…but to be fair there were excuses.
We had both apparently taken our marital vow to spend the rest of eternity boring each other senseless and systematically extracting the very life-marrow from each other’s being so seriously, that what should have taken fifty years of applied apathy and contemptible familiarity to accomplish…had in fact been done in a mere three-and-a-bit.
And I wish I could look back at the mangled wreckage and say that we just drifted apart, as often happens in marriage, but the fact is we were wrong for each other from the very beginning.
I still remember my wife’s first private spoken words; she poodled up to me at the pub after listening to a terribly clever argument I was having with the small crowd we were in…and when they had all left she leaned in and whispered, ‘You’re a complete cunt,’ after which we went home and fucked up a storm. Initially, the opposition created a delicious attraction, like two magnets obeying some bizarre law of electrosexual-magnetism. Then, not long after the thrill of angrily rubbing ourselves together in the mindless pursuit of orgasm subsided, we got our first reality check. We weren’t magnets…nor even ships eventually destined to pass in the night; I was ‘Titanic’…elegant, stately, and unsinkable…and she was the iceberg…cold, hard and immovable.
Well, not really…but I had fun writing the analogy so I'll go with it for the moment.
A more truthful version might be that from my point of view I was fun personified, a clown on nitrous…and she was the antidote. Of course my wife might remember it differently; however until she writes her own fucking book the world can just take my word for what happened.
You see we’d been having a trial separation for the previous three months, although we were still living under the same roof. She had moved out of the Master Fun Room into the guest bedroom and taken her belongings with.
Now, when I say trial separation, I assumed it was a trial in the sense of it being an experiment; as in a clinical trial where we would compare the respective quality of our lives with and without each other.
My wife on the other hand decided that it was a trial in the sense of it being a jurisprudential ambush; as in a legal trial where I would be accused of a litany of crimes against matrimony…

And for posterity...and perhaps entering in The Buller-Lytton Fiction Contest...

Unquestionably the key to our dramatic success in failing was the almost metronomic consistency with which we were diametrically opposed throughout the course of our relationship. Initially that opposition made for a veritable smorgasbord of personal attraction served with lashings of spirited debate and deliciously angry, passionate sex. I still remember my wife’s first private spoken words; she poodled up to me at the pub after listening to a terribly clever argument I was having with the small crowd we were in…and after they had all drifted away she leaned in and whispered, ‘You’re a complete cunt,’ after which we went home and fucked up a storm.
Of course some time later, upon discovering we were not in fact metal objects rubbing together violently in the mindless pursuit of achieving predestined orgasms in accordance with the immutable laws of electro-sexual-magnetism…but frail human beings looking for just the barest thread of mutual connection…the opposition began to cancel out the previous benefit of our respective personal polarities, so that when added together their sum was eventually zero.

2010-03-15T22:44:00.000-07:00

They say everyone has a book inside them; they’re wrong.
Well, maybe everyone does have a book inside them but that doesn’t mean it’s a good book. It’s just something they say; like telling someone who’s just had a bird shit on them that it’s a sign of great prosperity to come.
It’s not; it’s just bird shit.
It’s just what they say to cheer the person covered in bird shit up and prevent them from cutting their own fucking head off.
Anyway, I’ve decided to try and write the book inside me…right here…on TWG…five-hundred words at a time…post by excruciating post…and I’d like you all to critique it for me as I go because I want to know if I’m going to be prosperous or simply covered in my own bird shit, so be honest, forthright…and above all clever with your comments.
And I promise to reward the cleverest comments by plagiarizing them shamelessly, without any credit whatsoever and using them in the book…
Now, from an operational standpoint, the book is in no particular order…except for the words…and I’m not even guaranteeing that.
What this slavering pre(r)amble amounts to is a warning that should you choose to keep reading you’d be wise to bear the following in mind. Although this is not meant to be an historically accurate record of events, I certainly haven't just made it all up…just some; although I can’t remember which exactly.
This story is based on facts, just not the sort of facts you’d be inclined to swear to under oath in court. And the characters are very real, except that they don't actually exist.
Most of the scenarios which follow possess a reasonable probability of having occurred (well…greater than fifty percent...) however they may have been embellished slightly; purely for entertainment…mostly yours…but occasionally just for my own. As the idiom goes, I won’t let a few facts stand in the way of a good story!!
As for the cast of characters, few of them have ever really existed in the normal sense of the word. Many of the characters are an amalgamation of several other people I've met, rather than a complete person in their own right. I have several excellent reasons for using this mechanism, although I’m not particularly convinced about any of them.
Firstly, by practicing this form of human concision, the storyline will be simpler for you to follow; less convoluted, less strewn with unnecessary distractions such as names. By attributing a cluster of real-life personalities, traits and experiences to just one character, I should be able to shed some cumbersome structure from the plot, thereby making this book easier for you to read. Fuck-knows it will be easier for me to write, which is a reward in itself.
Secondly, I have it on good advice, that in the event of any legal action arising from the book, it will be much harder for potential plaintiffs to identify themselves accurately enough to prove a libel has taken place. Actually, it wasn’t so much good advice as it was free advice, from a lawyer friend of mine who specializes in personal injury claims against publicity-shy, multi-national, fast-food chains. Charming man; works out of his car most of the day and sleeps in it the rest of the time.
And lastly but by no means least, I've never actually had the good social fortune to meet anyone in real life whom I consider even remotely interesting enough to stand alone as a character in a book. And that most certainly includes me.
So there you have it. I've tried to be as truthful as possible concerning the pack of lies I'm about to tell you, so don't say you weren't warned.
Right, now that's all been cleared up, I can get back to my book…
Where was I? Oh yes...

in the beginning...

2010-02-21T20:30:00.000-08:00

Many people have asked how I got started blogging. Well, not that many...but a few. OK, no one has ever fucking asked me how I got started blogging...but I'm going to tell you anyway.
It began with a hastily-scribbled entry to a public forum called 'The Heckler' in 'The Sydney Morning Herald', which was both an online publication as well as a hard-copy newspaper. I submitted my piece to the relevant editor by e-mail...and promptly never heard from them again.
Then one morning about a month later I walked into the dealing room at work...and received a standing ovation from my fifty or so colleagues. When I asked what the applause was for they threw a copy of 'The SMH' at me and said, 'See for yourself.'
And there it was; my first published work...

July 23 2003
Pizza, alcohol and masturbation: it's all in the name of good health, argues Fingers.

Like many forty-two year-old Australian males, I worry about getting cancer. The reports are not encouraging; I'm a classic target for cancer of my colon, testicles, lungs, kidneys and many other assorted pink and grey bits. There are carcinogens everywhere I turn.
I'm reasonably familiar with the common, garden variety toxins such as Dihydroxyanthraquinone or Methylmethanesulfonate…and I do my best to avoid other sinister-looking, potentially dangerous, polysyllabic compounds whenever I can…but it's not easy. In many cases research results have been too late to help me. How could I know there was a possibility of contracting arsenic poisoning from walking on my outdoor-timber decking, or that tattooing my tax file number on my ass might cause leukemia?
From the beginning I harboured suspicions about the mystical microwave oven…and of course the mobile phone was always going to turn out too good to be true…but I never thought the blue ‘Smartie’ would become my silver bullet.
For years it's one bombshell after another for ‘carcinophobes’ like me. Sure there's been sporadic relief, such as the study which showed that red wine contained ‘resveratrol’, a cancer suppressant…but on the whole it's been one-way traffic. Now, in the space of a week, comes the news I've been waiting for all my life.
Firstly, a group of Australian researchers has asserted that the more men ejaculate between the ages of twenty and fifty, the less likely they are to develop prostate cancer later in life.
This is all quite thrilling, since the study specifically refers to ejaculation through masturbation rather than actual sex; something previous studies had even suggested could increase the risk of cancer.
Then before I could say ‘pass the moisturiser’ came news from Italy which revealed that eating pizza regularly could help stave off certain cancers of the stomach or digestive tract. The results of a study into Italian eating habits showed that people who ate pizza once or several times a week were less likely to get cancer than those who did not eat it at all.
Suddenly, the point of all those lonely Friday nights became clear. I had always felt a certain degree of shame going home, ordering my mushroom pizza, opening a nice bottle of Shiraz and consuming both before going on to, well, you know…
So imagine my elation in discovering that I have sub-consciously been engaging in some sort of anti-cancer-triathlon of self-abuse.
Perhaps I should be claiming a rebate from my private health insurer. If ‘NIB’ is happy to pay out for my Nike trainers…perhaps it would like to subsidise my DVD porno collection.
Should I be keeping the Dominos’ receipts?
Would Vintage Cellars be allowed to bulk-bill my monthly purchase of a case of reds?
Probably not, but it's a beautiful thought…

if the C-word offends you...you're probably a cunt...

2010-02-09T21:46:00.000-08:00

It recently occurred to me that these days the word ‘CUNT’ has lost much of its impact !!! There was a time when it was the King of Insults; chicks would fly into a rage at its mere utterance irrespective of whether it was used specifically in reference to them or not. Dropping the C-Bomb was a potential date-ender, a friendship-destroyer and a marriage-killer…it was once the most fearsome anti-chick weapon in the entire arsenal of verbal mass-destruction. For example…
‘You’re a pathetic fuck-head with a fat gut, bald head and a pencil dick !!!’
‘Oh yeah…well you’re a cunt.’
Game over.
‘Why do you have to be such a selfish asshole all the time ???’
‘Why are you such a cunt ???’
Tears.
‘Why can’t you be more of a man…like my father ???’
‘Why do you have to be a cunt all the time…like your mother.’
The end.
It was the equivalent of using a tactical nuke in a minor border-conflict, it had instant, devastating effect (and consequences); you knew you’d crossed the line just from the horrified look on the chick’s face.
I remember once calling my ex-wife a cunt in Tokyo; she was a bit PMS’d-up, yelling all sorts of vile things at me, throwing stuff around the apartment and threatening to call her Dad and tell him what I’d said.
‘Go ahead and call him, you cunt.’
She did…and she told him what I said…then she threw the phone at my head and said he wanted a word with me.
‘Fingers, why did you call my daughter a cunt ???’
‘Well Roger, it’s like this…yada yada yada…blah blah blah…this this this…that that that…it was either the C-word or a good hard slap across the face.’
‘I see. OK, put that little cunt back on the phone then…’

About thirty years ago, the first time I ever called my dear old Mum a cunt, she grabbed a wooden spoon, chased me round the house for twenty minutes before cornering me, whacking me over the head and throwing me out into the street for the night. Two weeks ago, after I told her I’d been fined for calling a cop something offensive she laughed and said, ‘You silly cunt.’

My oldest, dearest, most favourite blogger in the whole world, Kitty the sewer-mouthed whore-bag, probably out-scores me two-to-one in the CPP (cunts per post) stakes these days. Not to mention some of the delightful banter we’ve had privately on Facebook.
‘Cunty McFingers…you are the cuntiest cunting cunty cunt cunt in the whole world…in fact you are a Mastercunt.’

There was once a time when I knew that if I needed to speak to a senior person at the Commonwealth Bank, all I had to do was call the poor chick manning the phone-tree ‘a useless cunt’ and she’d be forced to refer the abuse to her superior. Now I get Christmas cards from them addressed to; ‘Fingers @ Unit 1, XX Cunt Point Rd, Cunt Point, 2027’…

once more into the breach...

2010-02-01T23:49:00.000-08:00

My old school Sydney Grammar, the most super-elite of all the Sydney GPS Silver Spoon Academies, has apparently entered a team in the 2010 GPS Geezer Olympics, a sporting competition for deluded fossils aged fifty and over as at the years end.
Our team will once again wage battle against our traditional foes; the moronic, slab-featured Press Buttons from Scots College, the agriculturally-inclined livestock-molesters from Kings, the pasty-faced preppies from Shore’s Wasp Nest, the Inner-West Scientologists from Newington’s First Evangelical Church of the Blessed Lord and All His Works, the twin God-fondling Evils from Riverview and St Joseph’s Colleges for Abused Choirboys…and the peasants from Sydney High.
Thirty years have passed since I last played GPS sport, a game of rugby if memory serves me correctly. I know we won, though the score escapes me…but my most vivid recollection of that day was the conversation I had with the St Joseph’s prop as I was preparing to feed the ball into the scrum…
Him: ‘What are you waiting for you skinny Jewish faggot ??’
Me: ‘I was just thinking about fucking your mother last night and how much her snatch reminded me of the drain in the changing room showers.’
The game was delayed five minutes while he chased me across three football fields before finally collapsing from exhaustion. Thank fuck !!!
Anyway, back to the present; it turns out my school needs me once more…they require me to swim the 50 meters freestyle race at The Games, an event for which I once held the school record in an imposing time of 26.8 seconds back in 1977.
You should have seen me then…seventeen years old, 52 kilograms, lean, mean and tanned…I would explode off the blocks as though shot from a canon, then streak through the water like a barracuda, taking just one breath around the 30 meter mark before reaching the end of the pool. I was a pure speed machine, capable of one stunningly quick lap of the pool…occasionally followed by an equally stunningly laborious second lap when I foolishly entered the 100 meters. I never broke one minute for that event…but over that 50 meter distance I was The King.
I gave up competitive swimming in 1978 to concentrate on my HSC, where I scored brilliantly, gaining the necessary marks for Law School and a degree, which I then discarded to prostitute myself in the money-market doing a job fit for a monkey. I’ve often wondered whether I did the right thing squandering the natural gift I had for breaking records in the pool, so this opportunity to don the Speedos one last time (not counting those times I’m draped like a louche over the rear lounge on the boat) may provide me with a shot at sporting redemption.
I was last clocked over the sprint distance, in 2005 at Club Med Bali, finishing utterly spannered in a leisurely 35 seconds. This got me into the final of the swimming event where I lined up against a crack field of German pedophiles…and a 150 kilogram Geoff Huegill, who looked like he’d eaten the Geoff Huegill that once held the world record for the 50 meters butterfly.
Drawing the outside lane, three away from Skippy Doughnut Features, I made a fast start before veering to the side of the pool, getting out and running the rest of the way before diving back into the pool at the other end. When Huegill came steaming into the wall and looked up I was already there, faux-heaving from the strenuous effort and waving triumphantly to the crowd…
He was shocked to say the least but came over to congratulate me like a true champion and listen to my astounding tale of this one-off piece of sporting freakery.
‘I don’t know, mate…perhaps the thrill of racing an Olympic champion inspired me to do this ??”
‘Er…I was never an Olympic champion…just a World Championship gold medalist.’
‘Oh yes…sorry mate…I forgot.’
It’s doubtful whether I’ve gotten any faster over the past five years and even more doubtful I’ll be able to pull that trick again at the GPS Geezer Olympics…so at this stage I suspect my only hope of saving face will be to fail the pre-games drug test…

don't be a quitter...

2009-12-15T19:55:00.000-08:00

Recently I have begun seeing this new chick; it doesn’t really matter who she is other than the fact she is new and I am sort of dating her.
Unsuccessfully…as usual.

On our first date, things were going smoothly enough and it was refreshing not to be embroiled in the sort of interview-type Q&A session that characterizes most first meetings. We talked of things rather than people, of issues instead of opinions and of ideas in place of feelings. Every so often, I would excuse myself from the table and go outside for a cigarette, returning to find her, as is often the case these days with chicks left unattended for more than two minutes, answering her SMS messages.
No big deal; good time management actually.
On my third such return, whilst tapping away at her little keypad and without taking her eyes off the IPhone screen, she offered the following advice: ‘Fingers, you really ought to think about giving up smoking.’
Naturally, considering how well the date was proceeding, I assumed she was negotiating the future terms of the party I could reasonably expect to have in her pants at some point, rather than just doling out trite medical warnings. That she was telling me I would shortly be fucking her six ways from Sunday as long as I didn’t smell like an ashtray, rather than hinting unsubtly at the damage I was doing to myself with this filthy habit. That she was suggesting my nicotine-free ferret was welcome to jump through her furry hoop anytime, rather than simply dispensing clichéd health tips.
Now, nothing much happened that evening, carnally speaking…however I did resolve to quit smoking before date number two in order to maximize the potential for a game of ‘Mr Wibbly-Wobbly Hides His Helmet’. This of course proved much harder to do than it was to consider doing, so instead I pretended to quit, washed my clothes thoroughly beforehand, swallowed fifty ‘Fisherman’s Friends’ and took no cigarettes with me the next time.
An hour into the date, which was going exceedingly well, I said, ‘So, have you noticed anything tonight ??’
‘I’ve noticed you haven’t had a cigarette yet,’ she replied.
‘That’s right…I was thinking about what you said last time and took your advice,’ I lied without adding, ‘Now, is there any danger of you living up to your end of the deal and smoking my bat ??’
‘That’s excellent…has it been hard giving up??’ she enthused.
’Not as difficult as I imagined it would be,’ I beamed, now extremely comfortable living the lie.
‘Are you using patches or pills ??’
‘No, just brute willpower.’
At this point in time I’d have gladly set fire to my pubes and inhaled the smoke just for a hit.
‘Do you feel any better for it ??’
‘No, I can honestly say I don’t feel any better,’ I answered, quite truthfully as it happens, since the health benefits of pretending to quit had not become apparent yet…

Of course she didn’t put out on the second date, so I feel rightfully vindicated in practicing the deception…and I feel no compunction whatsoever going on with the charade for date number three later this week. I’ve always said that smoking would be totally negotiable for the right chick but giving up the addiction of a lifetime for merely the promise of something which is bound to end in failure anyway…just doesn’t seem like a good risk/reward trade at this point…

the trailer and the tiger...

2009-11-29T19:21:00.000-08:00

Crime scenario 1: I am awoken at 9am on a Sunday by two police officers, a male and female from the local station who want to ask me a few questions…

Bloke Cop (BC): ‘Good morning, Sir…is that your boat and trailer outside on Cunt Point Road??’
Me (M): ‘I hope so. Why is there something wrong??’
Chick Cop (CC): ‘Can you please come up to the street and take a look at something??’
M: ‘What’s the problem ??’
CC: ‘Please accompany us to street level, Sir.’

The three of us proceed to Cunt Point Road, where the bloke cop points to my kerb-side trailer tires, both of which are flat as his partner’s chest…

BC: ‘Do you know anything about this, Sir??’
M: ‘I know the tires are flat…and it appears that the actual air-valves have been removed to make the job of re-inflating them a pain in the ass.’
BC: ‘Any idea how it might have happened??’
M: ‘Well the only thing I know for sure is that I didn’t do it myself.’
BC: ‘Are you saying that you believe someone else has done this??’
M: ‘Yes, Columbo…of course that’s what I’m saying.’
CC: ‘Do you have any idea who might want to do this??’
M: ‘Probably one of my fuck-head neighbors who thinks the boat is out of place on this street…or maybe a gang of tire-valve thieves is operating in the area. How the fuck should I know.’
CC: ‘No need to be a smart-ass, mate.’
M: ‘What?? Mate?? Did you just call me ‘mate’?? I’m not your mate…and you know full well what my name is…so either call me Mr Fingers or Sir.’

Since I can’t punch the chick cop’s head in, (mostly because it’s illegal but partially because she probably knows some evil chick cop karate and will put me in hospital), I walk up to the flat tires and kick them as hard as I can.

MC: ‘So, what do you intend doing about this??’
M: ‘About what…about fixing the tires…or solving the crime…or exacting bloody, murderous revenge on the neighbours??'
CC: ‘About fixing the tires.’
M: ‘Well, I thought I might re-inflate them at some stage.’
MC: ‘When??’
M: ‘When it’s convenient.’
CC: ‘No, you need to fix them now, Sir…you can’t leave the trailer in an un-roadworthy condition on the street.’
M: ‘Well I have things to do so it will have to wait until I have time to do it.’
CC: ‘Well don’t be surprised if you return to find the trailer has been booked.’
M: ‘Excuse me?? Listen, Miss Marple…in case you haven’t worked it out I am the victim here of a crime…not that I expect you to commit any of your revenue-raising resources to solving it…but I am still the victim here.’
CC: ‘Well we will be back in a few hours to see if the trailer has been fixed…otherwise we will have to issue a…’
M: ‘Are you some sort of complete cunt??'
CC: ‘I beg your pardon, Sir.’
M: ‘Don’t beg my pardon…you heard what I said…and your big, shiny badge doesn’t mean you have a big, shiny vadge in my book.’
MC: ‘Sir, there’s no need to use that sort of language in front of the lady Constable.’
M: ‘She’s a fucking Cunt-Stable alright…a whole stable of cunts…it’s 9am on a Sunday morning, my trailer has been vandalized and she’s giving me lip.'
MC: ‘Sir, I won’t tell you again about using that sort of language.’
M: ‘Oh go fuck yourself…what a pair of cunts you two are.’

Fast-forward two hours to Cunt Point Police Station, where I have been taken and charged with using offensive language, issued a fine and told I may appeal both in court should I choose to bother…

Crime Scenario 2: Tiger Woods apparently lies bruised in his bed, his wife having allegedly taken exception to the news he was cheating on her and expressed some feelings of her own on his head with his very own one-wood. Meanwhile his car is outside the house nestled against a tree, the windows smashed and another golf club lying nearby. The Florida Highway Patrol is at the entrance to the gated community where Tiger Woods lives, but investigators are told he is unavailable...please come back later…

i never thought i'd be reading this but...

2009-11-04T23:12:00.000-08:00

I don’t begrudge anyone a blog; I’m all for it…it’s everyone’s right to get a free page on the internet and fill it with whatever they desire…brilliant, good, bad, indifferent or just plain garbage.
Write whatever you want; it’s not compulsory that I read it.

And you know something…I don’t mind if you’re two-hundred kilograms overweight and want to blame your parents for it rather than eat less and exercise more.
I don’t mind if you’re fifty kilograms underweight and want to blame magazines and television for it rather than go and see a psychiatrist or a nutritionist or just plain stop being a nut.
I don’t mind if you married the wrong man at sixteen and want to blame the twelve children you bore him for having to stay married rather than take your chances out there on Struggle Street.
I don’t mind if your work colleagues hate you.
I don’t mind if you hate your neighbours.
I don’t mind if you’re broke or broken-hearted.
I want you to get it all out…like a Woody Allen movie…just get all that emotional crap off your plate and onto mine so I can feast on the excruciating minutiae of your suffering…
Just please don’t tell me about your sex lives…PLEASE.
Not the blowjobs you’ve given (especially you, Memphis), not the oral you’ve had, not the five-hour marathons that left your snatch looking like road-kill and certainly not your most recent experiences with bum-sex (that means you, Gaylord).
Over the years I’ve had to endure hundreds of posts like these…below are just a few…no names no pack drill…if you recognize your handiwork or mouth-work…or any other work…there’s no need to panic because I’m not going to ‘out’ you.
I just want to make a few observations…

Example 1: Fast forward to last night. Without using the entire strap-on (I just decided to introduce the rubber dong to X’s lovely ass. I first stroked his cock…just to tease him a little. Next, I lubed our new toy and X’s delicious ass and began to insert the toy very gently in and out. I kept the toy right there-in one spot for the time being. I told X to start stroking his cock.

Thanks very much. I was having my breakfast as I read your lovely post. There’s nothing like Vegemite toast and a cup of tea while I try not to imagine your partner being ass-raped with a rubber Maglite while abusing himself like a chimpanzee…

Example 2: He was still damp as he held my head and kissed me in his special and gentle way. In seconds his cock was rock hard as our kissing grew more urgent. I very gently stroked his knob over and over, running all five of my fingers from under the ridge to meet at the top. A drop of pre-cum appeared, glistening on the end of his cock. I flicked it off quickly with my tongue. He cock grew another centimetre. If I am not into him enough to want to lick every inch of his body, to breathe in his scent, to bury my face in his hair, to suck his fingers one at a time, to nibble his lips, to swallow his sweet cum.
Then I wouldn't be giving him head.

Well, isn’t that just all a bit dreamy ?? I’m surprised Hallmark hasn’t made a card expressing that beautiful sentiment. ‘Love is not spilling a drop.’

Example 3: For the longest time, I've been guilty of being a size queen and last night, X did not disappoint. However, while he was sliding in and out my dripping honey-pot, it was his girth that did the magic. Not his length. Now, yes, he was a big boy - probably 7 or 8 inches but it was his thickness that made me squirm.

Confucius say: Only reason woman need wide cock is if she have big honey-pot.

Example 4: He pressed into me, filling me up with his cock and I was alright. My breathing picked up and I felt wonderful. He had me near the edge but I had not climaxed…he couldn’t hold it in and came in me after some hard fucking. He filled me with his seed and I lifted my hips to get him in deeper, though he did spill onto the seat just a little.

This would have been far classier if you’d been doing it in a Bentley rather than a public toilet at the time. You SLUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUT.

Arrrrgggggggghhhh…my eyes…my poor eyes !!!
For the love of Christ…make it stop…

a blogroll by any other name would smell as bad...

2009-10-12T22:07:00.000-07:00

Recently a lot has been written about blog politics; specifically the blog roll etiquette.
Personally I’m indifferent to being added/subtracted to anyone’s blog roll, since the whole process smacks of co-dependency, the need for validation/retribution and the creation of one giant mutual masturbation society online.
Now, as I pass a jaded eye over my own sad blog roll, surveying the carcasses of dead and dying sites, the orts and leavings of the internet feast, a once-proud hotbed of creativity now riddled with apathetic weeds…I’m curious as to which bloggers might still list me on their own rolls ???

Of course there’s always my perennial #1…Kitty, from ‘Shrinking Kitty’, the delusional housewife from The Victorian Riviera, whose primary fun is posting something brilliant (or nude pics) then deleting herself in a frenzy of self-loathing; the e-equivalent of cutting yourself with a razor. It’s a privilege to be listed on her blog roll alongside great works of art such as ‘Random Anorexics’, ‘Run More’, ‘Eat Less’, ‘My Big Fat Greek Ass’, ‘The Unfuckables’ and ‘I Wish Donuts Were Good For Me’.

I’m proud that my blog’s uncompromising style, courageous and without a modicum of judgmental criticism, has enabled TWG to become part of the gay e-landscape. I’ve been somewhat immortalized by Tom Gaylord, the extraordinarily clever, currently straight-jacketed host of ‘Gay Sky Hooker’, who has graciously linked me with iconic blogs such as ‘Sperm My Cumhole’, ‘Suburban Rentboy’, ‘Gay Porn Fanatic’, ‘The Chcokie Choo Choo’, ‘Father Fag Pants’ and ‘There’s a Lamp In My Ass’…from his private room in an unnamed Irish Loony Bin.

Then there’s everyone’s favourite rug-muncher, Spiky Zora Jones over at ‘Bit Player Reflects’, the hippest dyke on the West Coast, the undisputed Captain of Team Pink; and indeed it tickles me pink to see my blog nestling amidst such Sapphic delights as ‘Real Live Lesbian’, ‘In Search Of Lesbians’, ‘Caro’s Wandering Fingers’, ‘Flaps Down For Landing’, ‘Libby the Lab Licker’ and ‘Who Moved My Dildo’.

And lastly…and by all means leastly what higher praise could a blogger wish for than to be flattered by the internet’s most prolific stalker, Memphis Steve from his cunningly self-titled blog ‘Memphis Steve’s Nude Blog’, a place where unspeakable opinions and unpopular beliefs roam freely in a wonderland of as-yet undiagnosed mental illness. It makes my heart glad to see TWG mentioned in the same breath as these giants of liberal thought such as ‘The False Rape Society’, ‘Men Without Penises’, ‘Memoirs of a Misogynist’, ‘All Women Are Cunts Except For Your Mother’ and ‘For All I Know Your Mom’s a Cunt Too’…

the monday roast...

2009-09-20T20:18:00.001-07:00

Does anyone else find post-match/game/event sports interviews as dull as I do these days. When was the last time you heard a sportsperson actually say anything interesting/controversial/original while being asked a question by their respective media ?? It's the same across the sports board however this year I believe that for various reasons Rugby league has led the way in stupefying the interview to the point where you need a Rosetta Stone to decode the piffle they have been blathering. This is what I've managed to decipher so far :

‘I was really proud of the way the guys stuck it out today and I’m just looking forward to next week’s game…’ – ‘I have no idea what the question meant but this is what they told me to say at Media Training Camp.’

‘Our ball retention was lacking…’ – ‘We didn’t catch very many passes…coz we’re shit.’

‘We failed to complete our sets…’ – ‘We didn’t catch very many passes…coz we’re shit.’

‘We let ourselves down in the execution…’ – ‘We’re not a very skillful team really…coz we’re shit.’

‘We didn’t get the basics right…’ – ‘Like I said…we’re shit.’

‘I thought we lacked intensity…’ – ‘We weren’t trying very hard. I hope no one noticed.’

‘I was really proud of the way the guys stuck it out today and I’m just looking forward to next week’s game…’ – ‘I’m a fucking moron and this is what they told me to say at Media Training Camp to avoid embarrassing myself or the team’.

‘We always expect a tough game from them…’ – ‘They were shit. I don’t know why they bothered turning up today.’

‘The score line didn’t reflect how hard it was out there…’—‘Fuck me I thought we were shit but did you see how bad those cunts were.’

‘It was a very physical game…’ – ‘Wow there was heaps of mistakes out there. I bet that was a really shit game to watch’.

‘We’re just going to give it our best shot next week’ – ‘We can’t possibly win next week. Didn’t you see how shit we were today?’

‘I was really proud of the way the guys stuck it out today and I’m just looking forward to next week’s game…’ – ‘I have brain damage and this is what they told me to say at Media Training Camp to avoid embarrassing myself or the sport.’

‘There were a lot of positives out there today.’ – ‘Fuck at least we didn’t get beaten as bad as we did last week.’

‘I think we can take a lot out of that performance…’ – ‘We had 75 ½ points head start on Footy Tab and only got beaten by 73.’

‘That’s footy I guess…’ – ‘Fuck we’re a shit team.’

'They took their opportunities better than us...' -- 'We lost beacuse the other side scored more points...even a silly cunt like you must see that.'

‘I was really proud of the way the guys stuck it out today and I’m just looking forward to next week’s game…’ –‘Fuck I hope I still have a job after that…coz I’m a fucking moron with brain damage and I don’t know how I’d earn a living if it wasn’t for footy.’

no thanks...just browsing...

2009-08-31T00:18:00.001-07:00

I am a good clothes shopper most of the time; careful, considered, conservative and I’m never swayed by the attentions of fawning sales-staff trying to sell me something I can’t really wear or don’t need.
I never ask for help…preferring to take my time… trying on this and that…then maybe going back to an earlier choice… trying a size up, a size down…a different colour…a different brand…before buying a garment.
If I’m suitably electrified by an item, I’ll buy two or even three of them, in case I wear one out and can’t find a replacement in five years time; this explains the collection of ‘Levi 501s’ I have at home, amassed over a twenty-year period, with waist sizes ranging from 28” (1990) to 33” (2004) which I intend to be able to get back into some day…
Anyway, recently my favourite pair of ‘Nike’ tracksuit pants finally disintegrated in the washing machine after a four-year lifespan spent mostly on the sofa watching TV with me. They were the last of the three pairs I bought in Seoul in 1997 during the Asian currency crisis; $30 each…and possibly the finest couch-potato-wear ever made.
I was gutted at their passing.
However I knew this day would finally come…
So yesterday I dragged myself up to ‘Rebel’, a large sports apparel barn in the local mall, where I hoped to find a new pair of tracksuit pants…or three…to see me safely into the twilight of my TV-watching career.
Spying the tracksuits almost immediately and being a creature of intense habit, I went straight to the ‘Nike’ section and ignoring colour for the moment grabbed a dazzling white size ‘M’ (hopeful much), an ‘L’ (more realistic) and an ‘XL’ (just in case) before poodling off to the fitting rooms.
Unsurprisingly the ‘M’ was a little tight around the waist, not to mention very unforgiving around the crotch. The ‘L’ was a perfect fit around the waist but still a little tight in the crotch. The ‘XL’ was a bit large around the waist, needed the drawstring pulled into the maximum…was still a bit grabby round the crotch…and the legs finished about 20cms beyond my feet.
Unhappy with any of the ‘Nike’ range, I handed them to the slack-jawed, nose-pierced, gum-chewing Westie chick manning (or womanning) the fitting-rooms and went back to the racks to reload. This time I tried the ‘Adidas’ collection; three sizes…in light grey…with the same disappointing results.
I handed the attendant the rejected clothing and went back to the rack again.
I tried ‘Converse’…in beige…
Then ‘Lonsdale’…in red…
Four trips to the fitting room, nearly an hour gone by and I had yet to find a pair of tracksuit pants that felt comfortable enough to lie around in. Nothing would fit; the new cut of tracksuit pants was stylish to be sure and fleecy as fuck…but the obsession with low-rise, hipster-type gym wear had definitely taken its toll on the lounge-factor.
Not to mention the fact they seemed a bit gay for my fiercely straight taste.
Still, undaunted by my failure I decided to check out some lesser-known brands…’Asics’, ‘Everlast’…with the same results. Every tracksuit manufacturer had apparently capitulated and followed the herd-leader into this awful new design; my frustration was starting to show as I literally hurled the three pairs of light-green ‘Diadora’ pants at the pointless stoner still leaned against the fitting-room door.
‘You’re not having much luck there are you, Sir ?’
‘No…I’m having some trouble finding a cut that feels comfortable…in the crotch…the new styles seem to favour a slimmer wearer…and the hip-huggy thing is not really me.’
‘Did you particularly want to get a pair of women’s tracksuit pants ?’
‘What ?’
‘Well, are you particularly set on the women’s’ range or would you like to try on some men’s tracksuit pants ?’
‘Please don’t tell me I’ve been trying on chick’s pants for a fucking hour and this is the first you’ve said anything. Please tell me you haven’t just stood there and folded ninety-nine pairs of women’s tracksuits and watched me go off to get more. Why the fuck would I want women’s tracksuit pants…you fucking spoon ?’
‘I wasn’t sure.’
‘Right…so where are the men’s trackies ?’
‘Over there (gesturing to the other side of the store).’
It’s funny because once the silly cunt pointed it out to me; the colours did seem a bit unmanly come to think of it…and there was a rack of leggings right nearby now that I remember…along with one-piece swimsuits if the truth be told…and some very small running shoes…fucketty fuck fuck fuck…

one giant leap for man...

2009-05-24T03:25:00.000-07:00

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...

2009-04-26T20:57:00.000-07:00

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...

this is an all day sucker...

2009-03-22T20:08:00.000-07:00

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…

back to basics...

2009-03-08T21:31:00.000-07:00

My erstwhile blogging friend ‘Emmak’ suggested recently that I’d dropped the ball, so to speak, when it came to being a cunt.

And I reluctantly agree, so enough of the memoirs for a while, no more lazy pictorial-posts, you’ve had your last cat anecdote…this is the ‘The Whine Guide’…and it’s for fucking whining.
Ironically, there was something from ‘Emmak’s’ blog that had been grinding my exceedingly slow gears all weekend…and I gave it plenty of thought while sitting in a splendid vineyard last Saturday night, drinking red wine from the bottle, gazing at the waxing moon and listening to that prick Eric Clapton give arguably the most boring, arrogant, self-indulgent concert in living memory.
And during his lifeless rendition of JJ Cahill’s ‘Cocaine’, when I took the hint and dashed off to the Porta-Loos for a fortifying hit of Pechanga, that I had my epiphany.
Well, it’s not so much from Emma’s blog as it is from the comment section, courtesy of that well-known champion of women’s’ rights…’Stalking in Memphis Steve’.
He stated, in between some other slobbering fulminations, that, ‘Meanwhile, China and Russia will crush us with very masculine, phallic-shaped missiles…’
Now it isn’t the first time I’ve heard this garbage, and to be fair to ‘Memphis’ I know he was being facetious…but I’ve sat through dinner party conversations where the subject of overly aggressive patriarchies and their deadly penis-shaped missiles has come up.
So, to all the ballistically-challenged fuckheads who insist on toeing this boring, clichéd line of reasoning I say the following; it’s not because men like to design these long-range engines of death in the image of their own noodles.
IT’S BECAUSE YOU CAN’T BUILD A FLYING VAJAJAY !!!
It just doesn’t work.
And even if you could…should anyone, even the vilest of enemies…ever be subjected to the indignity of having as their last mortal image…a 50-foot steel cunt coming at them at 10,000 miles per hour…

the pre-St Valentines Day Non Massacre...

2009-02-15T17:54:00.000-08:00

I'm not constantly in trouble with the law these days...but you wouldn't know it from this...

Last Wednesday evening, after a thoroughly ordinary meal at the trendy new ‘Beresford Hotel’, I’d had enough red wine and port for my clients to convince me to take them for a lap dance back in the CBD.
They hopped in a taxi…whereas I was so drunk I thought a ride on ‘The Stealth Vespa’ might be in order…and we arranged to meet inside ‘Madam Chang’s Imperial Whoopee Parlour’ * in twenty minutes.
I arrived at the ‘Pitt St Ballet’ ** and to say that I was off my chops would be an understatement. If the universe is very, very big…then I was very, very off my chops. Nevertheless, I proceeded to stroll through the front door, past the two bouncers of unknown but decidedly Pacific Island extraction, when one of them noticed my little rucksack and asked if he could look inside.

Rewind about three days…
One of my work colleagues had broken the tip off the office carving knife, a whacking great 33cm hunk of sharpened, Japanese stainless steel…and I had put the knife into my rucksack with a view to taking it home, grinding off the damaged tip and re-sharpening the blade. I had not got around to doing this yet…and the knife was still in my rucksack.

Fast-forward back to the story:..
So, I was standing at the door to ‘Booze and Smoos’ ***, casually smoking a cigarette while Fella Felloffalori and Mia Fartuesele rummaged through my rucksack, quickly discovering the carving knife which they pulled out for everyone to see.
‘What the fuck is this eh, bro,’ one of the amazed bouncers asked.
‘Well, it appears to be a large carving knife,’ I replied…too drunk to think of what else it COULD be besides a large carving knife.
‘And just where did you think you’d be going with it, bro,’ they continued.
‘Well, obviously I was looking to perhaps cruise into the club and cut a few of the girls from ear to flaps,’ I ventured, wondering whether these two bouncers had keen, bouncery senses of humour.
Of course they didn’t.
‘Well how about you get the fuck up against the wall while we call the cops eh, bro,’ they yelled instead of falling to the floor in hysterical laughter at my timely joke…like I had hoped.
Ten minutes later the police arrived, by which time I’d managed to explain to the bouncers what had happened…and amazingly they not only believed me but even told the cops it was a false alarm and that it had all been a huge misunderstanding.
I was then allowed to enter ‘Naked Overpriced Greedy Money-Hungry Coke Molls R Us’ **** and spend a stupid, stupid amount of hard-earned cash (which I thoroughly regretted the next morning)…after checking my carving knife at the door.
And they say capitalism is dead…

* Obviously not the club’s real name.
** This isn’t the real name either.
*** This is closer; but still not the real name
**** OK, I’m just being a little bitter and twisted about the whole experience now…

road tripping part II...

2009-02-10T19:34:00.000-08:00

In what has been a trying week for many people, I hope this post brings a smile to someone's face...

As I sat there in the wreckage of Dad’s nice, new car…it began to snow.
This was strange for February in Sydney but after a litre or so of Cointreau, the old meteorological reasoning faculties were a little skewed, so I simply chose to believe what I was seeing. What I was actually seeing was the apparently fine powder storm created when an airbag inflates automatically.
Staring at the winter wonderland going on around me, it seemed as though I was a figure in one of those kids’ toys you shake; I half-expected to see a reindeer sitting next to me in the passenger seat.
Then I noticed the small pillow against my chest, unaware that it was in fact the driver’s airbag, since I’d never actually seen one before. Either way, it looked inviting enough to lay my head down on and take a well-deserved nap, which I was just about to do when the car-door opened unceremoniously and a gun was leveled at my head. Of all the weird things going on…the snow, the pillow, the absence of any reindeer…it was the gun that seemed totally imaginary…so I ignored it.
‘YOU INSIDE…GET OUT OF THE FUCKING VEHICLE NOW !!!’
‘Huh ?? What ??’ I managed to stammer, hoping like hell I was also imagining the enraged police officer now yelling into my ear.
‘I SAID GET OUT OF THE FUCKING VEHICLE…PUT YOUR HANDS ON THE ROOF OF THE VEHICLE AND SPREAD YOUR LEGS !!!’
When the full second I’d been given to comply had elapsed without my managing to do any of these tasks, a large hand reached into the cabin, grabbed me by the collar and hauled me out onto the street. Rough treatment for sure…but as I later found out, the police officers were exremely pissed off, assuming quite fairly, although erroneously as it turned out, that I had deliberately tried to run them over.
After patting me down for weapons, ‘Constable Cranky Pants’ spun me around, stared deep into my eyes, which must have resembled a pair of smashed ‘Jaffas’ and said, ‘Have you been drinking tonight ??’
To which I replied, ‘Mate, I’ve had about 25 Cointreaus on ice…maybe more…and some had vodka in them too.’
To which he replied, ‘Well I’m going to have to ask you to blow into the bag.’
To which I replied…in a line that has passed into Eastern Suburbs folklore…’Why…don’t you believe me ??’
(Now, truth be known, I don’t claim to have thought of this line myself. I’d heard the gag somewhere before and dreamed of the day I’d be in a good position to use it. That day had come…I took my opportunity for glory and ran with it.)
At this point I was convinced the cop was going to punch my face in…

To be continued…

481-11-11...

2009-01-26T18:53:00.000-08:00

It’s not something I’m particularly proud of…but I have a bit of an addiction to pizza; specifically mushroom pizza.

For the last twenty-five years I’ve had at least one a week, sometimes more. In the early nineties, when I used to order from ‘Pizza Hut’, they once sent me a free ‘PH’ basketball because I had ordered more than fifty pizzas in a six month period.
And it’s always the same order: One large thin and crispy double mushroom pizza…no ham, no onions, no fucking anchovy, no pineapple and no exotic yak cheese…just mushrooms…on mozzarella.
When I moved to Cunt Point and was no longer in the ‘Pizza Hut’ delivery area, I switched to a local pizzeria which has been faithfully delivering my humble order for the past five years.
As Kitty will be falling over her keyboard to confirm, I like to eat my pizza with butter. Yes…butter. I take a slice of oily mushroom pizza and put a generous helping of full-salt butter on top…and I eat it.
Please save your health concerns for someone else; I’m beyond the reach of medical reason. Dad’s stroke may have changed my smoking habits but nothing short of a personal and massive coronary will change my attitude towards pizza with butter.
Still, this post isn’t about dietary nightmares; it’s a story about pizza.
So, I’ve been ordering the same pizza from the same local joint for the past five years. We have the same conversation every week…practically word for word. I’ve become quite friendly with the owner too.

‘Hello PizzaBella…how can I help you ??’
‘Hi…this is Fingers up in Cunt Point…can I have my usual please.’
‘Sure Fingers…one large thin and crispy double mushroom on mozzarella.’
‘Thanks Giuseppe (not his real name).’
‘OK.’

Every week for five years…practically word for word.
Until last night.

‘Hello PizzaBella…how can I help you ??’
‘Hi…this is Fingers up in Cunt Point…can I have my usual please.’
‘Sure Fingers…one large thin and crispy double mushroom on mozzarella.’
‘Yes thanks, Giuseppe. Actually…no…tonight could I please have one of those awful deep-dish, pan-fried horrors with the molten goat’s cheese inside the crust.’
‘Really ??’
‘Yes…and instead of just double mushroom can I have olives, asparagus and sun-dried tomatoes as well.’
‘Are you sure ??’
‘Yes…also could you please put too much mozzarella on top and cook it at one-million degrees Celsius so that even after you slice it with the pizza-cutter the cheese reforms itself into a solid mass.’
‘Huh ??’
‘Oh…and could you ask the motor-bike delivery guy to go round the corners really, really fast so that the solid, congealed mass of super-heated mozzarella slides off the top of the crust and deposits itself on one side of the box…’
‘Um…I don’t think we can do a pizza like that for you, Fingers.’
‘WELL YOU FUCKING DID LAST WEEK YOU DUMB WOG CUNT…’

After he stopped laughing, Giuseppe sent me a complimentary pizza to make up for the previous week’s disaster, which goes to show that there is sometimes plenty to be gained from being a rude prick…

road tripping...

2009-01-11T18:11:00.000-08:00

OK, time to revisit the past and tell you a story…it’s a bit long, so please bear with me and don’t moan for me to ‘get on with it’ over the next few posts…

The year was 1983, my parents had just retired and sold the business they ran for twenty years, cashed in their super, bought their first Mercedes Benz and were off to the UK for a month-long vacation.
I was in the last year of Law School, still living at home, looking at forty years of hard-work ahead, had no money and was driving a battered Toyota Celica held together with duct tape.
As I dropped my folks off at the airport in their nice, new Mercedes…I remember Dad saying, ‘Fingers, your car is a mess…through no fault of your own…please feel free to use the Mercedes until we return.’
Dad always maintains he said, ‘Fingers you irresponsible cunt…take the Mercedes straight home, park it, lock it…and do not touch it while we’re away for any fucking reason.’
The exact words he used are still contentious bones even twenty-five years on; whatever they were, I thought they were somewhat vague and ambiguous.
Anyway, at the very least, I was sure Dad wouldn’t mind my borrowing the car for something as sensible as a ‘$20-all-the Cointreau-you-can-drink’ night at ‘Metropolis Nightclub’ in North Sydney, so a few days later I jumped in the Mercedes, drove over there, paid my $20, drank about $100 worth, then at 3am got back in the Mercedes to drive home.
Sadly, in those days I was a serial drink-driver...
*This story is not intended to glorify that practice either; I was a young moron who enjoyed driving cars, drinking and combining the two as often as possible. Thankfully I never injured a single person during the whole stupid phase…a freakishly unlikely piece of good fortune.*
Enough editorial…back to the good stuff…
So, having successfully navigated my way back to the Eastern Suburbs, I was coming out of the Kings Cross tunnel and decided to floor the Mercedes down the hill and see what those clever Germans had put under the bonnet. I estimate I had that fucker up to 140kph as I got to the base of the hill, where the road flattened out into a long stretch, and as I looked up to see where I was going, I noticed the police had set up one of the new ‘Random Breath Test’ (RBT) buses by the roadside. These were quite rare back then, so I had no pre-conceived ideas about what I would ever do if I approached one and was clearly over the legal limit to drive.
The police manning the RBT bus had seen me flying down the hill and had run out into the middle of the road with their fluorescent batons; they were very keen to have me pull over for a chat and a blow in their bag. I, on the other hand didn’t see any upside in that and prepared to ‘run’ their feeble roadblock and disappear into the distance before they could give chase, so I gunned the motor and kept going.
Then as I got about one-hundred metres from the bus and the cops, I chickened out, hit the brakes…a little too hard as it happened…and put the Mercedes into a violent tailspin. The last thing I saw, as the car went through 360 degrees was the panic-stricken cops hurling themselves into the flowerbeds on the median strip which divided the road.
Oh yes…and I saw the big, blue bus with ‘POLICE” painted clearly on the back.
The next few seconds are still a blur, however there was much screeching rubber noise, a lot of spinning motion and I closed my eyes…then a loud bang, a cessation of the spinning…and when I opened my eyes I found I had come to a halt…presumably because the Mercedes was now embedded up to its engine-block in the back of the big, blue bus with ‘POLICE” painted clearly on the back.
As far as I’m aware I am still the only driver in New South Wales to have actually run into a ‘booze-bus’ as we call them here ??
Meanwhile, the cops had climbed out of the flowerbeds and were now running over to the wrecked Mercedes, no doubt anxious to see if I was alright…

*stay tuned…there’s more to follow…*

dummer and dummer...

2008-12-28T16:24:00.000-08:00

At the risk of sounding like a grumpy old cunt…has anyone seen the list of subjects that made up the 2008 HSC curriculum this year ??
For overseas readers, ‘HSC’ (Higher School Certificate) is the leaving examination for all school students in New South Wales, scores in which go a long way to determining placements in universities and technical colleges.

Let’s start with some of the sillier languages now studied…and the students allowed to ‘study’ these ‘languages’…
Would it surprise anyone to learn that Emineh Shahmoradian topped the state in Armenian, Anke Vermuelen in Dutch, Jaksanwal Kathpal in Hindi, Milan Mitrevski in Macedonian, Saeed Arjomand Bigdeli in Persian, Chrisanthi Karunainathan in Tamil or Thomas Erik Holstrom in Swedish ??
Hmmm…unfair advantage much…
But wait, there’s more…because not only do these presumably native-speakers get a free swing at 2/3 units of education, they’re undoubtedly also eligible to sit for the prestigious ‘English As A Second Language’ course, which is the educational equivalent of the Paralympics or women’s golf.
OK, I don’t want to be accused of bashing foreigners, which most certainly isn’t the intent here…so let’s move onto the meatier courses.
It’s just a shame there isn’t ‘Sort-Of-Maths As An Alternate Means Of Counting To Combat Inherited Stupidity’ or ‘Science For Anyone Whose Religious Beliefs Mean They Prefer Fairy Tales To Difficult Theories and Equations’.
As a taxpayer I’m thrilled to be allowed to subsidize the continued study of Cosmology, Dance, Food Technology, Design and Textiles…to which I’d like added Astrology, Karaoke, Sun-baking, Cigarette-Rolling and Shopping.
There were apparently stiff examinations in Tourism, Personal Development, Hospitality and most importantly Entertainment Industry, all of which were hopefully held in rooms down at ‘Centrelink’ to provide the students/future long-term unemployed with an authentic application-completing experience.
Strangely, important subjects such as Celebrity Trivia, Boganism, Facebook Protocol and SMS Acronyms went untaught this year…

happy birthday to meme...

2008-12-07T19:25:00.000-08:00

I know some of you have done that dreary ‘meme’ lately; the one where you write letters to various people and get stuff off your chests. I’m not doing that…BUT…and I know some of the intended recipients are going to be reading this…here is an open letter to some of my friends, who attended a belated birthday lunch in my honour yesterday.

Dear S: When I un-wrapped your gift and bubbled with excitement over it, I assumed from the size of the box and a quick perusal of the front cover that you’d got me the official ‘Scrabble’ CD-ROM. It was only when I got home and opened the box I realized you’d got me a ‘Scrabble’ desk calendar. How thoughtful; like a roll of toilet paper with a joke on each square. I’m so glad I got you an ‘Alessi’ cocktail shaker for your birthday…you cheap cunt.

Dear M & G: Hope you liked the $500 espresso machine I got for your wedding last month ?? Since it’s highly unlikely you’ll be buying me a wedding present any time soon, I guess a beach towel with the colours of the Italian flag on it just about makes us even…you cheap cunts.

Dear A: A bottle of current release wine with no card; I suppose if the grog shop between your place and mine had been closed, I would have missed out completely this year ?? Perhaps I should bring my present over for dinner at your house next week and we can drink it from the ‘Waterford’ crystal wine goblet I got you for your last birthday…you cheap cunt.

Dear T: A voucher…from ‘The Body Shop’ no less. Nothing a man likes more than a $25 gift certificate from a chick’s lotion store. I’m surprised it didn’t come with a card that said ‘Have an average birthday…coz I certainly don’t give a flying fuck about it.’ How’s the deluxe pet carry-case that I got you last year working out ?? You know, the one you’d been wishing for but hadn’t got around to buying yet ?? The one I went and got and delivered…with a ribbon around it…you cheap cunt.

Dear I: I must admit…that was a nice lasagna dish you gave me. I had one, even more magnificent, by ‘Pillivuyt’, until I lent it to you last XMAS and you broke it in half by dropping it on the floor. Since your birthday is later this month, perhaps you should just come round and select a gift from my kitchen. I know you like my German carbon-steel carving knives. Take them; they’re yours. I’ll replace them with a set of Korean self-sharpening blades…you cheap cunt.

Dear N: Since I didn’t get you anything for your birthday this year, I could hardly expect something in return. Fair’s fair. It was very gracious of you to turn up yesterday with no money and allow me to buy you lunch though. I hope you’ll turn up to your own birthday next year with no money and allow me to return the favour by shouting you another meal…you cheap cunt.

Sigh…I think I’m going to wait for the post-XMAS sales in a few weeks and get myself a boxed set of ‘New Friends’. Hell, at 50% off I might even get two boxes…

PS: To everyone who attended yesterday, thanks for coming along. You know I’m just kidding…about everything except your being cheap cunts…

one wedding and a funereal date...

2008-11-23T22:24:00.000-08:00

Last Friday I went to a wedding; a wedding so strange I’ll blog about it another day. This post is about the strange date I had last night with the strange chick I met at the strange wedding last Friday.

At the strange wedding, we were seated next to each other during the reception function, which was held in the dining room at The Australian Museum. As soon as this strange chick saw she was sitting next to me, she put her hand excitedly over her mouth and squealed, ‘OMG, it’s you !!!’
You see, twenty minutes earlier, before being seated for dinner at the strange wedding, all the guests had been milling around drinking champagne in a small ante-room off to the side of the dining room. This room contained a collection of small-to-medium, generally unremarkable Australian mammals, in skeletal form, free-standing on slightly-raised plinths. I had been carrying two drinks back from the bar, wearing my splendid black-tie best, when I clipped an unseen plinth, stumbled…and went ass-over-glass into an Australian fur seal, bringing the entire collection of bones down around me.
Anyway, after recognizing me as the strange boy responsible for dismantling the fur seal, the strange chick and I spent a lovely evening chatting…at the end of which we arranged to have a more intimate dinner on Sunday night.
So, last night we met at a very trendy new wine bar in Surry Hills, which considering how well things had gone at the strange wedding, should have been nothing more than a formality prior to my taking her home and dismantling her fur seal…so to speak.
Except that it didn’t turn out that way at all.
About thirty minutes into the date, I asked the strange chick ‘where she was from’, because although her accent was obviously Australian, her appearance was decidedly Oriental, with perhaps a touch of something else. Never mind that this blend of features is just about my favourite anyway, I simply wanted to enquire as to her ethnic origins. A very close girl friend of mine, whom I dated briefly in Tokyo before settling for a long term friendship instead, once confided that enduring a first date with me was like being ‘Clarissa Starling’ to ‘Dr Hannibal Lechter’ in their initial prison conversation from ‘The Silence of the Lambs’.
In hindsight, I wish to fuck I’d asked her what her star sign was now.
'What do you mean “where am I from”…,’ she snapped back.
‘I just mean what’s your…er…um…lineage…you know…’
‘I’m a fucking Australian, just like you…born and bred here, mate.’
‘Yes, I can see that (I couldn’t actually)…but obviously I wasn’t referring to your place of birth as much as I was asking about your ancestry.’
‘Well, if you must know…my father was American and my mother was Indonesian…’
And then it came to me…perhaps the most devastatingly clever line ever delivered on a date anywhere in human history, although I won’t take credit for its invention, because I heard the joke many years ago…but I’d guarantee no one has ever had the opportunity to deliver it, unforced, in a social situation such as this.
‘So, I guess that makes you an Amnesian…’
At this point I fully expected her to sweep the food and wine off the table, climb on top of it, hike her skirt up round her ears, lay back and spread her charms before me like an Amnesian banquet.
Except that it didn’t turn out that way at all.

*crickets*

*huge ferris-wheel-sized tumbleweeds*

‘What??’
‘It’s a joke…you know…because your father is American and….’
‘Yes, I see what you’re getting at…but I don’t think it’s very amusing at all.’
‘Oh, come on…it’s pretty amusing.’
‘Well, not to me.’

Sensing that the situation was rapidly spiraling out of control, I went for the Hail Mary play.
‘Well could you at least pretend to be an Amnesian and forget this whole conversation ever happened??’
At last she smiled; it was then I knew my strange-boyish good-humour had finally broken through the impenetrable force-field the strange chick from the strange wedding had spent the last two minutes erecting. The food and wine was about to go flying. It was climbing time, hiking time, laying, spreading and banqueting time…
Except that it didn’t turn out that way at all.
Still smiling…
‘I think I’d like to go home now.’
‘Yes, that’s probably a good idea…’

Some days I wish I was a fucking Amnesian…

sheiks on a plane...

2008-11-02T17:17:00.000-08:00

I don’t care how cool you think you are.
I don’t care how tolerant of different cultures you think you are.
I don’t care how well-travelled you think you are.
I don’t care how stone-cold tough you think you are.

I defy any of you to tell me you wouldn’t get a just a little nervous on an airplane if three young men of distinctly Middle-Eastern appearance, dressed almost identically, with no carry-on luggage, suddenly appeared at the cabin door, came steaming down the aisle and took the vacant seats next to you.
I nearly shat myself...

My parents…wizened old ‘Fourbies’ that they be…choose to fly ‘Emirates’ when returning to the UK for holidays on The British Riviera. Their rationale being that terrorists will never attack one of their own carriers, they are quite relaxed about the idea of being the only Yids on a plane full of camel-jockeys.
Can’t fault the thought-process there.
However, when returning to Sydney, passengers on ‘Emirates’ are shuffled down to Exit 4, to be mixed in with the assorted ‘sleeper cells’ arriving on ‘Iraqi Air’, ‘United Afghan’ and ‘Express Libya’.
This makes it most uncomfortable when I’m summoned to collect Ma/Pa Fingers, standing there amongst the thousands of other relatives, the only White Infidel in a sea of True Believers. I find all those beards and moustaches just a little confronting to be honest. Then again Arab men can be scary as well.
And Allah-forbid, an inbound flight has its’ scheduled arrival time put back even just five minutes and the whole pack starts moaning and wailing as one…

mommy's boy...

2008-10-12T20:54:00.000-07:00

Twenty-eight years ago, at the age of seventy-five, my grandfather contracted cancer. Not a particularly aggressive form of the disease, but a rather average, creeping version which took nearly five years to rob him of his fine physique, sharp wit and personal dignity before killing him.

There was collateral damage too: my grandmother, in perfect health when Papa initially got sick, was by his side for those five long years, slowly descending into a depression-related madness that saw her eventually moved to The Loony Bin after he passed away.
Charming stuff !!!
I guess that’s the deal with cancer; it’s not really a capricious disease that carefully chooses its victims. It’s more of an unlucky-dip…and my poor grandparents managed to draw two short sticks.
Nana died not long after Papa, a small mercy to be sure, and at her funeral my mother, knowing how close I was to them, came up to give me a pep talk.
Now, Mom isn’t really a ‘glass-half-full’ person.
Nor is she a ‘glass-half-empty’ person.
She’s more of a ‘hope-I-don’t-cut-my-lip-on the glass’ sort of person.
So, at Nana’s service, Mom told me that when she got to seventy-five years of age, I was to put her out of her misery in a humane fashion, so that she would not suffer the same fate as her parents, or become a burden to her family.
‘OK, sure thing, Mom…it would be my pleasure…and thanks for making a difficult day just that bit easier.’
‘No, I mean it. I don’t want to die like that.’
‘Um, what about if you’re in good health?’
‘No, seventy-five is a good age. No point waiting for shit to happen.’
‘I see…well can Dad do it? As far as I’m aware it’s still illegal to murder your mother, despite her request that you do so, and I’d rather not spend my last thirty years in jail for doing you a favour.’
‘No, your father will be eighty by then and probably incapable of doing up his own fly…besides that he never does anything I ask him to do. Please promise me you’ll do this for me.
‘Yes…OK…I promise.’

Well, guess what?
It’s Mom’s seventy-fifth birthday tomorrow.
She’s in perfect health, despite smoking a packet of cigarettes a day, lives in a nice big house with a large wad of cash, has three grandchildren (courtesy of my lovely sister and her cunt of a husband) and is generally about as contented as I’ve ever known her to be. The only thing that would make her even happier would be for the apple of her eye (that would be me) to meet a wonderful chick, get married and have babies.
Well, since that’s not looking likely at this stage, as a dutiful, loving son, I suppose the sweetest thing I can do for my dear old Mom is to keep the promise I made to her all those years ago.
So, Mom…here’s wishing you a HAPPY BIRTHDAY for tomorrow…I’m off to the bedding shop to get the fluffiest pillow money can buy and I’m coming over to see you just after lunch…

xxx

i said i wouldn't but...

2008-10-01T20:41:00.000-07:00

This very expensive holiday has turned into a complete nightmare, so I thought I'd cheer you lot up by showing how even the best laid plans of mice and assholes go astray...

When I booked this dump, the webpage stated that there were uninterrupted views of the ocean from the living room, yet clearly that dead tree in the middle has completely ruined everything. I'm so fucking upset. Where's my chainsaw...

If I stand over here, I've found that the I can block the dead tree out but now that shitty column is in the way. Fuckety, fuck, fuck fuck...I can't take a trick...

My bedroom is a huge disappointment too. The view is bearable but as you can plainly see, some of those window louvres aren't perfectly parallel. Why does this shit always happen to me...

Oh, and the tennis court I was promised is being re-surfaced, so they gave me this bullshit pool table next to the glass-walled swimming pool. Yeah like that's going to make up for it...

But worst of all, I can't find the fucking ice-bucket anywhere and it's really hot out on the spa deck. Every time I want another glass of Krug, I have to ring this stupid little bell and wait for Miguel the cabana boy to get the bottle from the fridge and ride down on the baby elephant with it. It sucks...

don't fuck with uncle fingers...

2008-09-29T03:04:00.000-07:00

Every now and then something happens that restores my faith in the way things are supposed to be.

In early 2000, I met a wonderful chick named Carolyn; drop-dead gorgeous, funny, intelligent, independent, a senior legal secretary in a top firm, she drank, smoked, did recreational drugs and performed gymnastically improbable acts in bed. We dated fiercely for six months, during which time Carolyn brought much-needed light into what was an exceedingly dark period of my life. I had seen fit to leave the money market and open a Japanese restaurant, a decision that in retrospect made less commercial sense than ‘Kitty’ opening a nuclear power plant. Given that I had zero experience in the hospitality industry and even less interest in actually being hospitable to anyone, it was inevitable that this diabolically stupid idea failed…which it did…in just over nine months…leaving me stone broke.
One afternoon during the last tortured weeks of my restaurant’s life, Carolyn came breezing into the place as she usually did, putting a smile on my face as she always did. Whatever else that was going wrong in my life, as long as I had the pleasure of this beautiful girl’s company, I felt like the luckiest man on earth.
‘Hi Fingers, I just wanted you to hear it from me first…I’m going up to Gove in the Northern Territory, to live on an Aboriginal reserve and work with disabled indigenous people.’
‘Why?’ I asked, assuming it was a wind-up.
‘I need to discover myself,’ she replied with a cliché so well worn that I knew it had to be a wind-up now.
‘I see…and when are you planning to go?’ I ventured, going along with the gag.
‘Tomorrow at 3pm.’
‘How long will you be gone?’
‘Three years, maybe longer.’
I was secretly beaming at Carolyn’s straight-faced delivery; this was a very good gag.
‘So, you’re leaving me to go and live in Cuntsville, in forty-degree heat, in a tin shack, with the flies and the crocodiles?’
‘I guess.’
‘I love you so much, baby. Thanks for the laugh.’
‘I love you too, baby. You’re welcome.’
The next day while I was at work, Carolyn flew off to Gove…

The next twelve months formed a part of my life for which I intend getting a refund some day…

Although I never saw Carolyn again, never spoke to Carolyn again, I learned through mutual friends that ‘The Self Discovery Choo Choo’ ran off the rails during that same twelve months and that she had developed a rather nasty ‘speed’ habit, which she funded by vending the comfort of her orifices to passing truckies, presumably while listening to ‘Yothu Yindi’ or ‘Goanna’ on her IPod (eh, Kate?).
Sweet !!!
Now, I never wished Carolyn any harm, however by the same token, I’m not too proud to admit I’d have been a little put out had she won ‘Powerball’ or gone on to meet some minor European Crown Prince, marry him and live in the family castle. Anyway, seven years went by, during which time I rose like a Phoenix from the ashes of my own stupidity, never giving Carolyn more than a passing thought…until now.
An old mate of mine rang last night, out of the blue…and after swapping small talk for several minutes, he said ‘Hey, I ran into your ex-chick last week.’
‘Which chick?’
‘Carolyn.’
‘Fuck, no way…where is she these days?’
‘She’s back in Sydney…even has her own web page, just like you. There’s an e-address hyper-linked, in case you want to contact her. Would you like the URL?’
‘Yeah sure…why not.’
And so he gave me Carolyn’s URL: my chick
Yes, that’s my darling Carolyn, aka Kimberley !!!
She’s looking pretty fabulous too, now aged twenty-seven, even though she was thirty-three when we were going out. What’s more to the point, as well as having a nice, steady job again, I noticed from her bio that she is finally getting to work with a lot of disabled people.
And let me tell you, if memory serves me correctly, they must be some of the happiest gimps in the whole world…

and roger federer's a boring cunt too..

2008-09-14T22:01:00.000-07:00

I hate the fucking Swiss !!!
I hate that despite their convenient sense of neutrality, the way they look you in the eye and say, ‘No, no…during the war we made cow bells, cuckoo clocks and chocolates,’ when in fact they were allowing Nazi train-convoys to reverse into their cavernous bank vaults and disgorge a mountain of gold fillings, plundered directly from the teeth of their unfortunate, former- European owners, that they can’t see they’re nothing but Germans minus the attitude, nuts and sense of responsibility.
I hate that despite not currently having a standing army, nor having been at war for the two-hundred years since Napoleon kicked its strudel-making ass, Switzerland still claims to manufacture the best ‘Army Knife’ in the world. Ha !!! No wonder it was amongst the last countries in history ever conquered by the French. I can just imagine the great Swiss military geniuses of their day devising a trap to lure ‘The Little Emperor’ into a mountain pass then obliterate his forces with a withering barrage of corkscrews, nail-files, toothpicks and Allen keys. ‘Yeah fucker…and if you survive the onslaught, there’s a bunch of us armed with Phillips-Head screwdrivers, tweezers and retractable soup-spoons behind that...’
I hate that despite being land-locked, never having had a navy of any description, nor a sea-faring adventurer of any note, this boring collection of professional yodelers somehow managed to win ‘The America’s Cup’, thereby proving what a simple thing it should have been to do so in the first place.
I hate that the Swiss convinced me to pay two-grand for a genuine ‘Tag Heuer’ watch that keeps no better time than a fake one costing ten bucks…but what I really hate most about those filthy cheese-fonduers…is that despite the admittedly infinitesimal possibility that by doing so they might unwittingly have caused the end of the universe, they took a chance anyway and switched on their ‘Large Hadron Collider’ without asking me first…

and it came to pass...

2008-09-06T03:08:00.000-07:00

And ‘The Brain’ destroyed the E-Type Jag and the 600 Mercedes. He caused The Great Flood then commanded the waters to recede (taking the carpets with them). He smote all the creatures in His Father’s House, par-boiling the fish and slow-roasting the canaries. He cast His Father’s Wine upon His Father’s Stereo and made His Father’s China Hutch bend and break according to His Will.
And behold ‘The Brain’ saw what he had done…AND IT WAS NOT GOOD.
Not fucking good at all…

“Do you think we can fix all this before ‘Scary Bob’ gets home?” asked ‘The Brain’, not well known for his use of rhetoric.
“Well, it’s Sunday today…tomorrow is XMAS Eve, Tuesday is XMAS Day, Wednesday is Boxing Day…and your folks are due home on Thursday…so I’d say you have more chance of getting a blowjob from Jesus,” I offered by way of a reality-check.
“I wonder if ‘Scary Bob’ will see the funny side of all this?” ventured ‘The Brain’.
‘Scary Bob’ was even less well known for his use of humour than ‘The Brain’ was for his use rhetoric.
What followed was a short, earnest conversation about what it meant to be a man. We reminisced about the good times we’d had as kids, as teenagers, the absence of responsibility and lack of accountability…but that at some point as young men we had to accept there were consequences that accompanied certain actions, that young men sometimes did foolish things, but that real men stood up and said “Yes, I did that…I am to blame…and I will make amends.”
It was the first and only meaningful discussion I’ve ever had with ‘The Brain’, who then went to the wall-safe hidden in his parent’s walk-in closet, removed two-thousand dollars and fled by bus to Queensland, where he lived on a barge for the next three years beyond the reach of ‘Scary Bob’.
I haven’t seen a lot of ‘The Brain’ in the intervening years; he went his way and I went mine. We’d run into each other at landmark events such as 30ths and 40ths, weddings and the occasional funeral, but we were never as close again as we were that glorious summer. ‘Scary Bob’ eventually forgave ‘The Brain’ for his sins; even re-hired him with a view to grooming him for the top job at ‘BHC Ltd’.
However ‘The Brain’ chose to walk his own path in life, turning his back on a career in construction management to take up a lucrative position in the methamphetamine-distribution game and doing very nicely until he started using his own product and poking his supplier’s Columbian girlfriend and was chased at gunpoint down his home street in Bondi Junction.
He’s now forty-seven years old and lives in Perth.
Last year he married that Columbian girl; she is half his age and already has two children half her age from her previous relationship, which ended abruptly after her boyfriend was given a ten-year jail sentence for dealing drugs.
I went over for the wedding…
‘The Brain’ looked trim, taut and terrific, his new wife was utterly gorgeous and a really lovely, intelligent young woman, the kids were very friendly and beautifully behaved. Together ‘The Brain’ and ‘Mrs Brain’ run their own small construction/renovation business, which is doing well…and he’s happier than most people I know.
I bet you judgemental cunts didn’t see that coming…

PS…as a wedding present, ‘Scary Bob’ gave ‘The Brain’ a complete dental restoration to repair the damage done to his teeth by the crystal meth addiction. His new teeth are about three sizes too big for his mouth, so he now looks a bit like Dick Emery’s priest character when he smiles. I’d post a wedding photo as proof…but even ‘The Brain’ is entitled to his privacy…

the olympic shames...

2008-08-18T21:56:00.000-07:00

There are some really, really, terrible sports in The Olympic Games. And by that I don't simply mean the womens' events (although it's what I'm secretly thinking, byatches).

'Citius, Altius, Fortius'...'Faster, Higher, Stronger', that's what the games were meant to be about. Running places quickly, jumping over things, lifting huge objects, throwing stuff a long way; like you'd do in battle. Like they teach you in Man School.
So, with this in mind, I'd like the IOC to stick the following 'sports' up its collective ass.

Table-Tennis: This is not a sport. At best it's something you do in a friend's basement, beneath a single, bare bulb, with a beer fridge handy. This definition also applies to reading porn magazines, which I'd prefer to do rather than play/watch table-tennis anyway.

Synchronised Swimming: This ridiculous drivel has no obvious point other than the requirement that the contestants do it in perfect harmony. It is the underwater equivalent of two people rubbing their heads and tickling their tummies in identical fashion. Besides, there is no place in sport for any activity that demands the use of nose-clips.

Diving: This is a complete wank-fest; like a cocky-walking competition. Who gives a flying fuck about all the twists and rolls ?? The point of diving is to get from a high platform into the water safely. The only way I'd watch diving is if they reduced the landing area to 1 square metre of pool water and gradually raised the height of the platform until people started missing.

Walking: I don't care how difficult this is...it's silly and undignified, with all the competitve drama of a 'quiet-shouting' contest.

Artistic/Rythmic Gymnastics: This is nothing more than an Olympic version of 'Dancing With The Stars'. Gymnasts in lycra, wearing mascara, adhesive sparkles and fingernails painted to resemble the flag are not athletes. And the women are even worse. Anyway, once judges get involved in an objective manner, the whole spectacle becomes less of a sport and more of an art. Besides which I'm sick of having to 'wait and see whether there are any deductions' for infractions beyond the understanding of the casual observer. Tell you what: fuck the protective mats off and replace them with sharpened spikes. That would get the little cunts concentrating a bit harder AND solve the problem of how to score errors.

Softball: Get fucked. What next; Nerfball ?? Pitty-pat boxing ?? Towel-folding ??

Beach Volleyball: For chicks only...and not unless they get naked !!!

Synchronised Diving:The double-whammy combining all the gayness of diving with the sheer pointlessness of synchronicity in sport. It's just a matter of time before the ultimate joke of Synchronised Rythmic Gymnastics is played on us.

BMX: OK, I tried really hard to embrace this as a sport. I love cycling, so the idea of pedal-powered rallycross didn't offend any Olympic sensibilities, however I've now had a re-think. From the sight of grown men riding kiddies bikes, as though they're in Clown School or something, to the thought of medal-winners being interviewed and claiming to be 'stoked', this sport has no dignity. And if they want to find out which riders are on drugs, forget expensive blood tests...just give them a jar of peanut butter and see which ones eat it with their fingers.

Dressage: This 'athletics' abomination is less of a sport than it is a finishing-school core-subject. Why not just give them all big bowls of soup, a spoon and a napkin...then award the medal to whoever can get the most soup out the bowl and into their mouths, with points deducted for bowl residue, napkin stains and slurpy noises...

More 'sports' to be excluded shortly...

coincidence...i think not...

2008-08-13T15:45:00.000-07:00

It was during my exhaustive research on the Jeanne Calment post that I noticed something strange going on…
‘Queen Jeanne’ had reigned supreme as the world’s oldest person from 14th February 1991 until her death on 4th August 1997, almost six-and-a-half years, before passing the torch to Marie-Louise Meilleur, a spritely 116-year-old nearly six years her junior.
Meilleur, from Ontario, Canada was at that time still playing in goal for ‘The Guelph Gryphons’, an all-women, semi-professional ice-hockey team, had recently represented her country at the 1994 Winter Olympics in giant slalom, yet on becoming the World’s Oldest Person (WOP) she was dead inside nine months, after the grand piano she was carrying upstairs allegedly fell on her.
Her successor as WOP, Sarah Knauss, aged 117 from Pennsylvania, USA, former personal assistant to President James Buchanan, lasted just eighteen months as titleholder before she was struck down and killed by a startled white-tail-deer during a 50 km bushwalk.
This left Eva Morris of Staffordshire, England, a paltry 114 years of age, as the WOP and she was expected to remain in office for at least a decade. Within twelve months however, Eva was gone, her vital organs apparently sucked out while she was sitting naked over a drain in her Jacuzzi.
Following Eva Morris as WOP were these unfortunate really old cunts:
Marie Bremont, France, aged 114, WOP for seven months before dying of water intoxication while trying to win a ‘Wii console’ in a local radio station's ‘Hold Your Wee for a Wii’ contest, which involved drinking large quantities of water without urinating.
Maude Farris-Luse, USA, aged 114, WOP for nine months, said to have fallen to her death after she threw herself through the glass wall on the 24th floor of the Michigan Met Life Building in order to prove the glass was unbreakable.
Kamato Hongo, Japan, aged 114, WOP for eighteen months, killed when the helicopter she was piloting stalled and crashed into the Siumida River. Startlingly, this was the second helicopter crash she had been involved in that year.
Mitoyo Kawate, also Japan, also aged 114, WOP for a mere two months, thought to have died from severe poisoning when she ate four fugu (also known as pufferfish or blowfish) livers in twelve minutes for a bet The liver is considered one of the most poisonous parts of the fish, but Kawate claimed to be immune to the poison. The fugu chef felt he could not refuse Kawate, for fear of losing face…but ironically lost his license as a fugu chef instead.
Ramona Trinidad Iglesias-Jordan, Peurto Rico, aged 114, WOP for six short months, supposedly died of smallpox ten months after the disease was eradicated in the wild, when a researcher at the laboratory she worked at accidentally released the virus into the air-conditioning unit of the building. She is believed to be the last smallpox fatality in history.
María Capovilla, Equador, aged 114, WOP for twenty-six months, believed to have solicited a man via the Internet to torture, kill and eat her for the purpose of sexual gratification.
Elizabeth Bolden, US, aged 116, WOP for less than four months, who according to official court transcripts was bludgeoned to death with a fire extinguisher by the crew of a commercial aircraft after attempting to storm the cockpit in a failed hijack bid.
Emiliano Mercado del Toro, Puerto Rico, aged 115, the only male WOP in the last 100 years, who legend has it died laughing while watching the Spanish-subtitled ‘Kung Fu Kapers’ episode of ‘The Goodies’, featuring a Scotsman in a kilt battling a vicious black pudding with his bagpipes.
Emma Tillman, USA, aged 114, spent just FOUR DAYS as WOP, before insurance investigators say she climbed into a storage rack at the Ford Motor Company’s Flat Rock casting plant to retrieve a part because the parts-retrieval robot had malfunctioned, when suddenly the robot reactivated and slammed its arm into Tillman’s head, killing her instantly.
Yone Minagawa, Japan, aged 114, seven moths as WOP, famously killed when an eagle dropped a tortoise onto her head (attempting to crack open the shell) after mistaking it for a rock…

My point: I find it hard to believe that all these people, after managing to live well into their hundreds, don’t seem to last terribly long after becoming the World’s Oldest Person.
I think there is a serial killer, a crazed madman perhaps, systematically offing these really old cunts. If I were Edna Parker, currently aged 116 of Illinois, USA...I'd be afraid.
Very, very afraid...

a special investigation...

2008-07-20T20:57:00.000-07:00

The recent passing of the world’s oldest blogger prompted a little research on my part into the question of human longevity, which eventually led me to a Wikipedia entry on the subject of super-centenarians. Or as they are sometimes known: really old cunts (ROC).

The most famous ROC was the legendary Jeanne Calment (pictured), a French woman who attained the incredible age of 122 years 164 days, before her untimely demise in 1997. I say untimely because if you look at her biography, it suggested she may have become the first human being to reach two-hundred.
For instance, in 1965, aged 90, with no living heirs, Jeanne Calment signed a deal, common in France, to sell her condominium apartment ‘en viager’ to lawyer François Raffray. Monsieur Raffray, then aged 47, agreed to pay her a monthly sum until she died, an agreement sometimes called a ‘reverse mortgage’. At the time of the deal, the value of the apartment was equal to ten years of payments. Calment lived more than thirty additional years, saying: “Best fun I’ve ever had watching that smart-prick lawyer shithead twist in the wind.”
In 1985, then living on her own at spritely the age of 110, Calment was moved into a nursing home after burning down the house while attempting to spot-weld a leaking water-pipe, claiming: “Fucked if I’ll pay some ass-raping plumber to come and fix such a small, pissy job.”
At the age of 114, making her the oldest actress ever to appear on screen, she starred in the 1990 film ‘Vincent and Me’ as herself, uttering the immortal line: “If you try and feel me up again Van Gogh, I’ll cut more than just your fucking ear off, you hideous, misshapen orangutan.”
Calment smoked until she was 117, quit, and then picked up the habit again at 118 years of age, telling her 80 year old physician: "Once you've lived as long as me, then you can tell me to give up cigarettes, you know-it-all cunt.”
Aged 120, she released a rap CD entitled ‘Time's Mistress’, attending the Grammys and getting into a scuffle on the red carpet with ‘Fifty Cents’, about whom she said, ‘Fifty fucking cents ??I wouldn’t give you five centimes for that crap-filled jungle bunny.’

Alas, poor Jeanne, the feisty little ball of gristle who looked as though she’d fallen of a charm bracelet, passed away in 1997, cut down in the prime of her life at 122 and a half years of age.
They say it was ‘natural causes’…but I think you’ll see (in my next spine-chilling post), there is more to this mystery than meets the eye…

beware the green eyed blogger...

2008-07-09T20:38:00.000-07:00

I never really post entries concerning my love-life unless they involve incidents from the distant past. It’s never been my policy to chronicle a potential romance in real-time, on the net, in full view of my doting readers. Then again, it happens so rarely these days that it’s hardly a policy which needs to be set in stone…
Nevertheless, since I recently (and publicly) alluded to the fact that I’m currently hunting ‘The Elephant’, it seems more than a mere coincidence that I’ve begun receiving unsolicited relationship advice from complete strangers via e-mail. It seems as though some of my adoring fans are just a wee bit jealous…

‘Dear Fingers, do you know this woman (web link attached)? She lives in your neighborhood. She is much prettier than your girlfriend. You can talk to her and maybe she will agree to go on a date with you. I went with her last Saturday and it was lots of fun! Highly recommended!’ This terrific review apparently comes from Erin Mercy, however I think I recognize Kitty’s bisexual MO when I see it.

‘Dear Fingers, put your left hand and a tissue together. Send your girlfriend away for the night and check this out (web link attached).’ A generous offer supposedly from Carol Arnold, which as everybody knows is Sparsely Kate’s real name.

‘Dear Fingers, I came across you on Classmates.com. How have you been? I am awesome. I work for a video company these days and I am featured in many films on this site (web link attached).’ Nice try Marianne Bolger, but I went to an all-boy school. Besides, the whole e-stalking/movie-making scenario gives you away totally, Travistee.

‘Dear Fingers, so you thought you’d seen it all!? Don't be so positive! Your new girlfriend happened to get into another sex scandal yesterday. This one will exceed everything she’s done before. Here are some photos (web link attached).’ Esther Marcus is the super-sleuth responsible for this damning report but there’s only one woman evil enough to post other people’s photos on a website…eh Kylie.

‘Dear Fingers, do not leave your lady on a farm lonesome. She can replace you with beasts and you will be way out of the competition for the rest of your life. I learned it the hard way (web link attached).’ This ominous warning allegedly comes from someone named Herbert Donald, though given her last post, I suspect it’s the actually the handiwork of Emmak.

‘Dear Fingers, did you know your girlfriend was a tranny with a big, black cock (web link attached)?’ Signed Alison Weber. Oh sure, that completely fooled me, Smack.

‘Dear Fingers, your girlfriend has complained privately to me that your penis is too small to satisfy her. Here is the solution to your problem (web link attached).’ Well, at least Stephanie Shaw has the decency to sign her own name to this litany of deceit; however I know she’s lying about ‘The Elephant’ complaining about it…because the byatch hasn’t even let me fuck her yet…

apocalypse then...

2008-06-25T21:44:00.001-07:00

So, by then it was about 4am and ‘The Brain’ and I were pulling bongs on the balcony, watching the rain pelt down and wondering what to do with ‘Scary Bob’s’ small fleet of expensive vehicles, both of which were permanently grounded by now.

Eventually we gave up and passed out on the couches, lulled to sleep by the dope and constant drumming of the rain…
I woke up first. My watch said 11-30am and my head was throbbing. ‘The Brain’ was still fast asleep on the adjacent couch, sawing logs like his life depended on it. Outside it was still pouring; I could hear the deluge through the open doors on the balcony. Deciding that a glass of water was in order I swung my legs off the couch and prepared to head off to the kitchen.
WTF ??
As I put my bare feet down, I noticed the carpet seemed to be wet to the touch, which certainly got my attention. I looked around the lounge room; the whole carpet appeared to be glistening. I rubbed my eyes and checked again. It was still glistening…and as I walked towards the balcony doors I noticed the nearer I got to them…the wetter the carpet became underfoot.
While we had been sleeping, the rain had apparently been so heavy it had pooled on the balcony then flowed over the sliding glass door rails and into the lounge room. The carpet was absolutely soaked; every step I took caused a puddle of water to form around my foot. This was not good.
I went over to give ‘The Brain’ the latest update from Catastrophe Central, wondering if this flood would be the straw that finally broke his camel-like back. To my surprise he took the news quite well, saying it had happened before, though not on quite so grand a scale. Apparently, all we had to do was dry the carpets out with a space-heater…
Now, for those readers unfamiliar with space-heaters, imagine an electric hair-dryer the size of a commercial jet-engine. Normally you would use one (1) to warm up your entire backyard for a mid-winter BBQ. These things simply suck cuntloads of cold air in at one end and blow superheated air out the other end…
Over at ‘BHC Ltd’ (‘Scary Bob’s’ building company) they had plenty of space-heaters; they needed them sometimes on construction sites to dry out rain-sodden earthworks, or to help cure concrete when the outside temperature was too low. So, we jumped in a taxi, went over to the BHC warehouse, grabbed one of the company utes and loaded it up with a space-heater.
‘Maybe we should get two,’ said ‘The Brain’.
So we did, taking them back to Lane Cove, hauling them into the lounge and setting them up at either end of the room. We plugged them in facing one another and stood back as they roared to life, the giant elements deep in their bowels glowing orange with electrically-resistant rage, while the built-in fans sent a blast of super-heated air barreling across the space between them.
Within minutes the temperature inside had become too warm for comfort, so we throttled the space-heaters down a notch or two, then went downstairs, where it was considerably cooler…and began what turned into a very long game of ‘Monopoly’.
If someone landed on ‘Free Parking’ they had to skull a nip of bourbon, going to jail meant a bong-hit…Mayfair with hotels was big rent and a punch in the arm. We started at about 2pm and at 6pm we decided to take a break and go check on the carpet-drying, so we trudged up the stairs to the lounge, the air temperature soaring with each upward step…excellent drying conditions.
As long as I live, I will never forget the scene at the top of the staircase…
The soggy carpets were dry. Bone dry. Tinderbox dry. And, being a high-quality wool pile, they had also shrunk nearly a foot away from the walls on all sides, pulling up floorboards as they receded to the centre of the room.
‘Holy fuck !!!’
‘Oh mate…’
‘Fuck me.’
‘You’re so fucked…’
We trod gingerly over the shrunken remains of the still-steaming carpet, pausing to note that the case of red wine ‘Scary Bob’ usually kept in the bar had popped every cork, the contents of the bottles now just a slow-moving ooze of reddish molasses which crept, glacier-like in a downwards direction, finally coming to rest on the turntable of the ‘Bang and Olufsen’ stereo.
‘Oh my god.’
‘You’re so, so, so fucked, Brain.’
Then there were the canaries, ‘Snap’s’ prize-winning pair of breeding canaries, resting peacefully (and now permanently) on the floor of their cage in a somewhat medium/well-done condition.
The tropical fish were nicely juxtaposed, ironically floating at the top of their tank, eyes wide-open in final disbelief at the sudden global-warming extinction event.
The large cherry wood china-hutch, a wedding present if I remember correctly, twisted and bowed by the contraction of its fibrous tissues, was so utterly warped that the glass window-panes in each of the doors had fallen out, smashing themselves to smithereens on the floor.
There was more…much, much more…but those were the highlights…and I’m sure you get the picture.

To be finished next time…

please let this be the end...

2008-06-09T16:31:00.000-07:00

I’m currently completing the final chapter of ‘The Brain’, however since every chick on the planet seems to have been swept away in the ‘SATC’ tidal wave, I might take this opportunity to have a moan.

One of life’s greater tragedies was/is that I used to be married to a girl who was/is an absolute clone of Sarah Jessica Parker. They didn’t/don’t just look similar…they were/are fucking identical twins separated at birth. Same age, same body, same face, same legs, same bongos…same everything. And when I say identical, I mean identical on the days when SJP looks hot; when she’s got the straight hair happening and isn’t wearing a tartan mini-skirt with red knee-high socks.
Now I don’t carry much baggage from that period of my life (anymore), however the sight of SJP on every billboard, every magazine cover…and now every blog is unsettling. I didn’t mind it back then; it was way cool to be boning an SJP-lookalike. These days I wish I’d been boning one of the other ‘SATC’-chicks…maybe Miranda…since they don’t seem to get as much exposure on the movie promos.
‘SATC’ was launched in 1998, while the ex and I were living in Japan. I don’t think I even knew who SJP was back then, having never seen ‘Footloose’ or ‘Mars Attacks’, however the massive publicity campaigns accompanying the blockbuster new TV series soon changed all that. Suddenly everyone was saying, ‘Hey Fingers…do you realize that Sophy looks exactly like SJP?’
Yes…I did, although at that stage of our relationship, I was more concerned about her weeing in the fridge at night
It soon got to the point where Sophy and I would go out in Tokyo for a walk and get approached by young Japanese girls wanting SJP’s autograph. At first, Sophy would tell them to fuck off; she was a short-tempered chick…and quite shy deep down…but quickly she began to take a perverse pleasure in forging SJP’s signature and letting the Japanese girls think they’d met a TV star. Sophy spoke nearly-fluent Japanese, which almost none of the Japanese girls found strange…and she’d jibber away with them, giving out tidbits of juicy gossip about the show; what happened on the set, who was fucking who off-set, hinting at bizarre twists in upcoming episodes…
I would stand to one side, minding my own business, trying not to appear bored and attempting to piece together the gist of the conversations with my basic grasp of the language. To my untrained ears it sounded mostly like. ‘Nani…nani…nani…Carrie-san…nani…nani…nani…Blodelick-san…nani…nani…nani…chigau desu…’
Which in fact it was; I later discovered that the Japanese girls were usually asking why I (Matthew Broderick) looked so much older in real life than I did on screen.
CUNTS…

surely things couldn't get w*rse...

2008-05-28T18:02:00.000-07:00

The windscreen wipers could barely cope with the sheer volume of water being deposited on the car. We crept home at a snail’s pace, past flash floods, past urban waterspouts created when the torrents accumulating in gutters would meet an obstruction such as a parked car. It was quite surreal, although the joint we were smoking probably didn’t help make things any more realistic either?
Finally we arrived back at Lane Cove, which is where things began to go terribly wrong again. ‘Scary Bob’ had built his mansion on a highly elevated block, which meant the place had an almost impossibly steep driveway; steep and long. As kids we used to shit ourselves trying to skateboard down it in one piece.
No one had ever made it in one run but plenty of skin had been left on the surface in the attempt. Where the driveway met the horizontal pavement on the street, the angle was so severe that a car would need to come to a complete halt before crossing it or risk bashing the front bumper bar on the upslope.
‘The Brain’, well-rehearsed in this maneuver, did precisely the right thing and we began our ascent. The driveway stretched out before us and after each pass of the wiper over the windscreen, we’d have a brief glimpse of the river of water cascading down the ramp towards us before the whole scene became blurred again. ‘The Brain’ pressed gently on the accelerator and ‘The Scary Bobmobile’ reluctantly started to move forward. No more than five kph could be achieved without the risk of spinning the wheels, so it was going to be a long, slow climb.
We got well past the halfway point, doing just fine, when ‘The Brain’ lost patience and tapped on the gas a little too hard. The old Mercedes, with just one rear drive-wheel, suddenly lost traction and began to slow.
‘The Brain’ hit the panic button and the accelerator all in one smooth move, gunning the engine and causing the drive-wheel to lose whatever little traction it already had. With all the noise from the pounding rain and revving engine, we’d lost our visual bearings and had become totally oblivious to the fact we were no longer moving forward. We had begun to backslide down the driveway, almost imperceptibly at first but rapidly gathering speed as gravity began to act on our two-and-a-half tonne car.
‘Fuck ‘Brain’…use the handbrake!!!’
‘It’s OK, I know what I’m doing.’
‘The Brain’ pressed the pedal to the metal and we accelerated even more quickly in reverse, now going faster downhill than we were previously going uphill, so ‘The Brain’ ripped on the handbrake. This eventually slowed us down, primarily because by applying the rear brakes, we effectively had no steering and slewed sideways into the driveway’s side-wall.
‘Fucking great Fingers…now look what you’ve done.’
‘Me? You’re the cunt driving. I told you to hit the handbrake before we started moving too fast. You just locked up the steering, cunt.’
The sandstone blocks did a tremendous job of washing off both our car’s speed and its paintwork; the grinding of metal on rock was excruciating. Meanwhile we were still going backwards. ‘The Scary Bobmobile’ was more of a ‘Scary Bobsled’ now…
Suddenly, to our great relief the car seemed to bounce off the wall, however the relief was short-lived as we began to re-accelerate, gaining speed a lot faster than either of us anticipated.
‘Fuck!!!’
‘Fuck!!!’
We slid all the way to the bottom of the driveway, the rear bumper ploughing into the level footpath as we passed over it, then shot across the roadway before ‘The Brain’ stomped on the footbrake and brought the car to rest in the middle of the street.
‘Are you OK, Brain?’
‘What? Of course I’m OK. It was hardly a high-speed accident, you cunt. The car’s fucked though. We’re fucked. We’re so fucked.’
‘Us?’
‘Yeah…us. You’re part of this too, Fingers.’
‘I don’t think so Brain.’
‘Yeah well we’ll see about that. Fuck…we have to get this fucking car off the street.’
Whilst arguing the blame, we hadn’t noticed that ‘The Scary Bobmobile’ had stopped running. ‘The Brain’ tried the ignition but nothing happened. As we found out later, when the rear bumper bottomed out, the impact had apparently crushed the exhaust pipe flat, much like placing a potato on it and effectively blocking the engine’s airway. We got out of the car and surveyed the damage. It looked as though the ‘Scary Bobmobile’ had been through a carwash equipped with angle-grinders instead of brushes on one side. There were deep gouges in every panel running the entire length of the chassis. The driver’s door-handle had been completely ripped off.
‘Gee, that should buff right out, Brain…’
‘Fuck.’
‘Yeah…it’s over for you, mate.’
In the still-pouring rain we pushed the ‘Scary Bobmobile’ to the kerb, parked its sorry ass, locked it and scurried upstairs to our lair to ponder the catastrophe…

To be continued…

a plan so cunning you could put a tail on it...

2008-05-18T23:33:00.000-07:00

So anyway…’The Brain’ went off to find some rope, while I foraged around in the back garden for a suitably heavy rock to weigh down the corpse. Ten minutes later we were hovering over the unquestionably dead hooker, deciding how best to attach the rock to her frail, little body. It was taking us a great deal of time to get the rock placed, which was just as well, because as we propped her up to try sticking the rock under her t-shirt…she coughed.
‘Jesus Christ, Fingers…she’s still alive.’
At this point I wasn’t sure whether ‘The Brain’ regarded this as good news or not, half-expecting him to turn into Freddie Krueger any second and produce an axe to finish the job.
‘Fucking hell, Brain…if we’d gone ahead with your stupid plan, we’d have actually been responsible for killing her. If they ever found the body and determined there was water in the lungs we’d be charged with murder, you cunt.’‘
'Well, you’re the one who said she was dead already.’
‘I’m STILL not a coroner, you fuckwad.’
As the wave of relief swept over us, an agreement was reached that the hooker had to leave the house…since neither of us were terribly convinced she wouldn’t die at some stage in the near future. Luckily for all concerned, The Royal North Shore Hospital was just a few minutes drive away. We hatched a meticulous plan to leave her in front of ‘Casualty’ where she’d be safe, so to that end we wrapped her in a blanket, carried the young lady down to the garage and opened the door.
‘Fuck, fuck, fuckety, fuck, fuck, fuck…I forgot the Jag’s fucked…we’ll have to take ‘The Scary Bobmobile.’
‘Oh brilliant.’
‘The Scary Bobmobile’ was a jet-black 600 SEL Mercedes, with ‘BOB’ number plates and nuclear-flash-white-walled tyres; possibly the non-stealthiest vehicle in the whole of Sydney. Still, we had few options (other than the many obvious, civilized, sensible ones) so we rolled the hooker-in-a-blanket into the boot (she was still at risk of throwing up), drove carefully over to the hospital, past the busy front doors, round the side to an unlit emergency door…and propped the now-semi-conscious body up against the wall.
We then drove out the other side of the hospital grounds, found a phone booth and called the hospital to let staff know there was a patient waiting for them outside. On the way home, ‘The Brain’ and I congratulated each other on taking the honourable course of action; we’d saved a life, we were possibly heroes…perhaps we’d both get a medal some day.
As we drove back to the house it started to rain, gently at first but then all of a sudden it was bucketing down, as only it can over on The North Shore, where it sometimes feels like God is trying to pour The Pacific Ocean on it through a sieve…

To be continued…

a brief interlude...

2008-05-12T00:08:00.000-07:00

If I may take a very short break from the story to ask the youth of Australia a question…
Here is an excerpt from Steph’s amazing Big Brother Blog, in which she summarizes the voting rules for household evictions this week.

It is an unauthorized reproduction, much the same as the girl/girl pash photo of Steph that most of my clients now have installed as screensavers across SE Asia.

‘…The public vote to SAVE the HM's they like. At the end of the week, the bottom three HM's with the least save votes, are put up for eviction. The HM's then vote (two points and one point) who they would like evicted, except for the winner of FNL who gets four points and two points to use on evicting a HM, AND also gets to SAVE one HM from eviction. The person with the next least save votes then gets put up to take their place.

In yet another twist, the bottom three HM's also get to nominate each other too and their votes are kept secret until the end.

After this somewhat exhausting process, the three HM's get into "the revolver". Two HM's are put back in the house, and the one with the most eviction points is spun out to "the bleachers" where Jackie-O is waiting to interview them…’

My question: If you can follow this...WHAT THE FUCK WAS SO FUCKING HARD ABOUT THE FUCKING AWAs YOU SEEMED TO HAVE SO MUCH FUCKING TROUBLE UNDERSTANDING, YOU DIM-WITTED CABBAGES…

That is all…and now back to ‘The Brain’…

the right thing to do...

2008-05-04T17:38:00.001-07:00

If the hooker had looked dead when we first picked her up at ‘Les Girls’, she looked even deader now.
‘Did you kill her, Brain ?’
‘No, she took another shot of smack a while back and then she just collapsed. She’s been like that for a few minutes. Check her pulse. Is she dead ?’

I leaned over the unconscious girl and placed a finger on her carotid artery. She had no pulse whatsoever, although I’ve since learned that the carotid artery is apparently in a different position to where I was pressing, so that may have explained it. Nevertheless, at around 2am I pronounced her dead, which did not suit ‘The Brain’ at all…
‘She can’t be fucking dead.’
‘Well she is…so what are we going to do about it ?’
‘No, no, no…she can’t be. Get a mirror and hold it in front of her mouth…see if she’s breathing at all.’
Now that was a surprisingly good idea from ‘The Brain’, so off I went in search of a suitable mirror. All of them were either attached to walls or simply too large to be practical but eventually I found a shaving mirror in ‘Scary Bob’s’ bathroom, which I unscrewed from its extension arm and brought back into the lounge room. I held the shaving mirror in front of the girl’s face while ‘The Brain’ supported her head gently.
‘Breathe you cunt, breathe,’ begged ‘The Brain’.
There was nothing; no respiratory vapour condensing on the mirror at all. This chick was as dead as she appeared according to our thorough medical examination. Of course, in our diagnostic haste, we had failed to consider that shaving mirrors were specifically designed not to fog up…but that fact wouldn’t occur to me until a few hours later.
‘She’s toast, Brain. We have to call the cops and report this.’
I may not have been a brilliant doctor but as a Year 3 student of the law, I was fairly sure about the correct procedure for dealing with corpses.
‘No way, no cops…’
‘Are you fucking kidding me, Brain. We haven’t done anything wrong yet. The silly cunt O/D’d…it’s not a crime unless we fail to report it.’
‘I don’t give a shit about the cops but if we call them, then they’ll call ‘Scary Bob’ and he’ll know we were here and then we’ll all wish we had OD’d.’
‘So, what do you suggest ?’
‘We have to get rid of the body.’
‘What ? Who the fuck are you…Ted Bundy ? How do we just get rid of a body ?’
‘We can tie her up, weight her down with rocks or something and throw her in the river…’
Conveniently, the house had frontage on The Lane Cove River, with a private jetty and a small dinghy for getting out to ‘Scary Bob’s’ large cruiser, which was normally moored a hundred metres away.
‘Are you completely insane, Brain…I’m not dumping this body in a river. We didn’t kill her; we’ve got nothing to hide.’
‘OK fine but when ‘Scary Bob’ is called by the cops, while he’s on holiday with ‘Snap’…and has to come racing back to Sydney to sort this out…and he asks me who else was here…I’m going to say ‘Fingers’.’
‘Right…you go find some rope. I’ll be in the garden looking for rocks…’

To be continued…

ok, so my promises aren't worth shit...sue me...

2008-04-27T23:15:00.000-07:00

So, one evening ‘The Brain’ calls up and says ‘Hey, ‘Scary Bob’ has taken ‘Snap’ away for a week on the boat. I’m over at their place now. Let’s take ‘Snap’s’ E-Type jag out for a spin…’
‘Are you fucking delirious, Brain. ‘Scary Bob’ will kill you if you touch ‘The Cuntmobile’. He’ll kill you if he even finds out you’re there while they’re away.’

‘Aw fuck her, and fuck Dad…we’re just going for a drive. Grab Tania (the Croat) and let’s go into Kings Cross for the night.’
So we did…where we went from bar to bar while ‘The Brain’ tried to pull a chick and take her back to his parents’ place to bone her senseless. Around midnight, smashed like three crabs, we found ourselves in a low joint called ‘Les Girls’, a tranny-dance club, where ‘The Brain’ managed to convince an off-duty hooker to come back and party with him. She might have been 18 years old, about 30 kilograms and looked like she’d been dead for a month.
We all piled into the Jag and went back to Lane Cove…
The Jag lived in a garage with an automatic door. Driving into the garage, ‘The Brain’, about five times the legal alcohol-limit (0.08 in those days) misjudged the door’s opening-speed and managed to ram the door with the windscreen, which simply cracked in half and fell onto the dashboard.
Ooops.
Deciding he had a week to fix that, we put the open-plan Jag away and went inside for a mini-party. The hooker went straight to the fridge, took about six foils of heroin from her purse, put one in arm and placed the rest in the cheese-compartment for safe-keeping.
We partied on till about 1-30am, when Tania and I excused ourselves and went downstairs to crash out in one of the spare bedrooms, leaving ‘The Brain’ and the hooker upstairs…still partying.
At 1-45am, ‘The Brain’ barged into our bedroom and shook me till I woke up.
‘What the fuck ??’
‘Fingers…you gotta come upstairs and have a look at something.’ ‘The Brain’ was borderline hysterical and he wasn’t the sort of guy to panic easily.
We went back upstairs, where he pointed out the hooker, lying fully-clothed on the lounge-room floor…unconscious.
‘I think she’s dead, Fingers…’

To be continued…

five posts in ten days...that's our promise to you...

2008-04-20T23:50:00.000-07:00

The year was 1980, I was a promising law student at the University of NSW, with a fiery, blonde, Croatian girlfriend whose fuck-head of a father would brew his own ‘Slivowicz ’ (some sort of 80-proof Slav paint thinner), force me to drink with him, then arm-wrestle me, call me a weakling pussy-cunt and threaten to bash me to death if he ever caught me fucking his daughter. Good times.
I weighed 57 kg and looked like a two-iron with ears: he was twenty-six years my senior, weighed 90 kgs and looked like a mediaeval castle door from where I was usually cowering.
One of my best friends was Steven XXXX, we called him ‘The Brain’, because ostensibly he didn’t have one. ‘The Brain’ wasn’t necessarily inherently stupid by birth, however he’d done things in his life which defied reason, even the envelope-pushing reason of a twenty year old, sliver spoon. ‘The Brain’ lived with his parents round the corner from my girlfriend and her homicidal father, down on the river at Lane Cove, in a magnificent six-bedroom mansion.
Sorry, ‘The Brain’ HAD been living there up until a month earlier, when he’d burnt down the kitchen trying to make magic mushroom pancakes at 2am whilst already under the influence of magic mushroom lasagna. In response to a ‘him or me’ ultimatum from his third wife (‘Snap the Cunt-Face Dragon’) ‘The Brain’s’ father made ‘The Brain’ pack his meagre bags and banished him from the family residence forever.
‘The Brain’s’ old man was a very scary guy. His name was Bob and he was a builder by trade; we’d have called him ‘Bob the Builder’ except that cartoon hadn’t been conceived yet, so we just called him ‘Scary Bob’. Anyway, ‘Scary Bob’ owned his own construction company ‘BHC Ltd’ (not the real name), a very successful operation which built most of the ‘Pizza Hut’ restaurants in NSW back in the eighties/nineties and made him a very wealthy, very scary, very connected-in-a-construction-industry-kind-of-way kind of guy.
Now despite ‘Scary Bob’ having recently exiled his idiot son from the family mansion, ‘The Brain’ still retained a managerial position within ‘BHC Ltd’, in an act of nepotism that made most of the hard-working, competent employees round there want to kill ‘The Brain’ and inter his remains under a ‘Pizza Hut’ floor during the next concrete-pour. They would have done it during the last concrete pour, however ‘The Brain’ slept through that one, courtesy of an all-night ecstasy binge that left him unable to make the 6am rendezvous with the five trucks from Boral, which duly returned to base and flushed sixty grand’s worth of unsupervised concrete down the drain before it set hard in their steely bowels. Doh…

To be continued…

at the third stroke...

2008-04-14T15:38:00.001-07:00

Have you ever noticed the remarkable shift in viewer demographics that the Channel 10 network and its advertisers seem to imagine takes place at midnight? Apparently, when the clock strikes twelve, the relatively normal, healthy, well-adjusted day shift scuttles off to bed with their respective partners and the night-shift bundies on.

So, what sort of creature inhabits the night, according to Channel 10 and its sponsors? Well, to answer that question, you’ll need to look beyond the mere programming and read between the none-too-subtle lines of the various commercials.

If it’s 12:01am and you’re still up watching television, Channel 10 advertisers think you’re almost certainly a single male, most likely a wanker, and not just figuratively speaking either judging by the enormous number of young ladies they have queued up just waiting to chat to you; ladies in underwear/bikinis; writhing around on top of their bedcovers unable to sleep presumably due to the intense mid-April heat?

Why not give them give them a ring, ‘Vaseline Boy’ (‘Call me…call me now…’), since you’re obviously both terrific people, tragically alone and yet, strangely awake at precisely the same time. It’s fate, although even fate has a price; $3-00 per minute…higher from mobile phones.

OK, maybe you’re not a pay-to-play kind of guy but Channel 10’s sponsors still suspect you’re probably a total dork, completely lacking any real-world skills? Well, you’re on the right channel ‘Dweebo’, because whether your pleasure is heterosexual, homosexual, bisexual, tri-sexual or even transsexual, they have a matchmaking website tailored to your specific needs. You’ll never need to leave your darkened room to date in person again once you go online with the thousands of other socially awkward people looking for a meaningful relationship, a one-night-stand or a simply a little anonymous cannibalism.

While you’re at it, perhaps you could lose some weight too; not much good meeting your perfect cyber-partner looking like that, is there? Hey it’s your lucky day, ‘Pork Chop’, because they have the ‘Flab-Buster Pro’ to help you shed those unsightly kilograms while you’re sitting there eating doughnuts by the light of the television. Sure it might look like just a large inflatable rubber ball, but check out the army of celebrities already using it to help them tone their fabulously un-single bodies.

And that receding hairline isn’t doing you any favours either, ‘Baldy’. You really should consider a visit to the specialists at ‘I Can’t Believe It’s Not Hair’.

Finally, one of the best-kept late night secrets, ‘Lawnmower Man’; there is a growing legion of self-made billionaires working from home for as little as sixty seconds a week, using the revolutionary new ‘Megabucks Now’ system of wealth creation. This guaranteed path to unimaginable riches is apparently not available to day-shifters, who are condemned forever to their working-class existence.

And you’ll certainly need those billions of dollars shortly, ‘You Stupid Cunt’, especially if you keep spending all night on the chat lines, buying RSVP stamps, ridiculous exercise machines and wonder hair products.

In fact Channel 10 should just come right out with a new viewer classification for that time of the evening; ‘LFBPG35+’ ??

The following programme is suitable for ‘lonely, fat, bald, poor guys over the age of 35’…

here...spidey, spidey, spidey...

2008-04-01T19:54:00.000-07:00

I live next door to a very nice lady; Suzee.
Apart from me, she’s the only other building-resident less than one-hundred and twenty years of age; about fifty, separated, runs her own business and generally seems quite independent.
Like I said, she’s a very nice lady who reminds me a lot of the brunette ‘Ab Fab’ chick, only a little more together. Last weekend, Suzee knocked on my door, a little hysterical, and asked if I could come over and remove a large Huntsman spider from her balcony. She’s terrified of spiders and when I went over to take a look at the problem, I saw this one was the size of a dinner plate, all set up in a high corner with a lovely web.

I said, “Sure, no problem. What’s in it for me ??”
“Huh ??”
“You heard me, Suzee. If I’m going to do your pest control, what are you going to do for me ??”
“Fingers, are you being revolting ??”
“In your dreams, you old bat (she likes it when I’m cheeky to her)…I mean is there any danger of some domestic reciprocation for services rendered ??”
“OK, I’ll iron a few shirts for you.”
“How many ??”
“Three.”
“No deal. That spider’s huge. And it’s breeding season, so it’ll be looking for something to kill and feed to its young soon.”
“OK. Five.”
“No way, Suzee. That is a ten-shirt spider if ever there was one. Maybe twelve.”
“OK, OK…ten shirts.”
“And properly ironed too. Not just sleeves and front…I want the collars pressed and the backs creased.”
“Of course.”
“And a blowjob…”
“Just get that fucking spider off my balcony. Please...”
“OK. Ten shirts, properly ironed and you can owe me a blow job, Gummy.”
“Yes, whatever…just get rid of it, pleeeease…”

So, because I abhor the killing of Nature’s creatures (except cockroaches and French citizens), I got a Tupperware container from Suzee’s pantry, coaxed Mr Huntsman into it, closed the lid tight, walked out of the unit and into the garden, where I planned to release him back into the wild.
Until I had a particularly brilliant idea…
Long story short, my new pet spider is now living and working full-time in my wine-cellar, where he gets free, secure lodgings and all the insects he can catch.
And as soon as I run out of ironed shirts, I have a funny feeling ‘Mr Huntsman’ will be holidaying on Suzee’s balcony…

it's all about meme...

2008-03-24T19:24:00.000-07:00

Why is it that most ‘ploggers’* will quite happily fill out a fifty-question ‘MEME’ but take exception to doing the annual ‘Census’ ??
Why are they gagging for an opportunity to take complete strangers on a magical tour of the mansions of their mind but unwilling to answer a few simple, anonymous queries from the Australian Bureau of Statistics ??
Why will chicks happily admit to their readers that on their birthdays they’d prefer to be tied up with chocolate silly string and taken from behind by an underage neighbour wearing a Superman outfit, or that at work they close their eyes at the desk and fantasize about their female boss whilst masturbating with a lampshade on their head and a space-shuttle inserted in their snatch …but won’t tell the government their age to the nearest five years ??
Why do guys freely confess to carving notch-holes in microwave-warmed vegetables and using them for sex-aids while their wives are out shopping for tandem butt-plugs, or that they used to let the pet Labrador lick hamburger mince off their balls while they lip-synched to ‘Wham’ when they were teenagers…yet baulk at disclosing their salary to within fifty grand ??
Funny old world…

* a new portmanteau created for this post using the words ‘blogger’ and ‘plonker’…

it's bad news week...

2008-03-10T00:10:00.000-07:00

Let’s cut to the chase here; I’m not a fan of period sex. And by that, I don’t mean dressing up like Napoleon and Josephine (which I quite enjoy as it happens)…I mean…

“I do not like red eggs and flange,
I do not like them Son of Sam !!!”
There is nothing remotely beautiful/sensual about menstruation…and if you think there is, you should probably be a coroner, or a serial killer, or both.

What’s worse, at the precise moment of the month when chicks are at their most unattractive, Nature conspires to make them horny as weasels. Very much like guys after twelve beers and a lamb kebab…only worse. Much, much worse…
My own fear of ‘flag week’ sex started in 1978, when my seventeen year old girlfriend had ‘the painters’ in but still tricked me into going down on her by saying ‘Would you like to go down on me.’ It was a cunningly simple plan, based on my love of going down on her combined with my relatively unsophisticated dining palate at that stage.
Meaning, I should have been able to taste the you-know-what…but didn’t.
At some point in the buffet I had to have a wee, so I trotted off the bathroom, turned the light on, looked in the mirror…and saw what appeared to be a naked mugging-victim staring back at me. Not only that but it appeared I’d been attacked whilst trying to lick the last bit of jam out of some imaginary jar…
It was everywhere…and like anyone who possesses what’s called ‘the gag reflex’, my blood-pressure plummeted and I immediately fainted.
Yes…go on…laugh your heads off, girls.
I mean, what kind of psycho does that to another human being ??
And you ALL do it, too…you filthy animals. Even though you know it makes me want to throw up, you taunt me with your plaintive cries.
‘Oh, stop being such a wimp. It’s just a little blood.’
‘Oh come on, it’s all quite natural.’
‘Oh, just think of it as red lube.’
Well, how would you like it if I pulled out my wing-wang, blood pissing out the end of it as though I’d just severed it myself with some garden shears and asked you to pop it in your mouth for a few minutes ??
Yeah…that’s what I thought…

glad that's over...

2008-02-28T04:09:00.001-08:00

So I went speed dating last week and it was a much more rewarding experience than I’d anticipated. You know the drill; seven guys, seven chicks, seven minutes to make their respective cases, then the chicks take a step to the left and the interview juggernaut moves on until all the chicks have met all the guys. At the end of the evening, if anyone fancies anyone else, they ask the moderator for their details, the moderator checks with the intended victim and if it’s OK with them…the deal is made.

Well, even I can hold my conversational end up for seven minutes, especially when compared to the sort of competition provided by the other six cabbages in the game, so I was quietly confident of at least one expression of interest.
Which I got; a nice looking brunette, Vanessa asked for my contact details and I gladly gave permission to release them. Vanessa was thirty-six, single, a veterinary surgeon at Taronga Park Zoo…and she’d had a rough day. The zoo had apparently lost one of their adult giraffes to a lightning strike during the violent storm that battered Sydney that afternoon, so she was quite depressed about it all.
Rather than let Vanessa grieve in peace, I asked why they didn’t have lightning rods placed around the compound to conduct the deadly electrical bolts away from the giraffes, given that they’re so fucking tall and come with those two stupid little horns, which as far as I can tell serve no purpose other than to actually attract lightning?
Vanessa mistook the sarcasm for some sort of sincere concern on my part for the welfare of the surviving giraffes and decided I was worth pursuing. We had a private little chat around 9pm, felt an instant attraction and in the spirit of speed dating resolved to keep the evening’s momentum going.
We went for a quick drink at ‘MPB’ around 9-30pm, grabbed some fast food in ‘Burger King’ at 10pm, sped back to Cunt Point on ‘The Stealth Vespa’ and leapt into bed for a quick fuck at 11pm, had a short post-sex nap, woke up around midnight for a brief discussion regarding our respective dreams for the future, realised we had somehow grown apart, agreed to a trial separation by 12-15am, gave the relationship a second chance at 1am, ran out of things to talk about by 2am, spent half an hour in silent resentment of all the time we’d wasted and finally split up for good at 3am.
Vanessa left in a taxi at 3-20am, she SMS’d at 3-30am to say she missed me.
I sobbed quietly until nearly 3-32am.
By 4am I couldn’t remember what she looked like anymore.
It’s true what they say about time healing wounds…

the world is not always your oyster...

2008-02-13T22:15:00.000-08:00

THE BRIEF: Create a character, give it a fear, then introduce it into a situation where it confronts and conquers that fear...

THE STORY:

Geoffrey stared at the slimy, grey ball of muscle on the fork, attempting to vanquish his total disgust through sheer force of will. He noticed a sliver of nacre, its appearance iridescent through a subtle trick of light, embedded in his thumb; an injury sustained in opening the oyster’s shell only minutes before. Geoffrey brought the slimy, grey ball closer to his face, its horrid image blurring as the focal length corrupted. Seemingly transformed into the eye of some tiny Cyclops, the slimy, grey ball returned Geoffrey’s stare.
‘You can’t eat me. You’ll never eat me,’ it hissed.
This time his slippery little opponent was badly mistaken, thought Geoffrey, only semi-convinced of his latest strategy’s chance of success but determined not to show even the slightest sign of weakness.
‘You can’t do it, Geoffrey. You know I’m still alive, you haven’t got the stomach for this type of savagery. You’ve never had it, Geoffrey.’ The slimy, grey ball was mocking him now. ‘I’m watching you, Geoffrey…’
With his free hand, Geoffrey slowly and deliberately picked up the pre-cut wedge of lemon, holding it gently but purposely in a position where the slimy, grey ball could best observe it. The Cyclops eye continued to stare, apparently unfazed by any citric threat on Geoffrey’s part.
Standoff.
Suddenly, the slimy, grey ball of muscle appeared to tremble on the end of the fork, though in reality Geoffrey suspected the true cause might have been his own shaky hand. No matter, at last he’d realised what the lemon was for and with a single-minded brutality he never knew he had, Geoffrey took aim at his nemesis and squeezed his fist tightly.
‘Let’s see you watch me with this in your eye, Cyclops…’

ONE OF THE COMMENTS (Miriam):

'As someone who despises oysters I found this difficult to read...'

Yes, well I hate the idea of killing whales but I managed to slog my way through 'Moby Dick', you silly cunt.

'...Why, if Geoffrey hates oysters, is he bothering to force himself to eat one ?'

Because it's my fucking piece and I said so and it's vital to the tag-line, which you'll find at the end of the story, if you're brave enough to push through your distate for oysters and read what I've written, you silly cunt. Why did your fuck-boring character go to the local supermarket to buy fuck-boring mangoes when she knew her fuck-boring ex might be there with his fuck-boring new fuck-boring girlfriend ??

'...some lovely imagery though and your personification of the oyster is marvellous...but the ending is confusing. Does Geoffrey throw the lemon at his enemy...'

He squirts juice in its eye, Miriam !!! The metaphorical eye that I took great pains to craft. The eye that isn't really an eye, except for the purpose of the gag, to squirt the lemon in its fucking eye Miriam...even though I know that's not really what the lemon is for, you silly, silly, cunt...

now why didn't i think of that...

2008-02-11T21:41:00.000-08:00

THE BRIEF:

Create a character, give it a weakness/fear, then develop a short story (300 words) in which the character’s weakness/fear is exposed.

THE STORY:

Kieran slumped into the allotted seat and immediately began his relaxation exercise; inhaling nasally, exhaling orally…slowly, deeply at first…gradually reducing the length of each breath until he imagined the calm flooding in.
He brought his hands together, gently introducing the fingers of one to its partner on the other, then closed his eyes and commenced reviewing the physics of the problem as he saw it. It was simple really. The engines provided the forward motion, causing air to rush over the surface of the huge wings. The wings, shaped in accordance with the principle laid down by Daniel Bernoulli nearly three hundred years earlier, split that rushing air into separate streams. Those two streams travelled at different velocities, creating an imbalance of air-pressure, which would thrust the wings and anything else attached firmly enough to them up, up and away…‘
All well and good,’ interrupted The Beast, its filthy snout breaking the surface of Kester’s flooding calm ‘but all that technical wizardry is sometimes flawed, whereas gravity is constant and perfect.’
Kester’s eyes flew open, just as they always did; he realised he hadn’t taken a breath for nearly a minute. In the seat to his left, Kieran’s best friend Phil noticed it too.
‘You OK, mate?’ asked Phil carefully adjusting the buckle on his seatbelt.
‘Christ I hate flying. I think I’m going to be sick,’ admitted Kieran, reaching for the small plastic bag beneath his seat.
‘You’re a funny guy, Kier…real funny guy,’ said Phil, flicking an illuminated switch overhead and wrenching the microphone free of its bracket in order to bring it closer to his mouth.
‘Good evening, I’m Captain Phil Driscoll and along with my co-pilot Captain Kieran Putz, I’d like to welcome you all aboard Virgin Atlantic flight VS201 to London…’

ONE OF THE COMMENTS (Celia):

‘I think in the space allowed this is a very entertaining piece of writing but I suppose I wonder how long he has hated flying if that is his job. After all, he is a pilot. Was there a defining moment that changed him?’

Well gosh Celia…that is kind of weird isn’t it…a pilot who’s afraid of flying. What a strange twist; ironic even. Hey, why don’t I change the story so that Kester is a passenger and Phil is another passenger sitting next to him? That would make more sense, eh?
You stooopid, stooopid cuuuuuuuuuuuuuuunt…

teachers pet...

2008-02-10T18:01:00.000-08:00

OK, so for the past few weeks I’ve been very busy with Writer School.
Writer School blows very large goats (see how my use of metaphors has improved?).
It’s way too Zen-like for my taste; lots of meditating, closing of the eyes, exploring one’s surroundings with all five newly-electrified senses then frantically scribbling down an unedited stream of consciousness. Last week I had my eyes open and was staring at some chick’s bongos while she was zenning-out, so when the tutor yelled ‘OK, now write what you’re thinking’…I wrote ‘Bongos…want.’
No Pulitzer for me.
Oh…and the best bit. After each writing exercise, we all get to critique each other’s pieces…but it’s POSITIVE feedback only. Can you imagine how much I’m into that?
‘Oh Brenda, I just loved the way you used the ‘bricks of detail’ technique to describe Jenny’s fascinating personal journey of discovery during her Kontiki tour of Goa…’
‘And Rita, Cassie, Miriam, Delia and Patricia, although on the surface your pieces all seemed to be identical journals of lost love, I found that each of you had approached this riveting topic from a wonderfully unique perspective…’
At least I would have done if I hadn’t fallen asleep during the first paragraph.
Did I mention I was one of just two guys in a class of twelve?
That’s right…ten chicks…seven of whom when asked ‘So, why are you taking the Unlocking Creativity course?’ answered ‘I want to unlock my creativity.’
Doh!!!
So, who wants to see what I’ve written…

what women want...

2008-01-14T20:56:00.000-08:00

It’s taken forty-seven years of trial and error…but I’ve finally worked out what women want.
Forget good looks, forget gigantic brains, forget fabulous humor, forget kindness, generosity, charity or the power of life and death…forget all that shit they write in their profiles on dating sites.
It’s all bullshit; they want boats !!!
Are you listening to me ??
WOMEN WANT BOATS.
And it doesn’t have to be the ‘Arctic P’ either, although I suspect you’ll need something a little more up-market than a tinny.
Just your basic, entry-level speedboat will to do the trick.
Of course, you’ll also require a plentiful supply of cheap champagne and some strong sunshine in which to drink it, however once these three ingredients are combined, virtually any man can have his very own bikini-clad headrest.
So, my advice to the rest of you desperate ‘Unfuckables’ is do what you have to do…rob a bank, sell your organs to Arabs, find yourself a better-paying job…but get a fucking boat.
I wish I’d done this years ago…

we must learn from our mistakes...

2008-01-09T23:00:00.000-08:00

Popular opinion amongst cosmologists holds that if aliens were to visit Earth they would be vastly superior in intelligence to the local inhabitants.
Obviously this wouldn’t be the case if they set their shiny little saucer down on Cunt Point Rd, however for the remainder of the planet it’s probably a fair assessment.
Long story short…the reasoning is along the lines that any aliens smart enough to build a spacecraft capable of traversing the incalculable distances involved in such a trip must be way smarter than most of you cabbages.
Another fair assessment; then again anyone capable of calculating the impact of a 0.15% increase in interest rates on their mortgage probably has 50 IQ points on most of you too.
There is also a widely-held belief that these mega-brained aliens would be coming in peace to share their accumulated wisdom with us and that our lives would be greatly enriched by the contact.
DON’T BE DECEIVED !!!
If you consider our own history, particularly the last five hundred years or so, try to recall one instance of an ‘inferior’ culture benefitting from contact with a supposedly ‘superior’ culture.
I’m quite sure the Mayan Indians could have done without the help of their educated Spanish benefactors. Likewise, I doubt many Australian Aborigines now celebrate the first day they encountered their enlightened British saviours ?? Not a lot of African nations these days rejoice in the improved quality of life brought by the Dutch as far as I’m aware.
And so on…
What I’m saying is that if a flying saucer sets down in your backyard, a hatch opens and a Little Green Thing walks down the ramp…SHOOT THE FUCKER !!!
Don’t say ‘HELLO’ to it, don’t listen to any of its crap about coming in peace, don’t extend your hand in a gesture of inter-galactic friendship. It will not teach you how to run your car on water, or explain how women think, or reveal where flies go when it’s raining…so just SHOOT THE FUCKER !!! Right between however many eyes it has…
Then get some really toxic shit, such as anthrax dust or a crate of Muslims, stuff the flying saucer full of it and weld the hatch shut.
History will thank you for it one day…

sweet dreams are made of these...

2007-12-26T16:45:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, as has become my habit in recent years I attended the Boxing Day sale at DJs and Myer city stores !!!
I'm not one of those savages lined up from 3am, thermos of coffee in their rucksacks, noses pressed against the doors, slavering like crazed weasels at the thought of saving $30 on a towel for the bathroom. I tend to saunter in around 10-ish, go directly to the Manchester section and scoop an entire set of designer bed linen, (duvet cover, fitted-sheet and 4 pillow slips), which lasts me a year. I’m not terribly fussed about getting the exact print I want: I’m simply after quality stuff at stupidly low prices. The week before the sale I do a little reconnaissance work, check the ranges, sizes, prices, study the store layout and acquire a target…it’s a surgical strike, not a day out for me.
Inside 30 minutes I had selected and purchased the 2008 linen for the workbench, a subtle Ralph Lauren print, normally $900, mine for $270…mission completed.
Beetling out of the store, the treasure clutched to my chest to keep it away from the cloying fingers of the hordes of Chinese barbarians…I saw it.
In a corner of the Ralph Lauren section, not necessarily for sale though, stood the most magnificent stressed-leather armchair I’d ever laid eyes on. It was a prop really; a non-related, same-brand item designed to reassure the buyer of RL products that this was the kind of world they now belonged to.
I had to sit in that chair…
I did sit in that chair…
I wish I hadn’t sat in that chair…
As soon as my ass hit the seat I was gone. My mouth watered at the prospect of sitting there for eternity whilst a parade of increasingly larger, increasingly higher-definition plasma TVs passed before me. The chair enveloped me, hugging my form to its padded, leathery bosom, caressing me in ways other chairs have promised but never delivered.
‘Excuse me, sir…you can’t sit on that chair…it’s a display item.’
I had been spotted by one of the David Jones sales trolls.
‘Huh…what…I want this chair…how much for the chair…please sell me this chair.’
‘It’s not for sale, sir…it’s a display item only.’
‘I don’t care…I want to buy it…can you find out how much it is ??’
‘It’s not for sale, sir… it’s a display item only.’
‘Yes, I heard you the first time. Please go and find a supervisor or something…I need to have this chair…it’s XMAS…let’s negotiate…everything has a price…sell me this chair you cunt.’
‘It’s not for sale, sir… it’s a display item only.’
‘And I want the ottoman too.’
Eventually the troll found a supervisor and we resolved the issue.
‘It’s not for sale, sir… it’s a display item only.’
‘Yes…I know that, you simple-minded fuckwad…I was just being silly with your sales-troll…I just want to know where I can get one like it.’
‘Try Ralph Lauren Furniture…it’s on loan from them.’
‘Thank you.’
So, today I went online, found the RLF website, located the armchair of my dreams and spent 30 minutes drooling on my keyboard. It’s called ‘The Writer’s Chair’…and its NOT just a display item and it IS for sale.
FOR SALE: $6999…
And $2399…for the matching ottoman…
CUNTS !!!

a xmas tale...

2007-12-17T15:45:00.000-08:00

In the XMAS/NYE period of ’88 I met a very attractive, blonde surfy-chick at the Coolangatta Airport check-in queue whilst returning from a rare, financially successful, weekend’s bourbon/cocaine binge on the blackjack tables at Jupiter’s Casino. Sadly, ‘rare’ describes the financial success of this particular trip, rather than the frequency with which these self-destructive junkets tended to occur. Anyway, flushed with funds, still buzzing like a turtle from the narcotics and sporting a newly purchased ten-gallon hat which I’d hoped advertised some mighty gambling prowess, if not a sense of style necessarily, I boldly struck up a conversation with this girl. By the time we’d reached the counter I’d convinced her to keep company in the seat next to me on the flight. A double martini and two lines of coke later in the Qantas Club, I’d discovered her name was ‘Caroline Clay’ (‘Everybody calls me Cass…’) and that she was a 24 year-old real estate agent from Surfers Paradise, heading to the bright lights of Sydney to seek her fortune. Thirty minutes later, maybe somewhere over Port Macquarie at 28,000 feet, as I held a glass of champagne in my right hand and she held my wing-wang in hers, I generously offered her free accommodation for life, which my new ‘girlfriend’ graciously accepted with all the dignity manageable in the performance of a hand-job.

Upon landing in Sydney, we raced back to ‘our’ place for some thrilling first sex, after which she got dressed and headed into Kings Cross for some nightclubbing. I declined the invitation to go with her as I was not a dancer of any note and besides that had work the next day. She returned home at 7-00am, just as I was getting up, greeted me with a kiss, the offer of a blowjob which I gladly accepted, and was fast asleep when I left for the office. Ten hours later, when I got home, she was still asleep. I proceeded to cook my dinner/her breakfast, after which we had thrilling second sex, followed by cuddles and some thrilling third sex. At about 11-00pm I indicated I was going to bed, whereupon she had a shower and got ready to apparently go nightclubbing again. In a repeat of the previous evening, she cruised back in around 7-00am as I was getting up, we did a few quick laps of the rack and she was fast asleep before I left the apartment. This bizarre ritual went on virtually unchanged for five days, the only variation being the increasing degree of haggardness with which she greeted me each morning. By the sixth morning she looked ten years older than the girl I’d recently met; all the clubbing was starting to take its toll.

I inquired of Cass as to what she intended doing about getting her real estate career started in Sydney but the questions went unanswered. The nightclubbing however went on and her youthful visage came off accordingly.

I became a little suspicious…

One night, as she departed in the now familiar 11-00pm taxi, I decided to follow her from a safe distance in my car. She went straight to Kings Cross, alighted on Macleay Street and disappeared through a heavy, wooden door which may or may not have hidden a nightclub. I waited out the front for about five minutes, contemplating whether to go in and see what she was doing or simply go home and get some sleep. I was just about to drive off when Cass reappeared on the street, unsurprisingly (had I given it even the slightest thought) dressed in a denim mini-skirt, pink blouse tied off below her bongos and white, six-inch pumps. Superb; I was dating a hooker.

Now I should mention that I have nothing against hookers or hooking in principle. Having worked for eighteen years in the money market, I‘ve witnessed with my own eyes, amongst other various body parts, the miraculous sex-for-money-led economic recovery that took place in the 80s/90s. I say ‘to each their own’ and if franchising the comfort of your orifices is your profession of choice…well pucker-up then, Peckerhead…but having my ‘girlfriend’ fuck the indiscriminate orts and leavings of the sexual buffet for money (or for free come to think of it) is a ‘whorse’ of an entirely different colour.

Angry at being taken for a fool and slightly unnerved by the thought of five days worth of memorably unprotected sex, I slunk home to bed. The following morning I passed on the blowjob, scuttled off to the clinic for a complete check-up, which rather miraculously turned up nothing terribly disturbing other than elevated cholesterol, and spent the day preparing a break-up speech for later.

That evening, I gave Cass the speech, which spoke entirely of my inability to commit daily to a relationship and nothing of her ability to commit nightly to misdemeanours; I simply didn’t have the heart to let her know I knew. She took the news stoically, fortified mostly I’m sure by the reassuring words concerning her immediate future and partly by the shot of heroin she took shortly before I got home.

She thanked me for ‘everything’ and asked if she could move her meagre possessions out the following day, while I was at work. I agreed, passed on the offer of break-up sex and went to bed. When I got up, she wasn’t yet home from the previous night’s clubbing, however upon my return from work that evening, I saw that she’d made good on her promise; all her things were gone.

As I looked around the house, I felt a tinge of sadness, a sudden emptiness, though not because I was sure I’d never see Cass again, but rather because the cunt had taken most of my possessions with her when she went. In fact, she must have hired a fucking truck to fit it all in; TVs, stereos, tables, chairs, clothing, shoes, sports equipment, cutlery, crockery, paintings. All of it…everything that wasn’t bolted down; she must have spent the entire day there, with help, removing the contents of my apartment.

The ensuing insurance claim strangely failed to mention I’d left a heroin-addicted prostitute unattended in my place for a day...

(This story was first published a while back on Lombay's splendid site. I'm in the process of salvaging certain articles for posterity and dumping them on TWG. Aplologies to anyone from the old days who might have suffered through it before...)

come again...

2007-12-11T20:41:00.000-08:00

Have you ever wondered why the 75% of chicks that apparently achieve orgasm from plain, simple fucking ever even have them ??
From a biological perspective, what is the point of the female orgasm ??
Obviously my people need a bio-mechanism for getting the good stuff out of the gene-vault, up the insemination-device and into the egg-chamber. Not to bore you with specifics but there’s a precise set of muscle-spasms required to achieve this result…and as luck would have it, it turns out to be insanely pleasurable for us.
Then again, if sex was painful, how often would your people be able to talk my people into having it ??
Anyway, the male orgasm is absolutely required for the act of reproduction to occur in Nature; the attendant ecstasy is just a fluke.
But why do chicks have orgasms ??
Well, one school of thought is that the neural pathways, which necessarily include the body’s pleasure-receptors, are laid down very early in the embryonic development, irrespective of gender. What my people get, your people get.
Basically, you chicks get a free ride on the Orgasm Express courtesy of the freakish anatomical symmetry which occurs very early on in life.
So, all those jollies you’re getting are pretty much on our tabs, ladies.
How about taking the time to stop and thank my people.
Then again, I suppose you probably think the free set of useless nipples my people get when you’re given yours is a fair exchange of perks…

good dyke, bad dyke...

2007-12-04T18:12:00.000-08:00

I am a huge fan of lesbians: I have all their movies…
However, as with almost everything…there’s good and there’s bad.
There are good lesbians, like the ones that wash their cars naked then turn the hose on each other before settling down for a scorching session of smoo-smooching…
And there are the bad ones, like Terri and Sharon Arnold, who…besides being a pair of hideous moose-pigs, form part of a new movement whose members claim their inalienable right to ‘have’ children irrespective of sexual inclination, age, fertility or financial capacity.

This is not a post about the morality of same-sex unions; I don't give a rat's-ass what you do in the privacy of your own padded dungeons. It's about selfish, short-sighted, stupid minorities...and the idiot firemen who inseminate them...

ladies and gentlemen of the jury...i ask you...

2007-11-28T15:30:00.000-08:00

Honestly, do these look like the faces of car vandals...

shit happens...

2007-11-25T16:29:00.000-08:00

These two adorable things are my fearless Bengals...Roni and Reji. They're looking for their favourite pot-plant, which appears to have vanished. They loved that pot-plant. Specifically, they loved pushing it over that ledge then watching me clean up the mess...

This is the pot-plant in question...a bonsai which I have lovingly grown from a twig into the thriving mass of leaves you see before you.

In order to ensure the plant's safety, it was moved onto my balcony, where it enjoys full afternoon sun and a wonderful planty sort of life...

This is kind of what my neighbour's car looks like. I'm not sure what sort of car it is, since it always has a protective cover on it. I guess he must really love it though.

Almost as much as I love my Bengals.

Maybe even as much as my Bengals loved their pot-plant...

If only he hadn't insisted on parking under my balcony, which is not really a parking zone anyway...and if only Roni and Reji hadn't gotten onto the balcony, where they're not really allowed to go...and if only they hadn't recognized their favourite pot-plant and pushed it off the balcony...this probably wouldn't have happened...

australian story...

2007-11-18T21:19:00.000-08:00

My dear old Dad turned seventy-five last week !!!
He came out to Australia from Yorkshire in 1952, crammed into the hold of a leaky Greek deathtrap called ‘The Patris’, arriving in Sydney alone with the balance of his starting kitty as a ‘ten pound POM’.
Dad quickly found work as an apprentice carpenter, earning the princely sum of eleven pounds a week, out of which he had to house, clothe, feed and entertain himself…while at the same time save a deposit for a house some day.

Over the next 5 years, he scrimped and saved every penny until he had almost 300 pounds, which, combined with a 2500 pound loan from The Commonwealth Bank, enabled him to purchase a tiny hovel in the working-class suburb of Petersham.
He would complete his 12-hour day at work, come home to a dinner of fried kippers and chips, then spend at least 6 hours using his newly-acquired carpentry skills renovating his hovel in the evening. After three years he sold the place for 3700 pounds and with his capital appreciation bought a dump in Newtown.
By now a fully licensed tradesman and earning 18 pounds a week, he continued to work hard, eat his kippers and renovate by candlelight into the wee hours of the night. Over the next 4 years Dad found time to meet my Mom, marry her, have Me…and replace virtually every fixture and fitting in our little dump, eventually selling it for 5000 pounds and a small profit in 1964.
My parents used this money to buy a run-down terrace in Surry Hills, still both working 11 hour days to pay the bills for our soon-to-be-growing family, as well as finance the improvements Dad would again make to our house. He would come home exhausted, Mom would have his kippers and chips ready, then he would retire to some un-renovated part of the house and hammer and saw and sand and scrape and paint away the best years of his life…
The following year my sister was born, further adding to the financial strain, however both my parents continued to work the standard blue-collar day, after which Mom would look after her children while Dad transformed the terrace into a livable home. They had modest plans to sell the terrace and use the money to buy a semi, starting the whole process all over again in what was then unfashionable Bondi…
However in 1966, my Grandfather won the Opera House lottery and gave my parents $50K, so we fucked off the renovating crap, moved to a big house in The Eastern Suburbs with a pool, tennis court, two cars and lived happily ever after…although Dad still eats kippers.
Happy Birthday Dad…

and completely unrelated to sex...although it is fucked...

2007-11-07T17:11:00.000-08:00

Amazingly prominent on the front page of yesterday’s SMH (aka…the-rag-formerly-known-as-a-newspaper), mixed in with the hard-hitting stuff on Ben Cousins’ rehab drama, Brittney’s custody drama and some Bollywood cunt’s fan-mail drama…was a not-too-insignificant piece (of public-relations-issued-drivel) concerning our beloved ‘Telstra’ and their hard-working executives.
It seems that a measly 66% of shareholders think the company executives are a little too well-rewarded for their steering of the corporate ship into historically shallow waters.
We know this because they held a vote on the subject.
Sadly for the 2/3 of the voters who told the executives to jam their ginormous bonuses up their collective asses, this was a ‘non-binding’ vote, which is to say it was not really a vote at all.
It was a sham.
‘Telstra chairman Don McGauchie said The Board was very disappointed by the vote…’
However, since it was a non-binding vote, they would get over the disappointment and get back to gouging the shareholders, buying boats and making poor business decisions.
‘He said the board would carefully analyze the figures and give them full consideration in future remuneration planning.’
However since they were non-binding figures, The Board would eventually just do the same thing again next year since there was fuck all anyone could do about it anyway.
‘He said Telstra's board believed the remuneration plan was fair and reasonable and would not have proposed it if it did not.’
Which is also a fair and reasonable assessment of their supreme arrogance and explains why they get the big bucks and you, the shareholders, get falling stock-prices and non-binding voting rights, you silly cunts.

So, basically fuck you all very much for buying our stock, now let us get back to ripping you off and you can get back to the Ben Cousins’ Story…

orgasms anonymous...

2007-11-06T18:51:00.000-08:00

Continuing with the theme of sex-addiction, I’ve been wondering whether it’s the kind of affliction that actually benefits from a group therapy situation?
With alcoholism, sufferers can gather in a room, stand up and do the ‘Hello, my name’s Wally and I’m a stinking drunk’ thing. The other group-participants all do the ‘Hello Wally, we’re all stinking drunks too’ thing…then they scare each other sober with tales of the various lives they’ve left in ruin through their abuse. Obviously, there is no alcohol available at these meetings…
Drug-addicts can congregate in a circular arrangement to confess the use of various substances they once thought gave ecstatic pleasure and find solace in the knowledge they’re not alone in their ultimate, self-inflicted agony. Obviously, there are no narcotics available at these meetings…
It’s the same at the Gamblers Anonymous support sessions. Penniless losers huddled together, inextricably bound by their mutual bankruptcy, coming to grips with the notion that the money was the least problematic of their losses. Obviously, there are no pokies in the room as far as I’m aware…
But sex-addicts…fuck me…everything they need to give themselves a carnal overdose is right there in the room. There’s a whole group of fellow pecker-fondlers and snatch-fillers just itching to rub themselves up against someone or something in the mindless pursuit of orgasm. Imagine it; a dozen or so sex-mad fruit-loops, all having a whinge about how much they adore getting their rocks off, while not ten feet away sits a like-minded audience of whimpering friction-hounds, moaning with a multitude of unfulfilled desires, ready to tear their clothes off and go for it right there on the floor.
You’d need to have them all wearing oven mitts and stuff tennis balls in their mouths to stop it turning into an orgy…

it's a fucking miracle...

2007-11-01T20:06:00.000-07:00

Right…listen up plonkers.
I’m sick to death of needy bloggers holding the rest of the world hostage to their brittle emotions. It’s all about heat and kitchens. Get cooking or get fucked !!!
If you don’t like a comment, DELETE IT !!! That’s what that button is there for.
If you don’t like a specific commenter, BLOCK THE CUNT !!! That’s why you have administerial privileges.
Threats to close your blog, only to re-open it an hour later wear thin after a while, as I hope this little exercise illustrates. Thanks to an ‘Unnamed Angel’, who convinced me that ‘TWG’ was far too important a body of work to sacrifice on the altar of blog-politics, I will now rise from my own ashes, all Jesus-and-Phoenix-like…to resume taking the piss out of stuff.
Because that’s what I enjoy.
And if you don’t like it…FUCK OFF !!!
And if you have a pesky troll who leaves nasty little pieces of troll-poo on your pristine blog, either deal with it, cut your fucking head off…or send them here and I’ll pick their tiny troll-wings off one by one.
And as ‘Rackorf’ would tell you…harden the fuck up !!!
Now, who wants some…

look no further...

2007-10-31T22:39:00.000-07:00

Right...well...in news just to hand...

Apparently I'm the utter, utter cunt I'm looking for.

I'm not entirely sure what I did...but it must have been terrible, therefore I have cut my own fucking head off and will shortly be taking a dump in my neck...

and it wasn't curiosity that did it...

2007-10-31T20:49:00.000-07:00

When I find the utter, utter cunt responsible for doing this to my Kitty Kat, I will come over to your blog, cut your fucking head off and take a large dump in your neck...

bicycle bicycle bicycle...i want to fuck my bicycle...

2007-10-29T23:53:00.000-07:00

‘A man who admitted having sex with a bicycle in a Scottish hotel has been placed on the sex offenders' register for breach of the peace. Robert Stewart admitted to the crime Friday in Ayr Sheriff Court and is to be sentenced next month, Britain's Telegraph reported Saturday. Stewart was discovered last October by two maids who entered to clean his room during a stay at the Aberley House Hostel in Ayr, Scotland. "The accused was holding the bike and moving his hips back and forth as if to simulate sex," a sheriff's spokesman told the court.

We live in an age of intolerable double-standards.
A chick on stage, attempting to stuff everything from ping-pong balls to the space-shuttle Columbia into her snatch in full view of a paying audience…she’s an exotic entertainer.
Yet a man showing his bicycle a little affection in the privacy of his hotel room…he’s branded a sex-fiend.

Go figure…

in a perfect world...

2007-10-28T22:03:00.000-07:00

A recent post by Angry Betty over at ’48 DDD’ got me thinking about grief.
Not the grief associated with a death in the family; the grief a man gets when he comes home later than promised from a night out with the boys.
What man hasn’t stealthily tried to break into his own home at 4am, get undressed and slide unnoticed into the bed, only to find the handbrake sitting there, arms crossed, waiting for an explanation ??

‘WHERE THE FUCK HAVE YOU BEEN ???’
‘Out with clients.’
‘YOU SAID YOU’D BE HOME BY TEN... IT’S FOUR O’FUCKING CLOCK.’
‘Sorry baby…they wouldn’t let me leave. It was awful.’
‘SO, WHAT HAVE YOU BEEN DOING UNTIL NOW ???’
‘Nothing…just drinking…talking…watching sports on TV.’
‘BULLSHIT !!! WHY CAN’T YOU JUST TELL ME THE TRUTH BEFORE YOU GO OUT…WHY CAN’T YOU TELL ME YOU’RE GOING TO BE LATE…WHY DO I HAVE TO STAY UP TILL ALL HOURS WORRYING…ALL I WANT IS THE TRUTH…WHY, WHY, WHY…’

OK, beeotches…how does this sound ???

We ring as we’re leaving work (you remember work, right ??)…we say we’re going to the pub to get lashed. Then we’re going to leave the pub around 10 (the same time you’re expecting us home) and have a curry coz we’re so drunk no decent restaurant will let us in. At midnight we’ll be thrown out of the curry joint, so we’ll head to the casino and dump a week’s wages on the tables, making that weekend away to The Blue Mountains you were planning a complete financial wash-out. Angry at losing all our money, we’ll head off to the lap-dance emporium to wallow in self-pity, stuff money into strippers’ g-strings and have shaving cream rubbed into our suits. When our credit cards are eventually declined, we will drive home, stopping briefly for a lamb-kebab with extra garlic hummus, after which we will crawl into bed, pester you for sex, then fall asleep and snore for the rest of the evening…

And do you want to know why we don’t tell you all this before we go out; why we say we’ll be home at a reasonable hour in a reasonable state when we have no intention of doing either.
Because you say you can handle the truth…but you can’t.
Because you say you want the truth…but you don’t.
So it’s easier just to go out, have a splendid evening with our mates, come home with eyes like smashed ‘Jaffas’, ignore the grief and deal with it the next day.

That’s what a real man does…

hey santa claus you cunt...

2007-10-28T16:46:00.000-07:00

For all you South-Westies looking for the perfect gift to send your kids in prison this XMAS, check this out.

You might have to save the image and blow it up for proper viewing.

As opposed to Sydney's South West, which is NOT worth saving but SHOULD be blown up...

just another month in...

2007-10-23T00:26:00.000-07:00

Can anyone tell me which three words complete the following sentences taken from pieces in The SMH over the past month ??

Three men have been sentenced to life in prison and a fourth man to a maximum of 30 years in jail for a double fatal shooting in…

A seven-year-old girl has had surgery after being badly hurt in a hit-and-run in…

Police are investigating an apparent road rage incident which culminated in a shot being fired into a car in…

Police say a 6-year-old boy was inside a home during a fatal shooting in…

Police have charged a second man over an execution-style shooting in…

A man and a woman wanted by police were arrested in Western Australia last week over the shooting double murder of a boxer and his friend in…

Detectives are appealing for help from the public while investigating the shooting murder of a respected Aboriginal man in…

Hands up everyone who said 'Sydney's South West'...

and extra rudeness will be rewarded...

2007-10-17T20:38:00.001-07:00

We've never had a competition here at TWG, however a recent post by my good e-friend 'Miss Smack' has inspired me. It seems there's a new job in the pipeline since she's just finished typing up the ten-million page report for 'The Govt Inquiry Into Some Stuff Which May Have Happened Somewhere' and rinsed out all the coffee cups.

We don't know the new employment details except that she received a phone call from someone who said:

"I'm ringing to formally offer you the position of_____ at______.

If you can't work the gist of the competiton out for yourself then I suggest you go and check out Kitty's photo on the post below. Actually, you should do that anyway; apart from anything else, the original photo is the major prize on offer in the competition.

I'll start.

My answer is: 'IMAX screen cleaner, Darling Harbour XXX MegaCinema'...

on the kouch with kitty kat...

2007-10-15T22:57:00.000-07:00

It turns out that one of my favourite commenters is currently being treated for sex-addiction (SA). Personally, I find the affliction, with all its attendant faux-sluttiness, an enormous part of her charm but hey…
Anyway, I got to thinking; what sort of treatment do these hapless tragics receive?? Sex-addicts are shunned as malingerers by society for the most part, victims of a non-disease that just about everyone else seems to suffer in silent dignity. Of course, pieces of celebrity shit such as Michael Douglas have turned SA into little more than a doctor’s note absolving serial philanderers from their marital crimes.

So, in the interest of raising public awareness of SA, and with the permission of my friend Kitty, I’d like to reconstruct, from official notes, her initial consultation with her old shrink: Dishy Therapist.

Kitty: 'Hi there Doc, I think I’m addicted to sex?’
DT: ‘And what seems to be the problem?’
Kitty: ‘I really, really love sex. I love doing it, thinking about it, talking about it…anything to do with it.’
DT: ‘And what seems to be the problem?’
Kitty: ‘I’m obsessed with it. I fantasize about men, women, groups, toys…I flip myself off at least five times a day.’
DT: ‘And what seems to be the problem?’
Kitty: ‘I watch porn and post pictures of myself in my underwear on my blog.’
DT: ‘And what seems to be the problem?’
Kitty: ‘I have lesbian affairs with young mothers at my kid’s day care centre.’
DT: ‘And what seems to be the problem?’
Kitty: ‘Look, I need help. Are you going to treat this problem or not?’
DT: ‘Yes, of course. Please get undressed and lie down on that couch.’
Kitty: ‘Fuck me…I thought you’d never ask…’

PS...I had to break into DT's office and steal the photo from his filing cabinet...

if anyone needs me...

2007-09-27T22:18:00.000-07:00

I'll be sitting in that chair for the next 10 days...

these are wingnuts...

2007-09-23T23:06:00.000-07:00

And so are these...

By now, most of you are probably aware of the tremendous shit-fight going on between two certain chick-bloggers out there. It’s bitch-eat-bitch, a no-holds-barred cyber-jelly-wrestle…sadly minus the jelly (unless you count what’s passing for their brains at the moment).
In one corner, wearing the blonde hair extensions and carrying a large martini, I give you ‘Steph’; the most innocuous, guileless, agenda-less diarist in The Realm.
In the other corner, wearing the grotesque mask and apparently flush out of mood-enhancers, may I present ‘Shelley’: the newest fruit-bat hanging from The Blog Tree.
Our guest referees at ringside are ‘Uber (No Loony Bin Can Hold Me) Mouth’, ‘Miss (This Has Nothing To Do With Me But I’ll Get Involved Anyway) Smack’ and ‘The (You Live In My Head) Troll’.
At the heart of the hair-pulling is a well-reasoned allegation put forward by ‘Shelley’ which, if my take on things is correct, suggests that ‘Steph’s’ stupendously voluminous-yet-vacuous blog is nothing more than an elaborate Trojan Horse, used either by her or her even-more-vacuous-if-it-can-be-believed commenters to hack into an even MORE underwhelmingly dreary blog…namely that of ‘Shelley’s’ herself.
Presumably this ingenious cover also includes a further ‘red herring’; the diabolically stupefying ‘Big Brother’ blog which ‘Steph’ slavers over like a drooling baboon, daily for 4 months of the year.
Not to be outdone on the Idiot-Meter though, ‘Steph’ has countered with threats of bringing in a high-priced legal team to look at possible issues of libel and defamation. This poses the litigiously novel contention that one fictitious entity can ruin the reputation of another fictitious entity, which almost certainly has potential ramifications for ’Superman’ if he ever thinks of calling ‘Superwoman’ a paranoid-delusional supercunt.
No doubt ‘Steph’ will be happy to claim damages in special invisible money should this jurisprudential wonder ever fly…

warning; long post ahead...

2007-09-11T00:04:00.000-07:00

OK, I know this is a bit slack but I was trawling through the wreckage of RADAR and found this piece. It was written two years ago but the cunt editors mangled it beyond recognition, so here is the original...

How often have you heard it said: ‘Australia is a big fucking country’.
Big and bad.
It’s invariably described as such by men who seem to know about these things. Men with deep, rich, impossibly sincere voices that make them sound both ancient and experienced enough to have witnessed the Earth’s formation first-hand. Men like John Laws and Sir Richard Attenborough.
They will inevitably drone on for an Ice Age about Australia’s history as the harshest, meanest, toughest, driest, most dangerous, most spectacular, most stupendously diverse motherfucker of a continent that ever poked its nose above sea level.
It has deserts the size of China, ice-shelves bigger than North America (if you count our frozen property holdings in Antarctica), ancient wetlands vast enough in which to drown New Zealand (not a bad idea either…), rainforests of towering hardwood giants and supernatural Eucalypts and mighty rivers which carve their way from rugged inland mountain ranges created at the dawn of time, to the boundless and bountiful oceans that surround this largest of all the islands on Earth.
Mother Nature, we’re reminded has done a remarkable job in creating a raw, brutal, yet handsome landscape of which we can be truly proud…
But what the fuck kind of drugs was Mother on when she handed out the animals ??
Australia got absolutely screwed !!
OK, not necessarily to begin with and not necessarily across the board, but we eventually got stuck with the most boring, useless, harmless collection of decidedly non-deadly mammals in the world; Europe notwithstanding. Yes, they’re cute, cuddly, unique and superbly adapted to their respective environments – one or two of the monotremes can even lay eggs, the clever cunts - but as far as we humans are concerned, there isn’t a dangerous, snarling, razor-toothed beast amongst the lot.
Where are all our killer mammals ??
According to an SMH article, ‘killer mammals have been rare on all the continents, with only 45 big kinds existing on the planet during the past 65,000 years’. OK, fair enough, they were quite scarce, but we haven’t got ANY of these murderous fur-balls around anymore.
Not one !!!
Apparently we used to…
Apparently, ‘the carnivores that called Australia home millennia ago included six species of killer kangaroo (oooh… how terrifying), 13 kinds of Thylacine (sounds like a type of hand-cream) and eight species of marsupial ‘lions’ (the apostrophes apparently necessary so that these mysterious, extinct beasts are not confused with actual lions). Even historically, our mammals were a pretty lame bunch, although they were plenty more ass-kicking than the present mob.
We have no big, savage cats around whatsoever. Today there are no living descendants of our marsupial ‘lions’, which were thought to have hunted fake antelope, quasi-zebra and the fabled miniature-hornless-pseudo-water-buffalo. When these prey were not available, marsupial ‘lions’ dined on tofu with sun-dried tomatoes, and a group of them were known as a gay pride.
We do have a large rat though; we call it a kangaroo. Whilst it can give a full grown man a nasty scratch which could conceivably get infected, there is little chance of one chasing down a victim, tearing its throat out with large, retractable claws, biting off its head and gnawing on the stump for a few hours.
And what of the bears ?? Did we get any Grizzlies, any Browns, any Blacks ?? Did we fuck; even our Antarctic land mass is a polar bear free zone. We couldn’t even manage a panda or two…
We did get a bunch of ferocious koalas though. These mighty hunters, during the two hours a day they manage to stay awake, may strike fear into the heart of the nation’s gum trees, but you are far more likely to be bored to death than gored to death if you ever came face to face with one in the forest
Wild dogs anyone ?? How about a Big Bad Wolf ?? Perhaps a hyena; laughing, serious or otherwise…
Nope, we got screwed again there. Our most famous wild dog was the Tasmanian Tiger, a mammal so ridiculously designed it actually went extinct voluntarily rather than live with its shame. The last known ‘Tassie Tiger’ is thought to have hung itself with a rope plaited from the hair of its own tail, whilst held in captivity in Launceston Zoo…
All we have left in the canine carnivore cupboard is the dingo, a lean, mean scavenging machine that specializes in plundering road-kill. I wouldn’t back fifty dingoes to last one round in the ring with an African Honey Badger .
We don’t even have any vegetarian behemoths capable of crushing a person to death by accident, like an elephant, rhino or hippopotamus; in fact our biggest danger probably comes from our giant, flightless birds, which have very nasty tempers. A flightless bird…good grief…could anything be more pointless ??
Perhaps a fish that can’t swim ??
Look, I know Australia leads the world in man-eating sharks; our sharks are first class, they excel. They are often the size of ocean liners and armed with teeth that can chew through concrete. We also have the most excellent crocodiles in the world, up in the far north of the country, most of which are capable of snapping a submarine in half with their jaws. There are some wonderfully toxic jellyfish around, however these lethal blobs of protein are rendered completely harmless when faced with a protective shield of panty-hose.
Actually, our aquatic/amphibious animals can be very proud of their ability to kill victims quickly, savagely or painfully, but we have a real problem with the specific lack of land-bound mammalian terror.
Snakes, spiders, scorpions; we have billions of the things. And it’s not that I don’t respect reptiles or insects as proper fauna, or doubt their capacity to drop a wombat at fifty paces, despite the fact that you can’t dent one of those fuckers with a stick of dynamite and a shovel.
It’s simply that if I had to be killed by an animal on land, I think I’d like to die with some semblance of dignity. There would be a certain degree of satisfaction, although an undeniably large amount of pain involved as well, in being dragged from my tent in the dead of night by a 1000kg mass of fur, claws and teeth, torn to shreds and devoured bone by bone.
There’s nothing classy at all about dying alone in your sleeping bag, the victim of a poisonous bite on your helmet…

why don't hot guys ask me out...

2007-09-04T21:54:00.000-07:00

Does everyone know my little buddy, Kelly ??
She’s over on ‘Cheaper Than a Happy Meal’, moaning about dying alone, her ex-husband, getting too much attention from boys, her ex-husband, her boobs, her ex-husband, mozzies, eyebrows and of course...her ex-husband.
Sometimes, along with her delightful post-teen posts, she likes to paste pieces of her pasty face on the post…
Little does she realize that as well as musing about whether she does indeed have ‘the hottest vadge in the place’, I have also been keeping these photo-snippets of her gorgeous little face.
And now, with the help of ‘Clip Art’…I unmask her for all the world to see…

don't say you weren't warned...

2007-08-31T00:44:00.000-07:00

The unseasonally warm weather this week produced a plague of unwanted vermin in Cunt Point. As part of a community service announcement, but mostly coz I'm a lazy fucker, I exhumed this piece which appeared in RADAR last year.

City-bound motorists using the Kings Cross Tunnel at 7:15 am today were treated to a very unusual sight. In the breakdown lane they would have noticed Sydney’s coolest Vespa parked on its stand. Right next to it was Sydney’s un-coolest Vespa rider, suit pants around his ankles, peering anxiously into his underwear.
Let me explain. I was scootering to work this morning, having just accelerated smoothly up the hill from Rushcutters Bay, when I felt something stirring in the vicinity of my upper left thigh.
Figuring it was just the wind playing tricks, I scootered on... until it happened again. I reduced speed to see what effect it had on matters. It had none; in fact the 'wind' was now beginning to move across to my upper right thigh.
As I entered the tunnel I suddenly realised there was an intruder in the ‘house’, panicked and started belting myself in the upper thigh region with my left hand in an attempt to kill whatever it was, whilst still guiding the scooter (at about 60kph) with my right hand.
Inevitably, I succeeded in simply giving myself a decent whack in the genitals, which winded me, made my eyes water and forced me to pull over to the side of the road.
Jumping off the Vespa, I yanked down my suit pants, hooked both thumbs into my Calvins, drew them gently away from my torso and peered fearfully inside (which is the overall sight any passing motorists would have been afforded). Out flew a moth with a 10-foot wingspan.
The moral of this story: Never hang your damp underwear on the line overnight during Bogong season...

no fingers for a while, girls...

2007-08-19T22:33:00.000-07:00

I'm going to be away for the rest of the week.
Very important stuff to do in Singapore and Hong Kong, banker-business, very high-brow, nothing to interest the average blogger.
Please don't make a mess while I'm gone.
If anyone needs me, I can be paged at 'Madam Chang's Whoopee Parlour and Opium Emporium' on Ordchid Ave.
Ask for 'that rude, round-eyed foreign cunt' and I will get your message...

be careful what you wish for...

2007-08-18T20:18:00.000-07:00

Kelly’s cute little neuroses-laden post about her trip to the gynaecologist got me thinking about vajajays (as she calls them). Firstly about hers…well sorry but I did…then about vajajays generally.
Finally, about an hour later when I’d finished thinking about all the vajajays I’d ever seen, or wished I’d seen, or hoped to see some day…I got to thinking about the gynaecologist’s lot in life. On the face of it, no medical pun intended, the Poon Doctor would appear to have the best job in the world; a hundred bucks an hour to look at vajajays all day long…

Until you consider the type of vajajays he’d be looking at.
Erk !!!
Wave after wave after wave of The Vajajays From Hell !!!
Chicks in all sizes, shapes and ages, every one of them asking the same questions, over and over:
‘Excuse me Doctor, can you tell me what this gigantic cauliflower-thing growing on my left curtain is ??’
‘Excuse me Doctor, have you ever seen stuff so green and luminescent like this leaking out of anyone before ??’
‘Excuse me Doctor, can you pinpoint the source of the mysterious blue-cheese aroma emanating from my girly bits ??’
‘Excuse me Doctor, is it normal for spiders to make their homes in here ??’
Shudder !!!
No, this passing parade of poon would be anything BUT the final line-up of contestants on ‘Australia’s Next Top Vajajay’.
After all, what are the chances of a supermodel strolling into a gyno’s office, pulling her pants down and saying, ‘Excuse me Doctor, it’s tight, trim, taut and terrific. It’s clean, fresh, perfectly pink…and I just wanted you to see it…’

five things...but more to come...

2007-08-14T23:33:00.000-07:00

Five things I’ve discovered reading some of the splendid blogs being hosted by The Girls of the Internet:

1) On average they each consider themselves to be 50kg overweight (whether they are or not).
2) On average they spend 22 hours a day blogging, presumably with a doughnut in one hand while they type with the other.
3) On average 97% of their blogging involves moaning about their weight, describing the doughnut they’re currently eating, whining about exes and carping on about the lack of available men to date.
4) On average they haven’t had sex for 12 years, although if you discount the numbers for ‘Steph’, the average drops down below 10.
5) On average, they all believe 1, 2 and 3 have no bearing on 4, which can apparently be explained by that age-old idiom, ‘All boys are stooopid…’

Right…who’s first…

i want to tell you something...

2007-08-06T21:46:00.000-07:00

I have about one hundred pornographic DVDs !!!
They are so revolting that I’m embarrassed to keep them in my apartment, so they’re stored in the wine cellar, along with the Shiraz and Cabernet Sauvignons. The wine is mine; the DVDs are not.
About a year ago, I came home to find a package on my doorstep. Without bothering to check the details, I carried the large box into my apartment and opened it. To my utter delight the box was filled to the brim with pornographic DVDs. To my complete dismay, as I perused the inventory, every single DVD was either ‘foot porn’, ‘granny porn’, ‘hairy beaver porn’ or ‘tranny porn’.
To the best of my knowledge, I hadn’t ordered these items.
A quick check of the invoice attached to this festering fetish festival, sent from Delaware, USA, indicated that my neighbour had ordered the stuff. I know this man as Roger B. His wife is Catherine B. Nice couple…
I live in Unit 1/XXa Cunt Point Rd. Roger and his wife live in Unit 1/XXb Cunt Point Rd; it’s our block’s sister building, right next door. The addressee on the invoice was clearly marked ‘Roger B… Unit 1/XXb Cunt Point Rd’.
So, I was now in possession of a large parcel of my neighbour’s mail-order porn; the question was…what to do about it…especially as I had opened both the box and the invoice ??
I suppose I could have taken it over to Roger’s place, knocked on his door and with a straight-face said, ‘Hello mate, I think this is yours.’ I might also have just crept over in the dead of night, leaving the open package in their building’s foyer, with both the contents and clearly marked invoice in full view. I could have written Roger a little note, between us guys, suggesting he come over to my place when he had a spare moment. Or I could have thrown the whole lot in the garbage.
Of course, I did none of these things; I kept it, even though I was determined never to watch any of the weirdo shit that it contained.
That was a year ago, and the thing is…he must know what happened to his package. A simple check with DHL would confirm the delivery error. It doesn’t take a genius to figure it out.
I guess I’ve watched about twenty-five of the DVDs by now; the rest are still in their plastic wrappings. These days I’m pretty ambivalent about ‘foot porn’, will never understand the attraction of ‘granny porn’, am quite a fan of ‘hairy beaver porn’ (albeit the East European’s accompanying hairy armpits and legs are a bit much) and although I can’t say I’ll ever order any ‘tranny porn’ myself, I admire their solid work ethic.
Roger and I see each other once or twice a week. Not socially, just around the buildings, as we’re leaving for work or coming back from somewhere. He even has a Vespa but it’s not as cool as The Stealth.
We always do the neighbourly hello.
He says, ‘Hi Fingers, lovely day, how’s the scooter going, are the cats OK…’
Secretly he’s thinking, ‘Fingers, you fucker…I know you’ve got my porn, cunt.’
And I say, ‘Hi Roger, lovely day, how’s the scooter going, is Catherine OK…’
And he knows I’m secretly thinking, ‘Yeah fucker, I’ve got your porn…what are you going to do about it, cunt…’

my hero...

2007-08-02T00:55:00.000-07:00

Well, as some of you clever readers guessed, I got to the car only to discover it had been gutted !!!
Some utter fuck-pig, in an exquisitely deft piece of spannersmanship, had removed both my ‘Recaro’ custom seats, leaving just an empty space, the gear-shift, the small padded ‘rear seat ledge’ and the steering wheel.
‘Serves you right, you stupid cunt,’ said the girlfriend joyfully in an attempt to brighten my mood.
‘Bothered,’ I replied in an inspired moment of feigned disinterest.
‘Well how are we going to go for breakfast now, Fuck-Head??”
‘Watch and learn, Jizz Face.’
We had a cute habit of making up names for each other.
With a Mc Guyver-like improvisation, I went back into the unit and retrieved two wooden chairs from the balcony, which were then placed inside the empty Mercedes cabin.
‘Voila, Dog Breath !!!’
‘Let’s take a taxi instead.’
‘No. I refuse to let these fuckers beat me. Let’s go.’
And go we did.
Obviously not the ideal method of transport safety-wise, I drove carefully off down the road for the two-km trip to Balmoral. About 100 metres into the journey…I got this…
‘Seriously Fingers, are you ever going to grow up?.
‘Probably not.’
‘It’s not funny. You’re thirty years old; you’re a grown man. It’s a very unattractive quality, Shit For Brains.’
‘Yes I know. That’s why I have this car; to attract skanks like you in the absence of any common-sense on my part. Seems to work though, eh Gold Digger.’
‘You have absolutely no respect for things…a lot of people would do anything for a car this beautiful and look how you treat it…you’re pathetic…I hate you...I don’t even want to go to breakfast anymore……’
‘Darling, could you please do up your seat-belt for me. I’d hate to see you get hurt.’
And with a huffy ‘Whatever’ she did up her seat-belt.
‘Thank you. Now, you were whining about something. Please continue since I have no radio anymore.’
‘Fingers it’s not good enough…you can’t just keep doing shit like this…it’s embarrassing for you, embarrassing for me…I’m tired of explaining to my friends why my boyfriend is such a fuck-up…’
At this point in the conversation, we had just started our descent down Attunga Rd, which may the steepest hill in Sydney. Having had enough lip from the handbrake by this time, I braced myself against the steering wheel and tapped the footbrake lightly.
Now, who can tell me what might happen to a person under the following conditions:
This person is travelling in a vehicle going in forward motion.
This person is sitting in a chair which is NOT bolted to the vehicle chassis.
This person is wearing a seatbelt.
The vehicle slows suddenly.
The seatbelt works perfectly.

Remember Newton’s Third Law of Motion: The third law states that for every force there is an equal and opposite force. Or for all you Harry Potter morons…if you push on something it pushes back on you.

And so, as my girlfriend slid gently forward into the clutches of her seatbelt, it grabbed her, absorbed the momentum, then pushed back, propelling her in the opposite direction (just as Newtown promised me it would).
The chair tipped backwards but kept travelling forward after falling out from under her, until it came to rest against the dashboard, whilst my girlfriend slid gently into the back of the vehicle, coming to rest against the padded ‘rear seat ledge’.
‘I’m sorry, darling…what were you saying ?? Something about my being an embarrassment to you…’

a fool and his mercedes...

2007-07-30T00:41:00.000-07:00

I know it’s not great blogging…but I was out with some old friends/colleagues from the money-market last night and this story resurfaced.
Many years ago, in or around 1990 perhaps, I owned a beautiful convertible sports car. A gleaming white, 1975 Mercedes 350 SL soft-top, one of only several manual transmissions in the country, mint condition, complete with custom, leather ‘Recaro’ racing seats and built-in speakers in the headrests.
It was a collector’s item; I dream about the car even to this day.
Of course, I was too young to realise what a treasure I had and by the time I’d finished with it years later, the classic ride was basically scrap metal.
Anyhows…
One evening, after driving home utterly hammered and too drunk to navigate the final hazards of the underground car park, I left my beautiful Mercedes on the street with the top down.
In the morning, suffering a Force 10 Hangover and down about One Million Brownie Points, I thought I’d take the girlfriend down to Balmoral Beach for that gayest of meals…the Sunday brunch.
As we went down to the car, instead of riding the elevator to ‘CP1’, we got off at ‘G’, by which time my girlfriend realised what I’d done and was yelling ‘Are you fucking mad leaving it on the street with the top down.’
To which I replied, ‘Don’t be a cunt, there was no chance of any rain.’
‘But it could have been stolen,’ she continued as we approached the car.
‘But plainly, as you can see…it wasn’t, so shut the fuck up.’

A six-pack of cinnamon doughnuts to whoever guesses what happens next…

the stealth vespa...

2007-07-15T22:47:00.001-07:00

For good order, this dreamy machine on the left is my pride and joy: The Stealth Vespa.

It's black...like my heart.
It's got a retro design...like the rest of me.

In some ways, The Stealth Vespa encapsulates my whole philosophy on life, which is:
1. Fuck traffic.
2. Be cool.
3. No baggage.
4. Fat assed passengers need not apply...

kristal please...and could i have three for my friends...

2007-07-11T01:00:00.000-07:00

Before you lot read this and form yourself into a lynch-mob, remember I’m not necessarily talking about YOU in particular.
From your recent responses to related pieces on both ‘TWG’ and ‘BimboWorld’, it looks as though most of you are either sufficiently independently wealthy enough (the ones with toilet paper) or made of too much moral fibre, to be paying for cocktails with the furry cheque-book.
HOWEVER…
There are a number of your people, predominantly regular Establishment-goers, who have drink-schmoozing down to a fine art; specifically, successful-but-currently-out-of-work (last 3 years) modules, aspiring-but-currently-out-of-work (last 5 years) actresses, OAs, PAs and their honest-but-dreary cousins…the typists.
From their perches well above the bar-room savannah, these 8”-high-heeled-hyenas carefully observe their unsuspecting prey, mentally pre-selecting a suitable suit by the flash of his platinum Amex.
Once this is done, there only remains a simple ambush to be performed down at the watering-hole.
I’ll post shortly on the best strategies for defence without seeming like a tight-ass…

a community disservice announcement...

2007-07-09T01:03:00.000-07:00

Over at ‘BimboWorld’, the ravishing and worldly Steph has whipped her adoring fans into a frenzy that promises to see many more potential rapists pepper-sprayed for daring to buy a chick a drink in a bar.
TWG supports this cause wholeheartedly.
For too long, the offer to purchase a cocktail has masqueraded as an act of generosity, gallantry, perhaps even innocent sociability, whereas in truth, at best it is nothing more than a well-calculated carnal bribe.
Add to this unspeakable evil the fact that in all likelihood it will be heavily laced with Rohypnol and the next ‘Mojito’ you down could well be a ‘Trojan Cocktail’, laying waste to your stoic Friday-night-defences and allowing an entire army of BMW-driving account directors into your pants…