I saw this car dealer in a paper the other day and nearly coughed beer out my eyes.
Well, at least he's being up front about it.
This reminds me of the old Doug Anthony All Stars joke:
I went to school with a guy called Michael Hunt... We used to call him...
Fuckhead!
The guys from 'N Sync are gay?
No way!
I bet the journalist was very proud, managing to slip in a secret message:
No word from Justin's camp.
Justin's camp.
Do not check your mail; it’s only going to make things worse.
It’s 2007 and everyone wants some of your time. How can you possibly keep up? Every day it begins again. People send you things they expect you to read. Banks post you fifty-page booklets explaining the finer points of some fantastically boring yet legally binding contract. Insurance companies want you to understand they care, foisting glossy lifestyle infotising on you. You really should get down to the transport office to renew your rego but first you must deal with your email; read and reply—or else it snowballs.
The phone rings.
‘Are you happy with your current service provider?’
‘Can’t you find a better job?’
Beep. Text message.
‘Bro, u gotta check out this shit on eBay.’
You try to reply, but there is a knock at your door.
‘Hi, I’m here to talk to you about my homeboy, Jesus.’
‘Sorry dude, I’d love to talk to you but I’m a bit behind on my information assimilation for today. I have to read and reply to all my Facebook messages.’
‘Damn! That’s what I forgot,’ says Sheepeyes and runs off.
‘Hey buddy, wait! You forgot your bible!’
‘You keep it bro, I’ve got heaps…’
You put it with your display pile—books you wish you'd read, Dostoyevsky, Kafka and Bertrand Russell.
Shit, something else to read.
The sun is shining, the weather is sweet (thanks Bob); what could possibly be pissing me off today?
My phone never remembers what I teach it. It's a pretty fancy phone, it had a good education, but its short-term memory is fucked.
It never remembers my fucking name--it always comes out as 'Rosy'. And it never remembers how to spell 'shit', always coming out as 'shiv'.
Spell?
Facebook to be full by 2009—what happens when there is no-one left to sign up?
It dies, and I for one will cheer.
No more inboxes full of emails like:
Obscure vaguely recollected acquaintance from the distant past has added you to their friend list.
No more BACN (God, I hate that term. What does it stand for anyway? Boring Arse Crap Network?) from bored people with nothing better to do, assuming you’re just as bored as them.
Blah has sent you an e-drink. To receive your e-drink, simply fill out this three-page form. And now this one. Finally, are you interested in any of our other useless time-wasting non-existent products?
Note: if you send me a drink, it better be a real one. Pictures of beer just piss me off.
Like this one.
And another thing, for what nefarious purpose is Facebook building up its huge intelligence network?
How do you know this person?
Fuck off! I’m not telling you—none of your fucking business Facebook!
And then the other person gives the game away: Err…we went to school together…
Shudddup man! Damn, don’t tell them that! Sheeeeet, that’s The Man, and now The Man knows. Farrk, why did you go and do that for?
I know how I know you; you know how you know me—what business is it of anyone else?
Australian censors have decided that this new game, Soldier Of Fortune: Payback, is too brutal for public consumption and, therefore, will not be sold in Australia.
Bugger, it looks good...
While it's not something I'd let young children play, I think people aged 16 and up should be able to handle it. Besides, isn't this the same stuff we've been getting in Rambo movies and the like for years?
And there are plenty of other games with heaps of gore, and some of them that are, potentially, a lot more psychologically damaging. Ever played Doom III? That is one scary fuckin' game. I almost filled my apartment with kittens--that I gave birth to--while playing late at night in a darkened room with my headphones set to 'stun'.
Kind of like this guy:
I've been playing these kind of games for years, and I've not killed one person. Not one!
But of course there have been some bad eggs in history.
Hitler flies into a rage after being unable to complete the waterfall level in Sonic the Hedgehog 2 and punches himself in the head.
Manson developed a severe case of 'screen eyes' after playing Halflife non-stop for 72 hours--he was eventually forced to stop after headbutting his monitor and breaking it while screaming, 'you're all hacking, cheating aim-bot-using cunts!'
Jong-il with his Pac Man clan the 'Il Brotherhood'--currently ranked 14 253 in the international Pac Man guild.
Kim Jong-il in gaming attire. Taking a rest during the world Pac Man championships. Jong-il was knocked out in round 2 of 200--still claims he was at a disadvantage as the Americans are naturally better at running away from ghosts in the dark while eating everything.
Noah got home from the pub late. ‘Why are you late?’ demanded his wife.
Noah rolled his eyes, ‘it’s bloody God again.’ I ran into him down the pub and he wasn’t in a good mood. He kept ranting about wiping all he had created from the face of the Earth—rain for forty days and forty nights—you know how he gets…’
‘Yes dear, we could do with some rain.’
‘Are you listening too me? Just wait, there’s more. He wants me to build a giant fuck-off boat—out of gopher wood.’
‘That’s nice dear.’
‘Christ woman, make some sense. I’ve been building shit for nearly 600 years and I’ve never heard of bloody gopher wood. And I bet it’s fucken expensive!’
‘Yes dear, don’t forget the Forsden-Smythes will be coming over for your birthday dinner.’
‘Damnit, you know I don’t like those pretentious hyphenated-named tossers! Besides, that’s the day God’s chosen for the kick-off. My fucken birthday too, It’s not everyday you turn 600 you know! Bloody God! He can be so small minded. Lord only knows what kind of father he’ll make.’
‘Would you like some tea?’
‘No, I don’t want any bloody tea! I’ve gotta build a fucken boat—seven days to build a big-ass mother fucker of a boat—out of some non-existent wood! And why does he always want shit done in seven days? How the fuck am I supposed to rest on the Sabbath?’
‘Well, you better do what he asks dear, he’s not pleasant to be around when he gets in one of his moods.’
‘I know, I know; you’re right as usual. But, God—he can be so unreasonable. And boy was he pissed tonight—I don’t know what’s got his goat—he came over and slurred in my ear:
I love you man. I love you. I do, you know. I just want you to know that, man. I love ya… But them (God gestured wildly with a bottle at the rest of the bar); they’re all cunts. And, I’m gonna smite them. I’m gonna smite their heads off…
‘And then he told me to build a boat or he’d smite me too! He drew me a little plan on a napkin—the boat's gotta be 300 cubits by 50 wide by 30 high—that’ll make it about 138 metres long…’
‘What’s a metre dear?’
‘It’s about two cubits and eight centimetres…’
‘What’s a centimetre?’
‘Damnit woman, I’ve got a boat to build, I can’t explain everything! Anyway, you know how God is with maths? He wants me to put two of every animal on Earth on it. Two! Christ, do you know how many species there are, wife?’
‘Well, last time I googled it dear, there were about 1.4 million documented, with an estimated 20 million as yet unnamed.’
‘Yes, well… God reckons we can fit it all onto a 138-metre boat.’
‘Did you tell him he was dreamin’?’
‘He passed out after handing me the plan for the boat—anyway, do you know how much food we’re going to need for our 40-million-odd creatures? A shit load, that’s what! Which brings me to another point—who’s going to clean up after them? Not me, I can tell ya that now!’
‘Don’t worry dear, you’ll work something out…’
‘Well, I’d better: seven days to fell and cure all the timber, build the giant floating zoo, cover it with pitch inside and out—we’ll have bloody giraffes stuck to the ceiling—round up two of every animal on Earth, find enough food for everything for 40 days and nights and someone to clean up after them…'
‘Bloody God! And on my fucken birthday too…’
Religist views are on hold today. Today I am completely Bankist.
Fucking banks.
Forgot to pay rent on Friday so I roused my hungover self out of bed and drove down on Saturday morning. My landlord was born before time began, so I can’t pay rent over the ‘net, but instead must physically present myself at a branch of the bank itself.
This particular bank doesn’t open on Saturday—as I found out when I went down there. Fuggit, I’ll go on Monday, I thought, and that’s what I did.
Now previously, I had fronted at the bank weeks ago and foolishly thought I could simply pay rent using EFTPOS (Electronic Funds Transfer Piece Of Shit)—much as you would at any other business in
‘No, sorry we don’t offer that service,’ the teller told.
‘But... You’re a bank?’
‘Yes, but we don’t offer that service. You’ll have to go back outside and withdraw it from the ATM…’
Yes, and pay the non-Communist bank withdrawal fee of $2.50 or $10—whatever it is these days. Oh yeah, then line up again.
But that was all in the past, I was prepared to accept the rort to minimise the inconvenience, just pay rent and get the fuck out of there.
If you are not already shaking your head, you should be…
Today, the entire inner city population was in the same branch of Suncorp. The only park left was a disabled one, so after parking I had to lurch off like I was retarded. The security guard could see I was an angry cripple, so he just let out that deep breath he had taken, then went back to massaging his gut.
I fronted the ATM. ‘Now, I don’t like you and you don’t like me. Just give me my fuckin’ money and we won’t have to deal with each other for two more weeks.’
‘Get fucked,’ said the ATM.
No amount of swearing could convince the machine to accept my card, so I lurched back to my car like an irate Verbal Kent and drove down the road to the Communist Bank. This involved several sets of lights, doing a u-turn around a roundabout, parking the car in a car park and walking back to the bank. I strode up to the single ATM and tried to feed it my card. Nothing happened—even more swearing didn’t help.
A little message was flashing in orange on the screen:
This ATM is temporarily out of service. We apologise for the inconvenience.
I blinked at the machine as the synapses started to stretch and snap in my head.
It’s fucking Monday morning, shit should be working. What do I pay all these stupid fucking bank fees for? The inconvenience?
I glanced in the bank but the que stretched off into the distance. Looking around, I spied a hotel across the road. The gaming room opened at 8.00 (yes, 8am), you can surely bet their ATM would be working.
Yep.
I secured the necessary funds, drove back down the road, parked in The Boonies waited in line for an eternity while people did shit really slowly—I swear I’ve seen dead snails move faster. Then paid rent.
It only took an hour.
Surprise, surprise: I'm fucking astounded again.
This link here (which you should not click) will take you (if you click it--which you shouldn't) to a YouTube search page listing videos of Australian toilets flushing.
Videos of flushing toilets. For people that need to see the Coriolis effect with their own eyes.
Is this scienth stuff real?
Yeth.
Two things caught my eye today; both eyes in fact.
Enterprising Aussie doctor saves an Italian man's life with the contents of his home bar.
Funnily enough, the article (in a UK publication) makes a point of explaining that an 'off-licence' is called a 'bottle shop' in Australia. I'm not sure they need have bothered--all the Brits have been here anyway, and you can surely bet they've been to a bottle shop...
In other news, a religion arbitrarily changes its rules to allow for space travel.
This in particular made me chuckle:
...it is virtually impossible to face Mecca continuously in a craft travelling at such high speed.
A CANBERRA mortgage broker who wrote a $360,000 home loan to a 20-year-old unemployed, dyslexic and homeless man has been ordered to pay $31,000 in compensation to the borrower.
There's going to be a stampede of dyslexic people with home loans wanting compensation now.I just went into the bnak to apply for a cerdit crad, they took advantage of me; I didn't konw what I was singing...
Jae-ook: We saved 100 000 won by using an online translator!
Bokum: Wicked! Nobody will ever know! Let's go spend the difference on dinner.
However, Second Life has no defined central purpose, making its audience ripe for distraction, at least in theory.I know people whose first life has no defined central purpose.
...that we are fucked.
I have nothing I can say about this. Just read it and blink.
Yes, we are coming for you, capitalist swine!
I just went out and bought a couple of new pillows. I glanced at the washing instructions as I stuck them in the pillowcases, and saw along side 'do not tumble dry' the instruction 'do not iron'.
Do not iron.
It's a fucking pillow.
The dickhead to the left is Nelson Aspen, and I hate him like I hate getting out of bed in the middle of a winter's night.
This bronzed ball-licker is the reporter for all your Hollywood bullshit needs. He's on TV every morning in Australia, so I have had time to ponder exactly why I think this guy is a raging ass-monkey.
An obsequious, vacuous, fucktard, Nelson reports on the vacuous lives of other obsequious fucktards... And it all has no fucking bearing on anything.
I'd just like to say on behalf of all the voices in my head:
Nelson Aspen, you fucking suck...
Ass.
Have a nice day, dickhead.
A Catholic school in
This is more evidence that the world is in fact doomed.
Absolutely fucking astounding.
Now, I hate Hyundai Excels with a mighty anger, but I’m not trying to ban their use (though perhaps that is not an entirely bad idea).
Bring on the flood.
Sense of irresponsibility—immaculate condition, best in
The alarm went off this morning at seven like it always does. I pressed the snooze button and rolled over.
Bip!
What? Ten past? What's going on?
Snooze.
Bip!
Twenty past? What the fuck? How is this possible, I swear I just blinked.
Then I realised.
Of course!
Aliens!
Aliens were stealing my time—they had to be. What else could explain these bizarre time distortions?
I hit the snooze button, lay on my back and peered out from under my eye lids. I relaxed every muscle (well, not every muscle) in anticipation of springing from bed and throttling one of those pesky time-stealing aliens.
Bip!
Sweet fucking Jesus! Sneaky fuckers, they've done it again! Half past!
Damn!
I'll get the little bastards tomorrow.
The highway stops just before Gympie; everything after is just a single lane each way stretching off into the distance. It was just after Christmas, so around every fifty Ks we passed another speed trap. The rain intermittently pissed down but we found that at 110 km/h you could have the sunroof all the way open yet let in no rain.
The day wore on and we passed through Bundaberg then Rockhampton. By ‘passed through’ I mean, ‘stopped and stuffed around for about an hour’ in each. At Rockhampton, Brennan took over the driving and I cracked a beer. Tim though this was a good idea also, and so we ended up stopping at desolate spots on the side of the road to piss every 100 km or so. With the engine and the lights off, there was only blackness on the sides of the road, the whistling of the wind and the sound of sticks breaking as Yowies prowled around in the dry dark.
Occasionally the wind would pick up the sound of an engine and a light would appear in the distance. The sound would grow until, tires roaring on the bitumen, a 4WD would break cover then go whistling off into the night, the trees on the side of the road vanishing with the light. And then it was black again. No houses, no other roads, no distant lights. Just us, out under the stars and… 'Sweet Jesus! What the fuck was that? Get back in the car guys, let’s go.'
1000 km from Brisbane, after following the red tail lights of a speeding truck through the tree-lined dark we pulled in to a caravan park in Mackay.
We stayed the night in a cabin that appeared to be made out of cardboard covered in wood print plastic coating. The beds were vinyl and the air conditioner made disturbing gurgling/I’m-about-to-explode noises. Somehow with the application of beer, and salami and cheese sandwiches, we managed to fall asleep…ish.
Someone had switched off the noisy air-con last night so we awoke gasping at around seven AM. I tried to throw myself out of bed but regretted it immediately as I left behind half my skin on the vinyl mattress.
What the fuck is all this hype about the iPhone?
It’s a fucking phone people. A phone.
It does shit that almost any other modern phone will do. My phone plays MP3s, accesses the net, records video etc. I could go out and buy a 32 gig miniSD card if I wanted to outstrip Apple’s 8 gig…
Really, what the fuck?
I hear Apple have already sold half a million of the little iPhucks to half a million iPhuckwits. Lifestyle wankers unite.
This is just another thing I’ll never understand…
Like those fucking lunatics that camp overnight on the street outside the iWank shop to be the first person on their block to be ripped off.
But then why should I be surprised? People are fucking morons—some watch Big Brother, some dress up as Darth-fucking-Vader AND camp out on the street all night for a movie preview, some keep sending money to Nigerian scam artists AFTER the federal police have contacted them and informed them that they are involved in a scam.
Some people spend hours of their time writing shit for a blog that nobody reads.
Really, what chance does the human race have? We’re fucked; it’s been nice knowing you.
I jumped out of bed at 7am to record my thoughts, but unfortunately I don’t have any. As time is of the essence, and in essence I don’t have any time, I cast an eye over Google news to find out the latest atrocities. Thousands die in Iraq, but not one Big Brother housemate…
I like to play ‘find the pun’ when reading news-type stories. Journalists can’t help themselves. The lamer the pun, the better; ones like ‘Whale sanctuary plan harpooned’, and other such brilliance. So what’s on offer today?
Let’s see.
Well first up we have: Standing ovation for our house of worship—the Sydney Opera House declared a world heritage site. Well that’s just piss poor guys…
Aside from pissy puns, I did notice that:
MUSLIM boxer Omar Shaick was yesterday handed a two-year ban for refusing to give a urine sample because his religion prohibits him from exposing his genitals to strangers.
Yes, I know I don’t know what I’m talking about—let’s just leave it there before someone cracks a fatwa.
Thou shalt not show thy balls to another. Do not covert thy neighbours nuts.
I would like to apologise.
Yesterday, I used the phrase ‘back in black’, however, upon reflection I realised that at the time I was dressed nearly entirely in blue.
I wouldn’t want to be caught out saying black was blue now, would I?
It’s seven degrees at the moment—or at least that’s what the little widget on my desktop tells me. Freakin’ cold in anyone’s cliché. Stripped off to jump in the shower this morning and I was shaking like an epileptic leaf in an earthquake. The kind of cold that makes your shoulder blades try to burst out your throat.
This is meant to be a sub-tropical climate!
Records have been broken all over the state (predominately BROS albums, with a few Rick Astley ones for good measure). Sorry, what I mean is that throughout Queensland weather stations have been recording the coldest temperatures on record.
It sure makes it hard to get out of bed in the morning—if it wasn’t for a catastrophic build-up of bladder pressure I probably wouldn’t get out of bed at all.
For those of you from cold climates let me qualify my bitching about the cold: most houses in Queensland—including mine—don’t have heating. It doesn’t usually get cold enough to justify the expense of installation, so when I say it’s seven degrees, it’s seven degrees in the house.
Fucking fridge-like! I had to chase a mammoth out of the bathroom this morning.
Well, I’m off to work now to stare intently at a different computer screen for seven hours.
Back in black at the crack of early. The title is taken from a Hold Steady song--don't be accusing me of plagiarism.
Those first two sentences were written without the aid of coffee or my brain.
Anyway, after several weeks of watching this blog cough up blood in the corner, I went out and spent a large amount of money and now we have a wireless network at home. I'm also viewing this through a 20-inch wide-screen and I'm currently not saving to a new 250-gig hard drive. Also, now running Vista with its memory-intensive bells and whistles and paternalistic anti-Luddite technology. It is pretty damn shiny.
What does this mean to you the consumer?
Probably very fucking little--except that if you drop by here weekdays you will find fresh inanity, stupid shit I don't mean, even stupider shit that I might mean, and long run-on comma-separated lists that go far beyond the point of being informative or entertaining, every day.
And it begins once more...
A shock move by an L.A. judge yesterday looks set to extricate celebutard Paris Hilton’s head from her own arse. Paris was sentenced to 45 days in jail for violating her parole conditions for an earlier charge: Public moronity with intent to not-give-a-fuck.
Upon deliverance of the judge’s verdict, all was quiet in the courtroom while Paris’s legal representation explained the verdict to Miss Hilton using crayons and a large sheet of butcher’s paper. She was apparently shocked, and asked for clarification in blue crayon. At this stage, insiders attest, Paris was heard to say, ‘But, I’m famous!’ and called for members of her entourage to bring her a fresh chihuahua to dry her eyes.
The judge was heard to respond: ‘Whatever…’.
While in prison, Paris will spend her time making folk art out of paddle-pop sticks, hessian sacks, and her own hair.
I finally got a replacement battery for the old Canon G2, and am once again armed with a working camera. I keep putting off on going on a photo-taking mission, as part of me (my brain) feels foolish taking photos where other people can see me. I also have a tendency to burst into involuntary fits of swearing at inappropriate times.
The other evening I thought I’d try a few low-light shots outside, and so, balancing against a handy power pole, I waited until a car was driving through frame, then squeezed the trigger. The flash went off, the driver of the car, blinded, drove off the road and into a tree*, and I said some very hurtful things in a loud voice to the camera.
I realised I’d just said some pretty obscene things at high volume out in a public place, so I looked around to make sure no one had heard me. An elderly power-walking couple were crossing the road to avoid me, looking at me like I was a terrorist, as they skirted around the gently smouldering remains of the crashed car.
‘Sorry, guys!’ I called out to them, ‘it’s just that this camera… she’s fucked,’ I said.
‘Help… me…’ moaned the man trapped in the crashed car.
‘We never should have left the gaming lounge!’ said the wife. ‘This world is full of violence!’
‘The government should enact some retrospective legislation to stop people doing all the things we don’t like!’ muttered the man.
I braced myself against the pole, switched the flash off, and waited for another car. The trapped driver managed to kick out his windscreen and climb out of the smoking wreck.
‘I never should have bought a fucking Camry,’ he said.
‘Too, true,’ I said. ‘Camrys are the leading source of road rage in Australia,’ I went on, but then another car drove by and I depressed the shutter. The result looked something like this:
And here is another entirely unrelated photo.
*Certain elements of this story may not have actually happened.
The weather has clicked its heels and become a little brisk in the mornings. By ‘a little brisk’, I mean by Australian standards. I’m sure if you’re from Canada you’d be walking around naked exclaiming, ‘how aboot this heat, ey?’. Funnily enough I’ve never heard a real Canadian say ‘aboot’, but they do sure say ‘ey’ a lot.
I heard a group of Canadian girls holidaying at Airlie Beach in a supermarket talking…
‘Let’s try these, ey?’
‘Look! We told you not to say that anymore, everyone laughs at us!
‘Oh, fuck off, ey?’
‘No, seriously. Cut it out!’
And you could sense there were some repressed ‘eys’ meaning to get out.
Tim couldn’t help himself, ‘you guys are from Canada, ey?’
‘Yeah,’ they said, ‘how did you know?’
‘If you guys are from Canada, you should be great at spelling it, ey?’
‘What?’ They said, blinking in the sunshine that was streaming through the glass doors.
‘You know: Cee, ey. En, ey. Dee, ey…’
They looked at him like he was a fool and walked off.
‘Was that guy retarded? He can spell Canada… big deal, ey?’
Yay, it's Friday! Dance and cavort!
In other news: You are one day closer to death today.
As you were.
He thought he could run. He thought he could hide. He probably thought lots of things I didn't think of.
He thought he had escaped.
He thought wrong...
On bureaucratic language...
...Use nouns rather than verbs. Avoid action verbs. They convey movement, and movement is antithetical to the bureaucratic mind. Think of yourself as a boulder standing in the way of your reader’s goal, not as a swinging door through which any dolt can pass.
Brilliant!
Full article here.
Pootling down the road the other evening returning from uni at about 7:30, I turned off the main road near my house onto a side street. This is a narrow little thing with people parked in inconvenient places intermittently down the road; it turns the street into a slalom course...
Annnnyway: I was approaching a roundabout (read: painted lump in the road with a sign sticking out of it) had just looked for oncoming traffic on the right and was about to accelerate through the roundabout when one of those unexpected things happened.
Some complete fucking loony on a pushbike (with no helmet or light) came flying down the hill on the left and cut through the wrong side of the roundabout onto my side of the road. I braked then released, swerved to my right then braked again. The fuckwit cyclist had a big wobble and nearly plowed into the front of my car (he missed by about a foot)then continued up the road with me shaking my head in disbelief shouting after him, 'What the fuck do you think you're doing?'
I don't think he knew.
The lucky fucker. Things could've ended very badly for him if he had encountered someone with slower reflexes. If I hadn't have swerved, he would have gone straight into my windscreen.
Don’t get complacent: drive like everyone else on the road is a complete tool.
I get five or so hits a week from people freaking out (I imagine) with a fish bone stuck in their throat.
All due to this post.
And I'll probably get a bunch more after this one. So if you're reading this looking for a solution, I have this to say:
Bad news guys: you're fucked.
Another community service announcement brought to you by WNTDIA.
