I fuckin' hate this guy

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.

Ah...do you mind not doing that?

A Catholic school in Victoria, Australia, refused to enrol a five-year-old because his surname was ‘Hell’. This brings to mind that particular group of American nutters who are lobbying to have the word ‘hello’ changed to ‘heaveno’.

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.

For sale

Sense of irresponsibility—immaculate condition, best in Australia. Yep, sad to say goodbye but my baby has to go. This sense is in superb condition and comes with many extras including memory loss, remorse, and self-loathing. May accept willpower as a partial trade. Make me an offer.

Localised time distortions

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.

(Fragment--consider revising)

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.

iPhucked-up

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.

Gorilla in the midst of a pensive moment

A little tribute to the Big Gorilla, for supporting my little program of madness over the years.

If you've ever wanted an answer to the eternal question: Where does a gorilla... ?

Then look no further.

Omar the star box-ar says ‘na’ when asked to get out his ya-yas

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.

How’s that for a piss-related segue?

I wonder if this riotous religious rule is written Ten Commandment style:

Thou shalt not show thy balls to another. Do not covert thy neighbours nuts.

Yes, I know I don’t know what I’m talking about—let’s just leave it there before someone cracks a fatwa.

It does seem to have the provision ‘to strangers’—could not the testing officer have taken him out for a beer first, shown him a good time…

That’s right, no alcohol…

Anyway, I like my headline better.

Seven degrees of masturbation

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.

Everyone's a critic and most people are DJs...

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...

Poor Paris Panics as Pissed-off Prosecutor Persuades Judge to Push for Prison

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.

Cameras and swearing

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.

Busted!

Let this be a lesson to all you goat rooters out there!

What day is it, ey?

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?’

Friday... again

Yay, it's Friday! Dance and cavort!

In other news: You are one day closer to death today.

As you were.