Reality TV is a disease

Gosh, this is pretty tasteless; even for unreality TV.

Australians were particularly vulnerable ...

'Australians are generally gullible targets,' he said. '(The scammers) do very well out of us.'

No, we're not!

Yes, you are.

Oh, yeah. You're right ...

x=y

I've noticed a distinct correlation between how cold it is in the morning and how pissed off I feel when I wake up.

Fuck, I'm pissed off today.

Brrrrrrr ...

Beaver on a plate

Oh, my God! Mark's been eating beaver! There's photos and everything.

Burger bullshit

I bought a burger from Hungry Jacks--it's Australian for Burger King--the other day. They gave me a little scratchie card for a chance to win a 'whopper grand final week'.

The major prize was valued at(up to)$31,387.60(depending upon the departure point).

Alright, I thought and went to scratch the silver shit off. Then I noticed you had to SMS the 'code' to enter the draw--55 cents a message. Whatever happened to the instant 'scratch and win'?

It's a load of bullshit--the marketing team must have been ecstatic. A prize that pays for itself.

Bastards.

I didn't enter the draw--just out of spite. I'm sure I would have won ...

Christian Distortion

Sounds like the name of an effects pedal popular with Christian rock guitarists ...

Here is a list of Christian Denominations. There are hundreds and hundreds.

Now providing you believe that one of them is not distorting the bible (hypothetically), logically that means that, to some extent, every other denomination is.

Hope you chose the right one.

Christians and Mugabe--Both full of shit

Barack Obama has been accused of distorting the bible--So what? Isn't that what all Christians do?

And on the other side of the Atlantic:

The Queen says Robert Mugabe is a cunt--Not in those words exactly, but she's right. Mugabe would have to make the top five of any Massive Dickhead list compiled by independent researchers in the world today.

It's only funny if people get it

I was in a bar the other day--no really--with two friends of different demographical backgrounds. We were talking to this young sexy chick and for some reason the topic of conversation was vegetarianism; the blonde asked naively, 'what do you call a vegetarian who eats chicken?'

'I know this one!' I thought. Quick as a flash my lips were moving and the words tumbled out:

'A hypocrite!'

No-one got it.

'Isn't it a vegan?' She said.

Oh, for fuck's sake...

The big club

I was saddened to hear when I came home from work yesterday that George Carlin had died. George was one of my heroes—I thought he was fucking brilliant. I don’t know what I can say in the ten minutes or so I have to write this, but, whatever it is, it won’t do the man justice.

George thought for himself. He tackled the material a lot of comics pussied away from. He was once arrested at a Lenny Bruce show—as an audience member—for refusing to show a cop his ID. He was the voice of reason, trying to impart something so important to the masses. And that was that they were being fucked. Deeply.

‘It’s a big club … and you ain’t in it.'

Good on ya George. You're a fucking legend.

Spasmodic morning

I just grabbed the mouse to centre the cursor on the typing field here but the damn thing wouldn't work. Then I realised It wasn't the mouse but my mobile phone in my hand.

I am not a morning person. Whatever the fuck that means. Particularly in winter. I'm alright once I'm up and dressed, it's just the spasmodic shaking caused by extremely frigid conditions in the interim period that I hate. I fucking hate it.

Really, I do.

In the news:

West Australian Pom's bid to sell life falters when bidders turn out to be full of shit

Singapore bans game because of one little Alien-human lesbian sex scene

Not in my backyard--well actually, yes

Bye bye Bill--who do we blame now?

Language police

I've noticed Australian newsreaders have started saying 'at the weekend'. This shits me: it's what the Brits say, which is fine for them, but in Australia we say 'on the weekend'.

I also saw an ad the other day where they spoke of frosting on a cake. Sorry, this isn't Kansas: it's called 'icing'.

In some other ways we are becoming more American than Americans.

And they still make the seating on public transport too small. I guess they need the aisle space so fat-arses can get through.

You want what?

What am I doing? I don't have time for this shit. Go get ready for work.

In the meantime, this is funny, pertinent and salt free. Watch it now.



This is saltier but also funny and pertinent. Now, watch it.

Stardust

It's always nice to find some real news hiding among the detritus.

Hungover again

It's with a strange sense of deja vu that I sit down, hungover, to write some crap for this blog. I had to look up the spelling of deja vu—I think I must have killed the brain cell that knew how to spell it. Could not give a shit about the diacritical marks.

Sorry, where was I?

That’s right, hungover.

I have a new job; it’s a pretty shiny one. Had a bit of a celebrate last night—it seemed like a good idea at the time. Went to a bar that was also new and shiny. Big bastard bouncers at the door, dressed in black. Spunky girls walking around with silver trays holding overpriced bar snacks, sorry, tapas. (Has anyone else noticed how trendy nearly every-fucking-place has become? It seems every menu contains the words ‘rocket’, ‘aioli’, ‘pesto’ and fucking ‘jus’. Got any chips?) The toilets looked like they were hewn out of giant block of marble, the taps were motion sensitive—more technology in those bastards than the Voyager space probe. There was a sexy singer who made every song sound like Ani DiFranco, or so I thought; Stu thought she sounded like Shania Twain, which completely fucking ruined it for me. Flat-screen TVs lined the walls. They all seemed to be tuned in to a video hits show from the early 90s. The waitress came and enquired about our food—oh, yeah, it’s good, can we have some more aioli please?

After about 600 beers, we thought we’d better call it a night. I flagged down a taxi, told the driver where I lived, then the bastard went to drive straight past the first right that led directly to where I wanted to go.

‘Oi!’ I said.

He tried the same trick at the next junction.

So, I had to laboriously direct him. He slowed down for orange lights he completely could have made, and the meter ticked on. Initially, I contemplated the usual taxi banter, ‘How’s your night been?’ that kind of shit. Thing is, he didn’t seem like the jovial type, and I really didn’t give a shit about how his night had been. So I sat there, only speaking to direct him, waiting to see if he would initiate conversation. He didn’t.

As we turned into my street, the meter was on $14.80. ‘This will do,’ I said, thinking we’ll just round it up to 15 bucks. He cruised forward until the meter clicked over $15.10. Then he stopped and counted out $4.90 in change.

What a dick.

So, this has been the first exercise in trying to make myself write again. I do it all day at work, but it’s not very creative and I can’t use the word ‘fuck’. I’m also going to try and edit and gradually re-release some of the funnier stuff that used to be on here. We’ll see how it goes.

For lack of a better title

It's 12 o'clock. At night.

I'm not dead. Much.

Fuck.

Things have been happening, the sun continues to rise--but don't hold me to that--and I have been thinking a lot.

I have an idea, and it's going to start tomorrow.

The trolls should have moved on by now, but if not, fuck 'em.

Rory runs amok, again.