'Seanism' #1

I met a couple of Irish guys up at Airlie Beach.

Two very funny bastards.

Try this in an Irish accent:

'Noooo, I don't wash my clothes... I just seem to lose them as I go along--then buy new ones.'

Santa won’t be dressed in red this year

Santa won’t be dressed in red this year
So take all those that you hold dear
And keep them close, keep them near
‘Cause Santa’s turned it up a notch, I fear.

Santa’s got the shits with all mankind
Shooting each other all the fuckin’ time
So if you’ve done bad shit, you’re gonna find
This Christmas you’re gonna pay for your crime.

He spent his year in Japan, in situ
Mastering the arts of Ninjitsu
He’s got a black belt that wouldn’t fit you
Don’t fuck with Santa or he’ll fuckin’ hit you.

Santa’s back and he’s dressed in black
With throwing knives and ninja stars in his sack
He’s pissed off and he’s gonna crack
He’s gonna give you what you lack

You’d better not shout, you’d better not rat
On Santa or he’ll garrotte your cat
You’d better not point or say he’s fat
Santa will fuck you up and that is that.

Santa wants beer and cookies, not fuckin' milk
And it better be heavy, not mid-strength pilk
And Santa doesn’t like a prying eye
So stay in bed or you’ll fuckin’ die!

So this Christmas try not to be a prick
And hoard your presents like a selfish dick
Help the needy, help the sick
Santa tried the carrot, now here’s the stick.

If you’re an asshole, Santa will beat you down
If you’re a bigot, he’ll go to town
He’ll fuck you up without a frown
He’ll put you in a hospital gown.

I tell you this not to fear or thrill you
So listen hard, while you still do
Have legs to carry you and hope to cling to
If you’ve been bad this year, Santa’s going to fuckin’ kill you!

Alive

It’s 8:00 in the morning and the wind is whistling past my apartment with an Antarctic fury. It’s cold, but it makes you feel alive.

There’s a smell in the air--a smell of ice and gum trees--the smell of bright light and blue sky stretching up into infinity; the smell of the noise a cat makes when it hunts.

Makes you feel alive.

Or maybe I’m just cold: Picture this: Mawson and his fellow explorers huddled in a tent while the wind howls outside, piling up snowdrifts as high as the walls. They’ve just eaten their last husky; Mawson turns to his hypothermic friend and says through cracked blue lips from behind an ice-encrusted beard:

Fuck yeah! Makes you feel alive!

After the winter

The surly bird gets the worm

Image stolen without permission from Canadian Mark.

Declaration of war against the Word paper clip

If that bloody paper clip muppet thing in Word pops up one more time, I’m gonna fucking have ‘im!

Hovering over your work like an obsequious waiter hungry for a tip.

I warn you paper clip boy: what comes next won’t be pleasant!

I’m going to chuck you in a pit of molten metal. If it fucks up a terminator, imagine what it will do to you.

I’m going to straighten you out and use you to scrape dogshit from the sole of my shoe.

I’m going to beat you flat with a hammer and use you as a Christmas decoration.

I’m going to bend you into a fishhook and drag you behind a boat on a cold winter’s day.

I’m going to use you as a staple to hold together someone’s bowel after an operation.

I’m going to insert you into a punk’s tongue and watch him lick batteries.

I’m going to affix you to the chain of a urinal.

I’m going to pay people to piss on you 24 hours a day until you rust away.

I’m going to melt you down and use you as a filling in the mouth of someone suffering from terminal halitosis.

I’m going to tie you to a bit of string and drag you behind my car as a means of discharging static electricity.

I’m going to use you as a pin to affix a rare South American butterfly to a board.

I’m going to have customs find the butterfly and order its immediate immolation.

iWank

Disturbing developments have come to our attention here at What not to do in Australia. After much research, and analysis of results, a conclusion has been reached.

Owning an iPod can cause you to turn into a wanker.

Yes, it’s true--by owning an iPod you risk becoming a severe wanker. It is entirely possible that you are already a wanker. A chance also exists that you were a wanker before you bought the iPod.

Before you ambush me with a barrage of one, or even two emails, denying your culpability, let me present the undeniable, unalterable, and unpalatable proofs for my assertion.

First let’s consider the ‘pros’ of the iPod:

• It looks cool and is instantly recognisable.
• You can dock it in your BMW.
• Bono has one.
  

Now let’s consider the cons:

• It’s overpriced.
• Lacks many features of it’s competitors, such as in built voice recording and direct from source MP3 encoding, digital line in, ability to support certain file types, battery life, etc…
• Shuffle player doesn’t even have a fucking screen.
• You have to fuck around with iTunes software to load tracks, rather than have it show up as an external drive, and drag and drop.
• You can’t upload from your player.
• Bono has one.
  

Looks pretty simple when you put it like that, doesn’t it? So why would you buy one? What’s that up the back? It looks cool? Well… It looks white anyway. White being a completely impractical colour for something that has to exist within the modern world. Just say, you are in a situation when you need to hide your iPod in your ‘prisoners purse’? I tell you it won’t stay white for long.

I consulted a graphic designer friend of mine on the matter. He owns an iPod, an iBook, one of those Razor phones and a bunch of other trendy shit, and to paraphrase him, he said: ‘Graphic designers like shit that looks cool.’

Buying something because it looks cool? Is this not the province of morons like Paris Hilton? Did you buy the player because you want to listen to high fidelity music, or because you want Jenny at the Gym to see a white rectangle strapped to your arm. If the answer is gym related, I’m afraid you are a wanker.

And what’s this with wearing them in public view? When you see someone with a mobile phone clipped to their belt rather than in a pocket out of sight, what do you think?

Wanker.

Exactly. The same principle applies to MP3 players, or any electronic device worn as clothing. The marketing people are trying to trick you. It is not ok to walk around like a Borg motherfucker, with an iPod on a belt clip, arm band, neck lanyard, or hanging from a pierced nipple. You look like a Fuckwit.

That’s with a capital F.

What you are saying to the world is: ‘I am a dickhead. I care more about what strangers think of me, and my financial position in life, than a myriad of more important issues. I am vain, and masturbate a lot. I am a wanker in every sense of the word, and probably listen to Bros.’

Is that what you want the world to think?

Is it?

What is even funnier is that these people are trying to express their individuality. Even Apple’s slogan is ‘Think different’.

Think Different? Buy the same thing every other westerner on the planet is buying? Pay more for less? Man, that’s fucked up wacky different. And isn’t ‘different’ just a euphemism for retarded?

Or do they mean ‘different’ in the sense that they were the first to come up with the hard drive based mp3 player? Well they weren’t. Creative, had hard disk players years before Apple.

The culture of the iPod, is polluting the great sandy white beach of the Internet as well. Bloggers the world over, mistakenly seem to think that someone gives a shit about ‘what’s on the iPod?’ They make lists, of random tracks that appear on their players and publish them on their blogs.

What the fuck?

Who gives a flying fuck? The time you spent typing out the lyrics to ‘Girls just want to have fun’ could have been put to much better use watching porn, or plotting to kill Bono or something.

So looking over this expose, have you come to the conclusion that you are an ‘iWanker’? What can you do to avoid looking like a tosser of monstrous magnitude? Here a few simple steps:

• Buy something else; but if you can’t:
• Keep it in your fucking pocket, Macguyver. (See paragraph relating to fuckwits and looking like one…)
• Buy some decent quality headphones that are not white.
• Start referring to it as an MP3 player.
• Download some firmware to make the fucking thing work properly.
• Never, I repeat, NEVER, offer information on your listening habits to someone who didn’t ask.
• Keep the iPod acronym running on a constant loop in you head.
  

I. Prefer. Other. Devices.

...

Bush's plane mistakenly shot down by Jesus over Olympic opening ceremony - Microsoft blamed.

Sorry, just Google baiting.

...

Another Joke from Davros the Destroyer.

Well this will probably piss a lot of people off...

If you are person who is perhaps prone to being pissed off, read no further ...

What's this?

A shit way to spend Easter.

Thou shalt not worship false Idols!!!

American Idol has a lot to answer for. In true commercial arse-sucking style it has spawned copycat shows in a myriad of countries--well at least Australia, and if my cynical belief in the sheer 'vaccuosity' of humanity in general pans out, there will soon be one in every country on Earth.

Algerian Idol anyone?

What about Chad Idol?

Columbian Idol? The show where the judges shovel cocaine up their snort holes before announcing, 'Eeetzz crrap!'

Cuban Idol? 'You don't like my song? Well say hello to my leetle friend! (cue sound of manic laughter and machine gun fire ... Oh fuck, I wish ...)

Egyptian Idol? No Bangles songs please.

Djiboutian Idol? Never heard of that one before? Well the capitol of Djibouti is called Djibouti. Shake your bootie In Djibouti.

Haitian Idol? Already resembles Hell--why not go there?

North Korean Idol? And the winner is ... Kim Jong Il! Of course the man is the best at everything--just ask him, he will tell you how things should be done.

Latvian Idol.

Federated-Fucking-States-of-Micronesian Idol...

When will it end?

At last count, it was generally accepted that there are 193 counties in the world. Considering that the top five contestants of an Idol program usually secure record contracts, that's 965 new spurious acts on the market a year.

Sweet Jesus--be afraid, be very afraid.

Those 965 shlop stars releasing a minimum of 10 songs on their debut album brings us up to 9650 songs of which, granted, possibly two don't make you want to insert a chainsaw in your ear to dull the pain.

9648 scheisen hausen (as zee Germans say) songs polluting the already stagnant music market.

Fan-fucking-tastic. I can't wait.

What not to cook &trade : Dogshit Nachos

Summer time in Korea and it's as hot as that hot roller in the fucking photocopier that always snags the paper, then burns you when you try and remove it, making you jump backwards and hit your head on the bookshelf as you tear out half the paper, causing you to request the photocopier to 'just fucking work, you fucking piece of shit,' just as one of the students' mothers walks into the office.

Warm indeed, and what better summer food than Nachos Korean style--well not exactly Korean style--this is the version they feed to vegan TV evangelists in hell, while simultaneously applying kimchi enemas. Nonetheless, while this is named 'Dogshit Nachos',for personal reasons I am off the dogshit, and will be using a dogshit substitute, if you will, and no, it's not tofu.



Grab all that shit and chop it up--excepting the corn chips. It is probably best to remove any layers of onion that are starting to liquefy, at this stage. Take a tiny bite of one of the chillies and expectorate violently into the sink as you reef on the cold water and thrust your mouth under it. Remembering an inflight magazine's advice on a Thai Air flight, to hold vinegar in your mouth to relieve chili related trauma--gargle vinegar, before coming to the realisation that it doesn't fucking work. Why have I been passing this information on for all these years?



Fry up the onion and two violently hot chillies with some pepper and a wee bit of stock.



Chop up some kimchi and spring onion if you had forgotten to do that earlier, then chuck the kimchi in to join the fun in the fry pan.



Push some of the detritus cluttering your table onto the floor, to make way for the plate you just washed up for the occasion. Arrange chips on said plate like so.



By now, shit should be starting to burn in the fry pan--don't burn it too much, just a little. Take it out and spread it evenly-ish over the chips. Sprinkle chopped spring onion over this layer.



This next step is tricky.

Take a can of dogshit substitute (tuna) and after draining off the oil and removing any bits of dolphin that catch your eye, spread that shit all over the nachos. Take leave of your brain, and forgetting how much chilli you have already added, dice one more, scoop it up with your fingers, and sprinkle it on top.

Now would be a good time to rub your eye.

As your eye begins to inflame, dance around the kitchen like an idiot, contemplate dowsing your eye with vinegar before attaining a moment of chilli-induced clarity--I can see through time! Vinegar in the eye is a very bad idea.

Deftly, as sparks start to grow at the edge of your vision, throw yourself at the sink, instantly attaining a perfect score on the yet-to-grow-popular game of 'Get the handle of a soup ladle up your nose' as you plunge your head among the dirty dishes, and run cold water into your eye for five minutes.



After you have sufficiently recovered, spread as much cheese as you care for over the top.



Bake that motherfucker in a toaster oven, or, if you are posh, a real oven. Find something to prevent your hands from burning as you take it out.



Cast your eyes over your creation in all its glory. That really does look like dogshit now doesn't it? I suggest watching a cheesy horror movie to distract you while you consume this, and sup upon a chilled glass of orange juice to help numb the fire on your lips.

If it's bothering you, imagine how the dog felt.

What not to cook &trade : Aberration Sandwich

Some weeks ago, I awoke with a killer hangover (much like the one I have now) and ventured out to a new supermarket that was built just behind my apartment, obstructing my view of the mountains. The world was far too bright, and bits of it kept slipping around the edges of my sunglasses and poking me in the eye; it was entirely unpleasant.

I staggered in to the supermarket with its weird Korean trance pop playing and picked up a few things. Lettuce, three radishes (they are the first I have seen in Korea and cost 1500 won ... for three!), and some cut of beef that I grabbed because the guy was hassling me--'What can I get you? What do you want? '
'I don't know. Leave me alone.'
'Do you want this? What about this?'
'Oh, fuck it. That will do.'

Anyway, I barely escaped with my life and headed back home to nurture my hangover. The next day while in class, I was dreaming of what I could make with the contents of my fridge. In my head it was an ethereal delight--a melt-in-your-mouth, gastronomical masterpiece. What I made when I got home looked more like what you see below.

Welcome to What Not To Cook episode #11--Aberration Sandwich.



You will need: bread, mayonnaise, garlic, kimchi, lettuce, a limp radish, a piece of steak, capsicum, havarti cheese, salt, pepper, Worcestershire sauce, hot sauce, sesame oil, and a thirst for adventure.



Slice that grisly piece of meat down the middle, and open it up so it is hinged like a purse. Layer with roughly chopped garlic and kimchi. See that doesn't look too bad--surely this will work ...



Next stuff some slices of havarti in there and splash on some hot sauce.



Close it up, sprinkle both sides with shitloads of pepper and a wee dash of salt. You can use the heel of your hand to push it in there.



Chuck that bad boy in a fry pan with some sesame oil. Those of you in the know may have realised I have forgotten a crucial step here ... There is nothing holding our little steak purse together ...

Ignore this fact, and blissfully unaware of the horror you have unleashed, continue on to the next step.



Arrange your salad ingredients on some bread like so ...



What the fuck is this? Flip the steak, and attempt to make it close up. Realise it is doomed and pull it out of the frypan and onto a chopping board where you attack it with a large knife.



Weaker souls would have given up on this by now, but not our brave crusader.



Stick it back in the frypan and fry the fuck out of it with some Worcestershire sauce.



Considering most of the havarti has liquefied and caked itself to the frypan by now, prudently add some more to your bread. Don't forget the mayonnaise.



Sweet mother of god, what aberration is this? What scatological remains of a foul and feculent beast most horrid?



Scoop the remains out of the frypan and arrange it neatly on your sandwich, like so.

Top with bread, garnish with something green and something red. Stand back and look out on the panorama of mess you have created. Take a deep breath, grab a carton of orange juice, turn on the Discovery channel, and pray they are not showing anything too disgusting while you eat.



This wasn't too bad, except the meat was as tough as a bulldog's ear.

Blast from the past 4#

I just finished recording the greatest song in the history of time, but I can't log in to Soundclick for some reason, and hence can't supply you with a link...

Anyway...Here is a little musing from deepest, darkest China.


Crap

Date :
Thu, 01 Nov 2001 22:49:02 +1100

Here's a handy hint, it just came to me the other day while I was eating lunch.

Just say for some reason you want to exude an air of contemplation, to let others know that you are a very intelligent person, and give the impression that you are pondering the meaning of existence at this very moment ...

Eat fish. Preferably a Chinese river fish, such as carp, with lots of bones. The facial expressions you pull while attempting to locate a small fish bone with your tongue, all the time keeping your fingers out of your mouth, is sure to do the trick. Your eyes roll back in your head as they glaze over; you stare into the distance and try and envisage the inside of your mouth as you probe and search for that fucking fish bone that you know is still there--despite the fact that you can't find it. This does bare some relevance to the meaning of life, as your life hangs in the balance right now. If you swallow that fish bone and it lodges in your throat you could die; I once heard a story about a woman who swallowed a fish bone that got stuck in her throat and over a period of months caused a tumor, which resulted in her eventual death by asphyxiation ...

Meanwhile, while you scour the mashed fish in your mouth for signs of solid matter and think of that poor lady who died, people around you are starting to take notice. Wondering what it is that is on your mind, they speculate amongst themselves. 'Is he a physicist, working on the intricacies of some new theorem that will change the course of history and the world as we know it? Maybe he is an author, developing a plot that will leave the bard for dead? What if he is one of the select few that really control the world, and is currently thinking of a means to appease the alien invaders from the planet Thorax?

And all the time all you really want to do is spit out the pulp of fish in your mouth that tastes like shit-flavoured mud.

I think it is no accident that by rearranging the letters in the word 'carp', you can spell 'crap'.

Hot Gochu

Red chilli or ‘gochu’ in Korean, a staple element of nearly every Korean food. They require them in such mass quantities, that during the harvest season, chillies can be seen drying in the sun on the street, the roof, simply every-fucking-where... Oh yeah, gochu is also a cute slang term for penis.

It's all about the gochu...

...and you know this...Man!

I tried to take these pictures on the sly. I feel foolish and touristy taking photos of what, to Koreans, are extremely commonplace things with my abnormally large camera.

A bunch of adjummas walked by decked out in full adjumma regalia: bulletproof perms, sun visors, and loud floral clothes in all the colours of the rainbow... then some more.

They looked at me while I was bent down adjusting the folding screen on the camera, messing with the macro function, trying to get the best angle.

I'm sure they were thinking ‘What the fuck is that guy doing? Is he retarded? It's just a fucking chilli for God’s sake...’

Can you imagine someone back home taking a photo of something mundane like a parking meter?

And matching little car in ‘gochu metallic’

Attack of the killer gochu!



Just to show you that it's not all about the gochu...


Yes, they look cute in isolation, but multiply the numbers and add sugar...

Birthday

It was my birthday the other day. Apparently. I didn't know this at the time, I always thought that my birthday was in late February just like it has been every year since I was born. Apparently I was wrong.

I was in a restaurant that I frequent often with two friends, Won and Ryan. The woman who runs the restaurant is very friendly and always chats away with us, supplying free extras and even bags of ice that she stuffs down the back of your shirt when you least expect it. My friend Won is from Seoul and for some unknown reason decides to tell her it is my birthday.

She gets very excited even though I do my best to deny it, she literally runs off out the door and down the street. I call Won a bastard and a few other names while Ryan pisses himself laughing, as we watch the ajumma go hurtling back the other way past the restaurant.

Three minutes later she comes huffing and puffing her way back, red-faced and proudly clutching a box of 'choco-pies' (a revolting marshmallow biscuit) and a bottle of Korean champagne.

Oh shit.

For those of you who are unaware of the traditional Korean birthday cheap shitty, sugary, sparkling wine celebratory method, read on.

This lovely lady proceeds to make a cake out of the choco-pies by stacking them on top of each other and inserting 27 matches to use as candles. Everyone sings 'Seng il chuka hamneeda' and I brace myself for the inevitable. The ajumma shakes up the bottle of wine and tries to force the cork out to no avail. I offer to do it for her, sensing an opportunity to turn the tables on my bastard friends, but she is on to me, and is having none of it.

A man in his 40s at the next table offers his services, stands up with the wine, shakes it some more then carefully asks whose birthday it is... Again, I try to fend it off saying it is actually Ryan's birthday, but no one will believe me. I try again, claiming my clothes are new... He pops the cork and sprays the horrible sugar-water all over me, as I try to wrench the bottle away in order to get Won and Ryan. They, however, have done acrobatic maneuvers out the door to avoid getting wet and are so laughing so hard they can't stand up straight.

I then have to go and drink soju with the guys at the next table as they toast my birthday, leaving me suitably hammered when we finally leave. Won and Ryan are still laughing as we walk down the street, my clothes sticking to my skin and reeking of stale wine that smells like sour grapes shat out of a leprous cat.