Baby Upgrades

Babies are a usually unwelcome soundtrack to our transit that we may personally resent but rarely voice it out of sympathy and/or empathy. Still, after a long day pushing paper, when we don’t have the excuse that the little babbling jerk carries on our genetic legacy, it might be tempting to resort to lines of thought slightly more judgmental than the average.

“Lower The Volume, Its Too Loud !” by stockimages
“Lower The Volume, Its Too Loud !” by stockimages

Mummy, get it under control or I’m going to impale you on my office pens.

Of course, baby/toddler is never at fault and mummy is most probably not at fault either. It’s just the way shit goes sometimes. Nature never really intended for us to share a carriage with a screaming infant at length – if you were in a cave with another family’s wailing kids you were probably trying to steal their fried gerbil stash. Just take the broccoli and the cheeky buggers would even have ushered you out of the beaded curtain at the entrance.

“Happy Boy Standing” by Stuart Miles
“Happy Boy Standing” by Stuart Miles

Please, come back anytime. Might I also recommend the delectable sprouts.

And so I put forward a possible solution. We use our knowledge on genetic modification, combined with our love of a deep bass (the voice range, not the shit blasting out of your Subaru Impreza’s boot) to alter the voices of the tykes in their pre-pubescent years. We give them Barry White’s throat strings (maybe Scarlett Johannsen or something for the ladybabies).


Hey sweet mama – how about a bit of that carrot puree?

Yeah, there might be some physiological side-effects like them having abnormally sized necks for the first few years, but we’ll work around it. Face it, it would all be worth it to have the little 3 year old in front of you on the train spit out “mum, I’m hungry” as Morgan Freeman. You’d starve your children just to her them complain to you.


The Final Cookie

The dining room was lit by that purgatory sepia that comes when the sky hasn’t quite decided to empty its bladder on you. Some asshole accelerated needlessly in the residential road outside as four separate senior citizens peeking out of their synthetic floral curtains, watching to make sure nobody parks in front of their house for more than the 1 hour parking limit, simultaneously flipped the bird at said asshole. Moments later a pigeon flew into a window. Nobody averted their gaze from the recently emptied tin perched on a slightly tea-stained doily atop a waxed mahogany tabletop.

Twas the 14th hour of the day, edging on 15th, and five fairly elderly people stood evenly spaced around the table, sizing each other up and each holding – with various degrees of sturdiness – handguns. What many people might call a Mexican standoff, and what few might call a capsicum stroganoff. It could have been that one of them had just released the most despicable wind in history, but the position of the fan would have led to a quick resolution of the culprit by some basic deduction of air flow in the room.

No, it was not flatulence that had these friends reassessing each other. It was something far more sinister. Like a crime scene from Sesame Street, there was an assortment of crumbs littered around and inside the tin, as if someone had scoffed the final member of the gourmet cookie collection all too hurriedly. There was, at this stage known to the occupants of the room due to some preliminary investigation: a strand of strawberry hair, a tuft of white wool, and a shred of pyjama bottoms.

A middle-aged man dressed in a “Reginald Peabody’s Club of Gentlemen” golf sweater, looking as if he was disgruntled about the others’ lack of formality, put forward an idea after a lengthy period of silence and gun-pointing. His chrome revolver was dead steady, held firm in the direction of the elderly and silver-haired Lassie McGee, who looked rather nervous in her red and blue spotty silk pyjamas.

“Don’t toy with us Lassie. Take off your pants. We’ve all seen you naked before anyway.”

Lassie’s favourite game was strip poker and she often hosted impromptu poker nights, not-so-subtly electing to adorn herself in the most minimal attire she could justify. She was wearing pyjamas this fateful afternoon because she had prepared early for the evening poker tournament that was to be held before things took a turn for the worse. Lassie didn’t feel the urge to go full monty in this particular instance due to the threat of imminent death by gunshot.

“I don’t need to show you my pants – I think we can all agree that red and blue patch of excellent craftsmanship can belong to none other than myself. That does not, however, indict me. I merely concede that I am myself, arguably more suspect than the two of you that do not have any visible evidence of treachery atop this crime scene. Notwithstanding, foul play cannot be eliminated from the realm of possibility.”

Selma chimed in with an objection. She was clearly one of the two being accused of framing, given her lack of a white woolen clothing item (Reginald was alone in this) and dark brunette hair (Ignatius was the only bearer of cranial pinkness in the party due to his chronic eyesight problems that had lead him to purchase Salmon Supreme Instant Dye).

“Nonsense. Any member of the Oakberry Book Club would know that we swear an oath of honesty as part of our pledge, and therefore cannot be guilty of such atrocious schemes.”

Daphne West-Jenkins II stood firm. Known for her gossip since outing Reginald’s fur fetish six months previous, she was adamant that she was incapable of keeping things quiet, including guilt. Instead of protesting her innocence, she attempted to gain favour by picking at Selma and the book club she wouldn’t shut up about.

“The only thing the book club swears is that they won’t tell anyone the only book they read is Fifty Shades of Grey.”

Ignatius’ semi-automatic pistol gradually repositioned itself with a smoothness that could only come with confidently wearing a head of pink hair at 73 years of age. Reginald would argue that he would prefer a head of pink hair to the expensive but poorly chosen toupee that had been glued to his head by his Parkinson’s afflicted ex-wife fifteen years ago.
Selma gasped as she saw the odds turning due to a simple jab at her Sunday morning group of closet sado-masochists.

“You defy logic by turning your gun on me due to irrelevant allegations! How do the guilty pleasures of my book group bring any light to this situation?” Selma stammered before quickly realising her error.

“Selma, Selma, Selma Bluebottom. Guilty pleasure is exactly the motivation for this cookie theft. We all agreed the last one would be divided equally after our tea and dominoes, but you just weren’t satisfied with a fraction of chocolate chip perfection, were you?” Daphne again attempted to shift the blame to whom she saw as a weakening and easy target.

Daphne’s gun shifted to Selma. She had been saving the gesture until this moment for maximum impact. It had previously been aimed at Ignatius, mostly because of his hair, but also his Monopoly moustache. Selma felt the pressure.

“Times like these the explanation is often the simplest. We have three incriminating pieces of evidence on the table. As much as it pains me to give weight to Daphne’s innocence as well as my own, I must point out that were either of us to frame someone, we would have implicated a single person overwhelmingly, or at least significantly enough to avoid this awkward situation. You all should know that my literary preferences are theatrical only, and do not represent my intelligence. Believe me when I say that I would have done a far better job of foul play given my appetite for it.”

A few expressions of disgust were heard as vivid images of a sexually ravenous pensioner being tenderised with a ping pong bat filled their minds. Her reasoning swayed them however, and after some changes in suppositions, Reginald found himself to be the newly favoured suspect. His unfaltering resolve was admirable, but still waters run deep.

“The window of opportunity was small. A few minutes at most, I would surmise. We were all absent from the room at some point in that period due to the wavering grasp we all have on our bladder control” suggested Ignatius. Such frank talk was not normally his style, but the stakes were higher than that time he accidentally mowed over Daphne’s friendly tabby after mistaking it for a patch of weeds. To this day she still believed he had been mauled by a squirrel – a fate believable knowing both the ferocity of the neighbourhood squirrels and the placidity of Mop the fluffy tabby.

A shuffling was heard from above.

“It couldn’t have been your father, could it Lassie?” asked Reginald quizzically, attempting to divert as many muzzles away from his not-quite-overweight-but-slightly-gelatinous body as he could. Lassie’s father Horatio was 99 years old and was capable of dribbling away his hydration so quickly they had an emergency drip stashed in his bedroom cupboard. He was still barely capable of walking without aid, but his grasp on reality was slightly less firm than the grasp he nearly permanently had on his genitals. He rarely ventured out of his room, preferring to watch Jersey Shore and shout obscenities about today’s youth, before regurgitating and throwing his half-chewed food at the TV. Lassie had the screen laminated to facilitate cleaning.

A buzzing sound accompanied by some muffled flatulence indicated that Horatio had decided to journey downstairs on the stair lift. The buzzing stopped and some more shuffling was heard. As the occupants of the dining room turned to watch him enter, they half expected him to die of a heart attack seeing the plethora of weaponry on display. Lassie knew him better and wasn’t worried.

Horatio’s decrepit frame hobbled around the corner to reveal an unusually joyful expression on his face. An acrid aroma drifted from the old man across the room as the fan hummed away. Noses turned up in the order of distance from him. He rarely bathed more than once weekly and it seemed he was overdue. A stream of congealed saliva hung from the collection of facial pubes decorating his chin. The audience watched and waited for it to drop.

Horatio peered at the tin on the table, smiling with malice shortly after seeing that there was an absence of cookie.

“So which one of you ate the last one? I hope it tasted extra sweaty – I rubbed my balls all over it!” Horatio announced, followed by severe laughter interspersed with coughing and spluttering. Ignatius wailed in disgust and quickly began to gag.

The ball of drool detached from its mucusy support and plummeted toward the ground. The house was filled with a cacophony as all the firearms roared in succession. Ignatius started firing, and Horatio took one in his wrinkly man-boob. Lassie shot a chunk out of Ignatius’ hair in vengeance. Ignatius spun his arm around to shoot Lassie but a second shot from Lassie to his head caused his finger to clench the trigger and a bullet whizzed through Reginald’s golf sweater and his gelatinous body into the cupboard of silverware behind him. Reginald’s final moments were accompanied by Barry White’s “You are the first, my last, my everything” and as he exited his body he laughed as he realised the final stage testicular cancer that had been itching to kill him can go fuck itself.
Another shot from Ignatius’ rigor mortis glanced off the fireplace and pierced Daphne’s heart in every way that Ignatius’ romantic advances hadn’t. Lassie had a sudden stroke as the heavy smoking she had engaged in during her youth caught up with her at a dramatically appropriate time. As a seizure took hold of her body, Lassie’s finger sealed Selma’s fate, with the first bullet piercing her femoral artery.

The now-spherical drool bomb splashed on the ground, inaudible beneath the thumping of bodies hitting the floor.

New Year, No Fear – How to Cope with Post Holiday Blues and Other Wisdom

A collective wail of agony echoes across the city as the year begins – a wail that sounds out at a frequency slightly lower than the bottom of our hearing range. However, some scientists in a lab are reading a significant increase in the latent low-frequency sonic emissions across the city and going “Hmm, I wonder what that could be? Mayhaps the narwhals are preparing an invasion?”

‘scientists’ by somkku9,

Why isn’t my ultra-low frequency sonic sensor working? It’s just showing me a picture of this bacteria that looks like pubes. The narwhals have sabotaged our instruments!

I’ll tell you what it is. It is the unibowel of our nation – the amalgamated spiritual whole of our individual bowels – unloading the mother of all beer turds on the idea of going back to work after the holiday. Somewhere, Joe Turnip sits at a clean desk with his laptop squinting back at him on this fine Wednesday, mulling over several thoughts which constitute a general feeling toward his employment that is far inferior to his opinion on women’s shoes. The thoughts may and probably include the following:

*Staring at the time in the bottom right of his Windows desktop that has a few documents opened that make him look like he isn’t dicking off*
“13:05 – a time that marks the magnanimous welcoming of the sweet embrace of the weekend being less than halfway from me. A weekend that is particularly full of sweetness, like aunty Fiona when she smokes pot.”

“Old Woman” by graur razvan ionut,
“Old Woman” by graur razvan ionut,

And her distinct lack of sweetness when you take her pot away.

“Seriously, fuck all those people who took their holidays after the new year and are still in the sun somewhere drinking what I hope is something contaminated with urine. I’m going to laugh when they go back to the real world. More time on break, more pain at stake. Mmm, I like steak. Fuck those people.”

“If I just type like this people will think I’m busy. Hmm, yeah I can totally afford to waste some time.I’ll make up for it later. There’s other employees that suck more than me.  I’m just too depressed to add up these two single figure digits. Wait, that is actually my job. Why am I here? Better keep looking important – ooh look my random typing produced the word ‘ballsack’!”


I also got pretty close to typing “orgasm” too! Screenshot Tweet #randomtyping #statisticallyimprobably #ballsackorgasm

Jim and thousands of others will never make up for their wasted time. There are plenty of people spending hours just wondering how many other people are still on holiday, and procrastinating by building forts out of their erasers. Somewhere there is some dickhead winning a trophy or followers on instagram for building a scaled model of the Arc de Triomphe from erasers. You could be that dickhead if you commit.

“Office Tools” by mrpuen,
“Office Tools” by mrpuen,

Why would the universe place all this useless office stationery in front of me if it didn’t want me to become an artist?

Anyway, there are plenty of people applying the strategy of Cheddar Milestones right now. You could too, with easy payments of just $19.95 per week until you die! Hey, I gotta make a living too. Why Cheddar? Because it is the most beautiful word in the English language. Firstly, it sounds like “cellar door” if you have a severe speech impediment. Secondly, it is also describing the most awesome dairy product since some hairy yak left some milk in a puddle on the floor for safekeeping and returned in a week to find the ambrosia that is yoghurt.

“Wedge Of Cheddar Cheese” by Mister GC,
“Wedge Of Cheddar Cheese” by Mister GC,

Yoghurt ain’t got nothing on me bitch. It ain’t food if you can’t CHEW IT.

Cheddar Milestones is a unique and novel strategy that essentially capitalises on our ability to focus on short term goals more easily than long term ones, and our awesome adaptability to circumstances taking a turn for the worse.

  1. Focus on making it to morning tea
  2. Focus on making it to lunch
  3. Focus on making it to afternoon tea
  4. Focus on making it to the end of the working day
  5. Celebrate by doing shit – sell a kidney and enrol in a taxidermy course. Buy a beer and drink it like you stole it.
  6. Repeat until your next long weekend/sick day/annual leave, or until you run out of money. If the latter occurs, sign up to our course on “Managing Finances Effectively – a Guide to Selling Garden Gnomes”. See, we got it covered kids.

But seriously, by pacing yourself and dicing your meaty day into bitesize chunks, like Hannibal Lecter preparing breakfast from his recently deceased mailman, you too can fight the blues. If you get paid peanuts, MAKE SOME BUTTER FROM THAT SHIT. Invest it in garden gnomes. It’s a rapidly growing industry – see our course on “Investment Diversification Into Other Trades”.

“Gnome” by Simon Howden,
“Gnome” by Simon Howden,

Cheddar ain’t got nothing on me bitch. It ain’t a garden ornament if it MELTS UNDER THE SUN.

Anything better than cheddar is worth looking into, right?

Bah Humbug! A Seasonal Rant on First World Problems and Ceramic Elephants

I decided to compile a small list of differences/hypocrisies/annoyances that apply to the daily ecstasy that is my life. I am sure some or all of the items in this list have been covered by someone else in some other digital or analogue medium, however there is no harm in reiterating the most heinous controversies of our time. Things like:

1)  A cripplingly incorrect assignment of binary states to clothing cleanliness.
Embed from Getty Images
These guys call it “fuzzy logic”. That’s because if there’s something fuzzy growing on your clothes, it’s time to wash them.

Elaboration – I believe there is something in between black and white in this instance. Say there was a Tinder extension that segregated people – nay, quarantined people – for having been nothing but frequent and successful users of the application into groups. Imagine scrolling down the list of seductive profile pictures, excitedly scanning for your next lucky partner, taking into account this new feature. Scratch that, imagine you were ON the list and your dream girl/guy was scanning through it – I’d name examples but I don’t know what the kids these days are into… are pasty vampires still a thing?

I want you more than I want melanin.

So, say you’d been a bit cheeky with the bearded lady next door after a few too many shots of window cleaner, and you’d picked up some crabs due to her insistence to orally pleasure you at length. If ‘clean’ was STD-free, and ‘dirty’ was going to lump you with the folks with a bit of the syphilis, wouldn’t you want to be part of another group? The ‘little-bit-tainted’ group? Like the self-serve candy at your local sweet shop?

I just coated all your favourites with saliva, mucus and traces of fecal matter.

My point, as succinctly as I can put, being:

Jeans/Jumpers/: One wear* good, three wears getting smelly, five wears maybe wash it now.

Not ‘one wear need wash’.

Embed from Getty Images
Yeah, I’m just washing these ones, because you touched them when you ironed them.

* ‘wear’ applies to normal daily use – this does not include activities like trekking through peat bogs, food fights and bathing in your arch nemesis’ blood while fully clothed.

2) A complete inconsistency when sharing/portioning/rationing food

Elaboration – I am a student of simple virtues. Virtues like getting the fuck to the back of the queue and inflicting severe permanent disability on those who park in disabled spaces when they aren’t entitled to. And of course, applying the same weightings to food distribution.

If there was a pie that tasted like someone fermented it in the armpit of an obese undertaker whose armpit was the source of his entire business model, I would have to eat 70-95% of it, depending on how nicely the gravy masked the musky flavours.

Embed from Getty Images
When business is dry, I bake special cookies. I’m legally immune because I tell everyone I put blood and sweat into making them.

Why do I have to eat more? Because I am bigger and can eat more. I can’t argue with that statement, but I might try to negotiate the figure down, as I suspect in most cases such as these my portion ratio has been rounded up disproportionately to the ratio of our body weights.
I’ll take it like a storm drain in monsoon season, as I am wont to do, being a male in a relationship with the fear of invoking the wrath of the seven hells. However, if I’m going to ingest a majority of the heady contents of this pie, I’d like to apply the same rule to the double chocolate fudge cake heaven waiting for me in the fridge, lovingly covered with a layer of cling wrap to keep the latent fridge aromas (is that pork yoghurt I smell?) from penetrating its cakey goodness. So, 70-95% of that beauty is mine.

Embed from Getty Images
Background: my portion. Foreground: my portion. Ok ok, your portion.

Wait, what? 50%? So, we are sharing it equally now are we? I proceed to slice through the fudgeness whilst choking back tears, daring not to argue lest I enter a debate on gender equality.

3) Christmas Shopping

Elaboration – shopping for things you probably wouldn’t want, the recipient probably doesn’t need, that exceed a calculated price threshold. This threshold is formed from a combination of your bank balance, the size of that nugget of generosity buried in your cynicism, how high your tolerance is for shops’ Christmas soundtracks, and how much you don’t want to offend the gift recipient/recipient’s parents.

Embed from Getty Images
Ed can’t complain because he knows it’s better than the shit he got you.

Thus I wander the aisles, looking at things that should not exist in any normal universe that hopefully fit into my conservative gift price threshold of 4 dollars. Ceramic garden elephants that tell you to piss off when you urinate on them for those Friday night visits you so often have. Soap that smells like mince pies to seduce all those people who have not had enough mince pies by the time their gifts are opened. But something within me tells me that yes, I do need to buy one at the special reduced price. Something whispers “misdirection” to me, and for a moment I could swear this was not a good deal.
I walk out of the shop holding the elephant and soap triumphantly as I play hypothetical scenarios over in my head. My sister receiving the elephant and the whole family cackling with glee at the genius of combining generosity with humour. And for a moment we all forget that we have a pile of shit to carry home, a belly full of mince pie shit to come out when we get home, and the knowledge that some dickhead who decided to sell ceramic piss elephants is drinking champagne on a boat called “Esmerelda”.

Embed from Getty Images
Life is a journey. We can’t all have an Esmerelda. But thanks to Chinese manufacturing efficiency, we can all have inappropriate garden ornaments in time for the New Year!

Disclaimer – I am in no way inferring that the majority of gifts I have received in my lifetime are useless novelty items that serve no purpose except a brief desperate moment of bonding over the Yuletide. I love you all at least as much as the half fudge cake I begrudgingly inhaled, and almost as much as the full cake I was cheated from. ❤ xxx

5 Ways Wit Works

When you are a kid and you first discover that poo is funny, you talk about poo a lot. After a few years (or decades for those lucky few of you), you might evolve your limited verbal jesting to include other topics. We are all continuously learning what people find funny, and where to joke about what. Without practical experience, all efforts are doomed. My own roaming experiences have led to a variety of reactions when attempting to kindle some bellies. I hope you can all relate.

1) Not intended, and not perceived.
Embed from Getty Images
Yeah, so I am actually your father. I ran away from you because you were an ugly baby. I still think you’re ugly, but I need to be civil so you will give me money to feed my gambling addiction. Wait, did I say that out loud?

Okay, some of you might be saying this one doesn’t count as a “way wit works” since it doesn’t involve humour or an attempt at it by either party. However, the funny thing about wit is that even when a situation is without it, if you can just remove the hout, you’ve got yourself some. Unless you try to make a joke like that.
But seriously, given that this category represents the majority of conversations I’ve had with lawn ornaments (a statistically significant amount that merits consideration as a legitimate category of socialising for at least myself), it’s going in. Also for completeness and such (I like a fully described set). There are of course some situations where humour is just not welcome, like the day that you get dumped by your $20,000 robot sex doll on Christmas Eve after buying a new Canon 1D DSLR to take pictures of you licking her feet. Yeah, some of you might mock it, but I guarantee that if you search hard enough, internet rule 34 will deliver a contact number for a guy who is into that. And he would be DEVASTATED if his doll left him.

Embed from Getty Images
Harry: How could you do this to me Sally? Was it Bob from accounting?
Sally: Yes, I’m sorry but he has hair.

I tried to find a nice gif but all I have to show for it is a search history revolving around “robot sex doll fetish guys” and questionably related ads on my Facebook banners.

2) Not intended, but perceived.
This is what happens when you have a really naive person choosing interesting combinations of words when talking to someone who masturbates very often or would like to. Arguably, you could have a dirty mind without humour and therefore not perceive anything but misconstrued meanings, but most people find innuendos funny if they are dirty enough to spot them if only because of the roaring unintended impropriety.

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This is the best sausage I’ve ever put in my mouth! Oh crap that came out wrong… Anyway I want to divorce. Stop laughing.

Also, Kanye West.
“Would you believe in what you believe in if you were the only one who believed it?” Clue – yes. He didn’t intend for me to laugh at that statement, but I did snigger at the redundancy of it, and then proceeded to cry as I realised how much richer than me he is.

As for those of you sticking up for the Hip Hop revolutionary, I agree he may have said some groundbreaking things. But it’s like the monkeys typing Shakespeare’s works. If he talks enough shit like that, every now and then something vaguely profound might come out if you squint.

Embed from Getty Images
In a bizarre twist, Hairy McGee IV just typed out the lyrics for an entire Kanye West song! He’s only been typing for 5 minutes too – what are the odds!

3) Intended, but not perceived.
“Holy crap it’s cold today”.
*Pause while thinking of joke*
“If I had a digital thermometer the accumulator would overflow because the negative exponent is so large!”

How was I supposed to know your mother just died? Would it make a difference if I said she was so hot that I’d still do her? No?

Basically, your sense of humour either just doesn’t line up with your audience. It might be the funniest joke ever, but you have to be comfortable with the trailing part of that statement – ‘for you’. Maybe don’t try so hard? Or just hang out with people who are your kind of geeky. The ones that also memorised every word of ‘Titanic’ so that a strategically placed quote in a maritime museum is indeed followed by some guiltily pleasured chortles.

4) Intended, but not perceived AS INTENDED.
YES! They are laughing! Laughing at… the dick drawn on your face as you tell them your joke. Plebeians.
Or even…
“… was so ridiculous! It would be like erecting a statue of Karl Marx with a toothbrush moustache!”

Again, this category is most probably due to a rift between the humour types of the parties involved. These are the moments where you just have to resist the urge to ‘correct’ the audience by explaining the joke, and just nod smugly as they pat you on the back for being swell and such. Three words that might come to mind that might best fit the mood:
“I’ll take that”. Trust me Jeeves, they don’t want to hear that awesome use of political satire to convey the irony in current state policy. If they didn’t get it, smile and wave.

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It’s not what I was going for, but if it helps me get that promotion, I’ll eat my tie. Note to self – business idea 34: flavoured ties.

5) Perceived as intended. Ding!
You whizkid. You excel at hanging around people as sophisticated, niche, hipster, shallow, narrow-minded, or maybe even as juvenile as you! They get you, like when you buy a sock and it just fits so nicely that you have to go buy the other one because socks come in pairs and you should have realised that at the shop and also how did the cashier not realise that you were buying one sock?

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Here’s your sock! I usually buy two at a time but the customer is always right!

These are those moments that you just feel like whipping out a bottle of champagne and celebrating your awesomeness, because nothing feels quite as good as having your recipients appreciate your clever pun, or impression, or hypothetical hilarity. Just remember – ride the wave at your own risk. You might keep popping out gold one-liners all night, or you might come up with a few before those beers and the darkness in your unconscious mate to produce a deformed lovechild that leaves you with nothing but a table of silence, and an enema with your own shame and regret.

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Shame enemas are not that fun really. They just bring all the shit out onto the table at once.


Today, for the hundred-twelftieth time, I went to a karaoke joint. Some of you right now are picturing an extremely drunk 50-something Japanese guy belting out “Bohemian Rhapsody” a couple of semitones short of the actual pitch, and spontaneously redefining the lyrics.

Japanese Karaoke
Scabby moose scabby moose, do you do the Flamingo?

Actually, that’s not completely fair – 100% of the folks in Japan whose singing I witnessed were not out of tune.

Western-style karaoke is more about singing to a room full of patrons whose judgment has hopefully been heavily influenced by our favourite poison in order to dull that part of their brain that reminds them that they have heard “Barbie Girl” a few too many times. Yes, as much as I absolutely loathe hearing the words “apple bottom jeans” blaring out of the speakers to mark the beginning of a song more irritating than your great auntie’s flatulent poodle in an elevator, I have to confess that as recently as last Friday I was shaking my white arse in a semi-enthusiastic manner to that very piece. Enough brew will get a baby-boomer breakdancing to Beyonce if the time is right for it.

Dancing Seniors

Back to the karaoke. Here in Sydney we have a lot of Asian-style karaoke booth warehouses (for lack of a better word). There are no crowds of jeering haters who are raging at your rendition of Backstreet Boys.

We were going to sing that one you prick. Now we have to do “As Long As You Love Me” instead.

For those who are calling for elaboration – it’s akin to singing in the shower, except your friends are all standing outside laughing at your man-tits. I kid. They actually find them erotic. But really, it’s more intimate than a pub full of strangers, and you don’t have to get off stage after singing Celine Dion. You can stay up there and sing Mariah. Maybe some Wham! For a few hours, time freezes in your little box of shame, and the only people that can witness the atrocities that occur inside are the folks walking past the door who are as guilty as you are. It’s beautiful.

No Pants
The same kind of beauty as going to work one day and noticing that everyone forgot to wear pants, just like you. Oh wait, that doesn’t ever happen. Put those pants back on you fool.

I may have more to say about this subject in future, but for now…

Litre of Oman
I see a litre, see a litre of Oman!


A promise is a strange concept. Across vast distances and cultural differences, there seems to my meagre knowledge to be a consistency regarding verbal bonds. Philosophically, a promise as it is most commonly interpreted is flawed. Fated or not, the future is unknown to all.

Fortune Teller
All except for me… I foresee that you are soon to be confronted with an advertisement about penis enlargement therapies.

If we cannot know with certainty what is to happen mere moments in the future, how can we make a promise?

At the same time, people are generally wary of someone who refuses to commit themselves to delivering on something, so it helps to reassure them by telling them shit will go down as you say it, or Polar Bears are black (wait… do they have inverted albinos?).

And there are some cases where hearing the words “everything is going to be fine” doesn’t really give you any comfort.

It’s a moot concept that, like many other social etiquette peculiarities, has evolved because of a need to not live in fear that the lovely old silver-haired grandma across the road from you is actually a criminal syndicate mastermind responsible for extortion and armed robbery.

I love that the first image that came up when I searched “granny” was a mad granny with a rifle. It seems not everyone trusts them…

Yes, that’s right – trust. We have created promises to foster relationships and build trust for the good of the tribe. I always found it hard to commit to anything, from saying “yes” to an invitation to dinner with the parents next weekend to throwing the boxing match for Marcellus Wallace (wait… that’s my Bruce Willis personality trying to break through again – BACK BOY!).

Which must have formed to preemptively ease the confidence-hungry transition to baldness.

Maybe people with general commitment issues aren’t just harbouring a penchant for avoiding obligations, but are actually astutely aware of the implicit uncertainty that lies ahead, and therefore cannot in good faith sign a verbally binding contract with anyone.

Or maybe that’s my mind trying to rationalise this cognitive dissonance “Bruce Willis style” again.

I’m bald and old, but I still slept with your mothers.

Insert Meaningful Title

Some things plague me. Too many cocks on the dance floor. Bottle shops closing at 8pm. Impotence. I could go on…

She doesn’t even know what’s coming! Or what’s not coming…

As much as I would like to write something enlightening, spiritual and/or truly profound, that might hopefully invoke feelings of clarity in the readers of my posts, I can’t help but continue to write about the kind of crap that slightly ill-adjusted child in your elementary school spouted after consuming multiple cans of full-sugar carbonated beverages that may or may not have been doped with amphetamines by his alcoholic reprobate parents.

My dad gave me some white powder and told me it was a special sherbet that I have to sniff!

We spent a rather significant percentage of working hours today discussing how we wanted to disembowel the culprits responsible for the half-concrete, half-dogshit hybrid that forms the surfaces of the Redfern footpaths. After having mused about the possibility of making videos in which we confront those responsible for these scars on our city, we decided being stabbed with HIV-infected needles and beaten to death by mobs of irate unemployed Redfern residents wasn’t really preferable to dying from physical exertion in bed with beautiful women; the only condition we can possibly comprehend ending our lives under.


We do, however, sincerely hope that the years of our denial of an omnipotent spiritual being are shown to be ill-lived when said being creates a localised hailstorm of festering dogshit directly above the guilty parties of the dogshit pandemic.

Thank you for your awesome manifestation of justice in the form of a literal shitstorm, Oh wise Lord.

In other news, I viewed a no-holds-barred marketing confession centred around the mass cruelty inherent in high-density farming. It wasn’t anything new to me, having watched Speciesism a few weeks back and being generally critical of the meat industry anyway; having been vegetarian since birth having maybe played a part in my left-wing view. Far from sitting on a high chair, watching these documentaries affected me as strongly as anyone else. Time and time again I find the meat defenders rallying behind such defenses as “agricultural practices are far more damaging to natural ecosystems than slaughtering livestock”. In reality, no vegetarian or vegan can claim to be following the most benevolent path unless they give up their entire way of life and live as a hermit in a cave, for humanity in the 21st century is a bane for far more reasons than the food industry.

I ain’t got my iPhone, or electricity, but… I got my heart, I got my soul, I got my back, I got my sex (although it’s a lot harder to come by without Tinder…)

The extent to which we have asserted our dominance at the expense of other species and even other cultures of humanity is so widespread and seemingly permanent that we can only hope to feel like we are making a difference. The movements for veganism, for gay rights, for safe working conditions in Bangladesh: all of these are like putting band-aids on the cuts that we are getting for crawling through a thorn bush. We won’t stop getting cut until we get out of the thorn bush and find another path. That’s not to say that I feel that those engaged in philanthropic activities are in any way expending their time in futility, but rather that we need to make changes on such a large scale it would be analogous to willing our blood to be blue.

Here’s another fish! “Can’t you teach me how to catch them?” Nah! Take the fuckin’ fish!

At some point, you have to accept that we are where we are, and without literally being crushed by the weight of the debt we have to repay, just repaying what we can.

You don’t have to turn vegan today. You don’t have to give all your money to charity. Just be aware of the sacrifices made so that you can google the restaurant you want to go to next week, or the layers upon layers of technological infrastructure that have amounted to your flight to Hawaii. Turn the world upside down in your mind, and live like your birth was a miracle rather than an inevitability.

We had to die for you to be here. Fuckin’ ungrateful prick.


Game of Thrones Wall Assault

There is absolutely no point in me punning the title of this show because I have seen every incarnation of it. There are probably more GoT themed porn films alone than episodes of Seinfeld. That aside, I just watched the latest episode of season 4 (episode 9 at the time of writing).



(I was going to add a cool button and shit to make it a bit more childproof, but then I decided not to)


The entire episode was about the wall. After seeing Oberyn’s head get transformed rather quickly into a brainy lasagne, I was more than happy to watch another plot line for a while. Not quite sure why the wildlings didn’t just go around the wall.

The Wall
Go around?

I’m not really hardcore into the series and I haven’t read the books, but according to this map of Westeros I found, the wall spans from some mountains to the sea. Assuming it is as cold as it looks, I don’t see why that sea wouldn’t be frozen and easily traversed by foot. Even if it wasn’t, the huge supply of wood would surely be enough to assemble some crude boats to make the trip. The Mance Rayder dude in charge of the army was a crow and would probably be aware of the technology to build a boat. It’s got to be easier than assaulting a wall that goes to the clouds?

Wooden Raft
We talked it through, and trying to attack a 700-foot tall wall is probably easier than building some shitty rafts and sailing around.

Similar story for the mountain route (Edit – This quote is from the GoT wikia:

“The Milkwater River carved a massive gorge through the Frostfangs which is practically as steep as the Wall itself, and which extends all the way to the ocean. The gorge is held to be as impassable as the Wall – though small raiding bands with climbing equipment have perilously managed to climb both at times.”

Even if it is ‘as impassable’, at least there is nobody throwing shit at you while you try to climb it…) Failing that, what about just tunneling through the wall? It is ice – It wouldn’t take that long for a few giants with epic pickaxes to just hack their way through.

The catapult of ice-wall siege weaponry.

Secondly, I thought there were 100 men in the Night’s Watch. Given the number of people I saw butchered on screen and the length of the battle in Castle Black, there are about 7 left now at best. That’s a bowling team. I understand that the producer probably knew that people want to watch a battle, not a gathering less numerous than the Latvian Teapot Eroticism fan club (now that I think about it, that probably has a legion of followers – fuck it, I’d join that out of curiosity), but seriously.

It’s even got built-in anal beads

Finally, as my equally disbelief-suspended friend pointed out, why did they drop the giant ice-anchor on the wall when there were 4 people climbing up? How much effort would it be to wait until they are a few metres below the top and then throw rocks at them, or even fucking snowballs made out of a mix of ice and hate?!

Deadly Snowball
100% effective at stopping people climbing up your wall. 30% effective at not cutting the shit out of your hand before you let go.


Tinder is pretty popular right now, as many of you may know given the chronic wrist pain you are all experiencing as you read this. Or why you are all so practised and efficient when the time comes to PayPass. Or when you notice that you walk to the left of approaching people in the street when you find them attractive and right when you don’t.


“Sometimes my hand just goes all Tindly – on the plus side masturbation does itself”

The unforgivably shallow nature of judging your fellow humans by a single two-dimensional snapshot of some moment in their life, without audio accompaniment, just leads to people filling in the blanks themselves. It’s therefore either going to lead to throwing away an opportunity to meet someone who you might actually hit it off with, or becoming infatuated with a person you know nothing about.

“I bet she even eats Weetbix in that outfit. It clearly represents her daily personality. Sold.”


Think about how many people using the application would actually look at a picture of someone they find attractive for whatever reason and contently tell themselves “okay – they look interesting but I don’t know them yet so I’ll hold back for now”. Some of you are saying “yeh I totes do that because I’m wise like a monk and shit”. No, you would like to think you don’t make conclusions or assumptions but you would be denying an imperative of our species’ social evolution if you were capable of that, and that would actually make you a monk.


“I’ve never been good with small talk – I just have a pet tiger to eat the competition”


As soon as you see a profile of someone you like, you don’t see a profile of someone you like – you just see someone you like. It is a case of assume the positive, and try to disprove, because we are all optimists at heart due to the nature of the media’s presentation of romance. As soon as you decide subconsciously that you are attracted to someone, you are going to favourably fill in the blanks inversely proportionately to the number of times you have been screwed over. That means Phil who never had a girlfriend is going to build a perfect caricature of a horny genius from a single picture of a girl with glasses and boobage, and Tracey who has been divorced twice might be more cautious about assuming the Adonis also excels at mathematics, courtship and fatherhood.


After the first conversation: you know you both like cats and baseball. *Extrapolates to everything else too*. Your mind is saying “they probably also have a whole family of handmade My Little Pony clay figurines on their bedside table, just like me!”.

“I feel like we know each other so well already”

Don’t extrapolate – I know hope is hard to hold back, and even harder not to replace with cynicism, but try to keep the slate blank before it has been written on. Expectation is going to disappoint everybody, and suggesting we should all expect the minimum is also not going to help you be a likeable person, because to live that view you have to actually be miserable.

Although, you can probably be reasonably accurate in perceiving that most men are on there for sex, and most women are on there for a daily bitesize confidence boost (it’s a good indication that anyone who gets as many messages as OkCupid suggests is going to develop a complex).


Dating Apps to Women

Dating Apps to Men


Happy swiping!