Tuesday, November 24, 2009

TV, maths and beer

Hello sun. Thanks for fucking FINALLY turning up. I was starting to get a bit worried that you’d forgotten about the world this year.

There’s an ancient mathematical formula that comes into use for the phenomenon commonly known as “Summer”:

P + H = B

where P is people, H is heat and B is beer. If it’s really hot, you can make it H2, and it can become P3 or P4 if you have more friends. The more P you have, the more B you’ll probably require though.

Maths is easy and fun. Stay in school, kids.

Following the success of Ladette to Lady, I am pitching my own reality TV show (because we’re running out of them); one that will hopefully revolutionise the way the universe works. Welcome to

Drinking Beer

You would imagine that drinking beer is an easy thing to do, but you’d be wrong. DEAD WRONG. That’s why I have this TV show to show you how to do it properly. Remember those six gay guys who told heterosexual men what they’re doing wrong in their lives? Like how they gave great advice to them on how to impress their lady friends, because it’s common knowledge that all gay men know what women want? Remember the massive success of that? Notice how those six guys are still relevant in all that they do, and how men everywhere are still wearing pink shirts with argyle vests and decorating their houses with shit art and taking tango lessons instead of playing football?

With “Drinking Beer”, I will be as life-changing as those six pioneers of social advancement and self-improvement.

Episode #1: The shout

Invariably, if you are drinking with a group of people, there will be a “shout”, whereby people buy drinks for everyone in expectation that they will be “shouted” back later on. If all goes to plan, everyone buys everyone else a beer and equilibrium in the drinking stakes ensues. By “shout three”, however, it may become obvious that several people within your party are slower drinkers than the others, and when “shout four” is announced, the slow-pokes of the table are still sipping on their third drink.

It is impolite to request another beverage if you have more than half of your current drink sitting in front of you, and just plain rude to skull up for the sake of being included in the next shout. You snooze, you lose (until the next round).

Lesson #2: The Jug

Many places offer a jug or (if you’re American) a ‘pitcher’ of beer. This jug will usually have the quantity of around three or four glasses, so please buy accordingly. If you have five people, you will require more than one jug. It is very impolite and unAustralian to give your shoutees a half-filled glass in order for everyone to have a drink. Unless you are Jesus and you’re trying to feed thousands of people with half a dinner roll and a trout, you are way out of luck; you’re just going to have to fork out for more drinks. Sorry. However, if you are Jesus, we should hang out, I like your water into wine trick (and your beard).

Lesson #3. Being drunk

After a few rounds of drinks, you may start to laugh a bit more at jokes that really aren’t funny, tell your friends that you love them and occasionally knock things over. With the consumption of tasty, tasty alcohol, you have become a bit pissed, my friend. When someone looks at you and you’re grinning like an idiot and trying to work out how to text message your mum about how you just ate a coaster so she’d be proud instead of disappointed, they may point out that “you’re drunk.” Your natural reaction to this statement is “noooo, I’m fine, really. Nah, I’m not pissed, really. Honestly, I’m not. Seriously.” Your friend may become somewhat bored by you repeating synonyms of “truthfully” and talk to someone else. If you really want to convince them that you’re not drunk, don’t try to capture their attention before saying, “No really, I’m not drunk. I’ve only had a few, I can’t be drunk. I’m seriously not drunk man, really.” Don’t prove your sobriety by dancing on the table or bar either.

Just accept the fact that B = D; there’s nothing wrong with that.

Nothing wrong with that at all.

Monday, November 09, 2009

home sweet home

I have been living in the same place for about 3 years now, and am yet to meet my neighbours properly. I see them in my apartment complex almost every day; we pass each other on the way to the mailbox or the rubbish bins and smile happily at each other (despite the fact that they keep dobbing me in for noise complaints at 3:00 in the afternoon for eating Corn Flakes too loudly). Other than "can you please turn your iPod down?” and “sorry, but your blinking is keeping me awake,” our entire conversational history can be summed up by "Hello."

It has officially passed the time whereby we can actually have a conversation now; all we’d be able to say is, “Fancy that, we lived next door for three years and didn’t realise we had a common interest in spaghetti!” And I’m not interested in discussing pasta strings with them. Now we’re just trying to out-wait each other and hope that someone way more awesome moves in.

Tuesday, October 27, 2009

an open letter to the man in the lift

Dear Man in the Lift At Work Today,

You may not remember me; my name is Mister Evil Breakfast and we shared something special on my daily pilgrimage to the seventh floor today – your phone call. For some reason, you decided to use the “speaker” function on your phone to make a call so that everyone around you (aka me) could listen to it. The time between pressing the button in the foyer of the building to when the elevator actually arrived was happily filled with the stilted conversation between you and your friend about his wife having tennis elbow. Your comment that perhaps she wasn’t actually playing tennis but was giving out hand-jobs behind his back may have just crossed the line of good taste. However, I was a fan of the several seconds of silence that followed, which you broke by asking, “are you still there?” as if you’d just gone through a tunnel rather than suggest that his wife is a dirty tramp. The breaker came when we actually entered the lift and he asked if he was on speaker phone, to which you almost gave the game away by stammering “n-n-n-n-n-n-n-no.” There’s nothing more reassuring than someone turning a one-syllable word into eight. I appreciated the wink you gave me afterwards. Part of it said, “I think I fooled him” and part of it said, “That shirt looks nice, what are you doing for lunch today?”

I am not entirely sure why you decided to share that particular conversation with me, but I thank you for it. If I see you again, I’m probably going to stab you and then call your friend so you can say, “I’ve been stabbed and am bleeding to death” to which he can then ask, “was it with a cock?” or “that time of the month eh?”

You’re a dick.


Mister Evil Breakfast

Tuesday, October 20, 2009

take me home

Drinking is an important part of my life – this may have some bearing on why money is not as prevalent as it could be. But with great drinking comes the great responsibility of getting home, and unless you enjoy being in jail or driving your car off walls, you should hop in a cab.

From here, you will need:

Mister Evil Breakfast’s Guide to Catching a Taxi Home Because You Have Had Too Much To Drink And It Would Be Socially Irresponsible Not To Mention Totally Illegal For You To Drive Home In The State You're In (MEBGCTHBYHHTMTDAIWBSINTMTIFYTDHITSYI)


I have learnt that there are only two things you should ask your cab driver:
1. What time are you on until? and
2. Have you had a busy night?

Nothing else matters. I’m pretty sure cab drivers are all-consumed by their jobs, so it’s common sense to only talk about driving cabs. Don’t mention sport or music or whether he likes blondes or brunettes – if your conversation veers away from driving a taxi, he will lose interest and possibly crash and you’ll both die. It’s not like you talk to your friends about anything except their jobs, right?

Whenever I converse with my cabbie (about cab driving), I find myself putting on a bad Scottish accent. I have no idea why. I am not Scottish. I think it has something to do with me being drunk. So when I jump in and say, “Och laddie, tekmeholm!” (Please Mr Taxi-man, take me home), he will turn around and say, “Where are you from?” to which the reply (as above) will be, “Have you had a busy night?”

The downside of “being Scottish” is that you have to keep up your ruse until you’ve reached your destination as you don't want the driver to think you're taking the piss. The #1 rule of accents is that as soon as you put one on, you will receive a phone call and you’ll have to answer it in your accent. So if I ever answer your call with a stupid voice, it means I’m drunk and in a taxi.


I approach taxis like I approach haircuts – do whatever you have to do, don’t ask me questions about it. I can’t see my hair, so I don’t really care how it looks; and I’m in a cab because I can’t get home myself. I’ll trust a hairdresser not to fuck up my ‘do, so I’ll trust a driver not to take me to Adelaide. Don’t ask me which road I want to take, I really don’t know the best way home - I am blind drunk and Scottish, and obviously not from around here.

Don’t forget to stop into 24-hour Drive-Thru McDonalds on the way - you need your cheeseburgers, and you should be nice and offer one to the driver as well.


Yes yes yes, a twenty-minute drive home has somehow cost this driver a whole tank’s worth of petrol. Just pay the man and shut up.

Even though you’ve given your driver a cheeseburger, it was considered a gift and he will not accept that as partial payment for the drive home, especially since you had to drive in the opposite direction to go to McDonalds and then spent another ten minutes in the Drive-Thru lane asking him, “Have you had a busy night?” in a Scottish accent.

Take the safe option and catch a cab home

Friday, October 16, 2009

File under Shit-On-A-Stick

I have a rather large collection of job application rejection letters that all say the same thing: “Thank you for your application. Unfortunately you were unsuccessful in this instance but your details will be kept on file for future positions.”

Really? You’re going to keep my details on file, along with every other dickhead who applied for a single position within your company?

I can just imagine the director thinking about hiring another person to expand the business. “Cheryl, can you please bring me the ‘not good enough’ files? I want to employ someone who’s a bit shit.” Or maybe, “Cheryl, remember that guy who applied for the sales role? Call him back; I need someone to rub ointment onto my haemorrhoids.”

Wednesday, October 14, 2009

Deeveedee review

1. Everyone loves a sport film; whether it’s the underdog victory that comes with the Mighty Ducks, the kid from the street doing everyone proud in Rocky or the mindless stupidity of Days of Thunder, people will always find something oddly compelling and watchable about others overcoming adversity and proving themselves through sporting achievements.

2. Everyone loves horror films, whether it’s Freddy Krueger haunting your dreams and ruining a franchise, Jason swinging his machete and ruining a franchise, or Chucky still trying to become human again to ruin a franchise, scary flicks are popular, cheap to make and successful.

3. Everyone loves cricket. The thought of two teams battling it out for five days with the distinct possibility of neither one winning gets people moist and sweaty in the nether regions. The very concept of the batting team “playing for a draw” for two or three days is enough to make even the most casual of cricket observers bar up. Throw in a dirty moustache and Mike Hussey’s form slump and you’ve got the world’s greatest sporting event.

With these three Play-Doh balls of magic, it was only a matter of time before someone smooshed them together to create the film “I Know How Many Runs You Scored Last Summer”. Yes, really.

This Aussie-made hacker-slasher basically centres on a bloke who tracks down the guys from his schoolboy cricket team who teased him and gave him a massive wedgie. When two dudes on opposite sides of the world turn up deadened (one beaten to death with a cricket bat when he was in the pisser, and one impaled on a cricket stump in his garage), the only thing that links them is that they were in the same cricket team twenty years ago, so the police do the sensible thing and round up the rest of the lads and put them all in the same place.

Since being bullied by his team-mates, the Killer seems to have been sitting in a tub of “Tall Gro” and collecting stumps, as he is now about seventeen-feet tall and has an endless supply of cricketing paraphernalia with which to stab people. My personal favourite item was his modified ‘box’ - it got me thinking about Ricky Ponting and what I’m going to do when I finally manage to kidnap him.

It’s not that this movie is bad – any film that requires its hero to don full batting gear to fight the villain is worth at least a $4 DVD hire (plus a couple of bucks in late fees) in my books – it’s just that I Know How Many Runs You Scored Last Summer is a bit retarded. The acting is shithouse, the characters are completely fucked up (such as the bloke who ducks out of the safehouse to shag his missus; but instead of just having the regular sex, he makes her blindfold, handcuff and gag-ball him. Of course he’d do that. Why wouldn’t you indulge in something that leaves you absolutely defenseless when you’re being hunted by a maniac?) and the one-liners leave you wondering whether or not it was actually meant to be funny. Incidentally, I Know How Many Runs You Scored Last Summer is the winner of the “Golden Shower Award” for the most gratuitous nude scene in cinematic history.

After watching this film and meditating on it for a while, I am still undecided if I actually enjoyed it. It is ridiculously stupid and formulaic, yet had me reaching for another Milk Arrowroot biscuit to dunk in my coffee until the final scene. Let’s just say that this movie is the best cricketing-based horror film that I’ve ever seen and leave it at that.

I give I Know How Many Runs You Scored Last Summer two leg byes.

With ball-tampering of this magnitude, this guy could captain Pakistan

Monday, October 12, 2009

a load of old beard

"Upon shaving off one's beard." The scissors cut the long-grown hair; the razor scrapes the remnant fuzz. Small-jawed, weak-chinned, bug-eyed, I stare at the forgotten boy I was.” – John Updike

We are about to witness a very important milestone in the history of the world.

Dear Readers, I have been chosen by a greater power to fulfil the destiny set out for all men. I’ve known octogenarians who have not had a chance to achieve this particular feat, but I, a mere thirty years old, will cross this single item from my list within the next fortnight.

I am about to finish a can of shaving cream, and purchase some more.

I’ve bought shaving cream before, but can’t actually remember ever finishing a can. Traditionally, shaving cream is purchased when the previous can is taken away on holidays and lost, left behind when moving, borrowed and never returned, or tossed away with the arrival of an electric razor – it is not usually used and then replaced.

I am both nervous and excited at the thought of putting a fresh can of lathering goodness into my shopping basket with the 2-minute noodles, gaffa tape, sprinkles and chicken salt that are my groceries and seeing the look on the face of the check-out operator. Their eyes will open in hope, that this customer has finished a can of shaving cream before he buys another one. And I will humbly nod in silent recognition of my achievement and accept their quiet praise.

Shaving cream – is it just a foamy substance in which to spread upon one’s face and scrape off with a thin, sharp blade, or is it a message from a higher being, congratulating me on my commitment to finish the can and thus granting me a passage from adolescence to manhood and then to a deity? Upon purchasing my can of shaving cream, I will be transformed.

If I die suddenly and unexpectedly, I want everyone to know that I died a happy man.

Also, if nothing happens, it’s probably just ‘cause God is busy and he’ll reward me later. Or, it’s just because, you know, all I did was buy some shaving cream. Either way, I’ll be happy.

This is one option of fast-tracking yourself to reaching the pinnacle of your life, but I reckon it's cheating.

Thursday, October 08, 2009

brown paper packages tied up with string

As I get older, I have learned to look back on my life and take stock of all that I’ve experienced over the last 30 years, or however old I am. Here’s what I remember:

- Prince Charles getting married.
- Live action Transformers movies (x 2).
- Australia losing the Ashes (twice, thank you Ricky Ponting).
- Willingly renting “Paul Blart: Mall Cop” and expecting it to be “half decent.”
- Me vomiting on myself. A lot.

These are all tragic moments in my life, but as of last weekend, I have a new contender for the #1 spot. Welcome to the list – Rove McManus interviewing his wife, Tasma Walton.

If there could possibly be a worse moment in entertainment, history, science and nature, geography or any other Trivial Pursuit category this year, then I’d rather not be involved in it. Rove has cemented himself even further into the “retard” category with this stunt, and has officially dropped below Daryl Somers and Eddie Maguire in terms of being a good host of a TV show.

The interview began somewhat poorly with Rove asking Tasma, “What have you been doing lately?” to which the ever-raunchy Tassie responds with, “You, most recently.” WOO. The world is jealous that you’re having sex with a muppet, Tasma.
“Tell us about your book,” says Rove.
“I strip down to my underpants, dip strawberries in chocolate and listen to Prince CDs,” says Tasma. Intriguing. Congratulations on losing any book sales you were planning on making following this train-wreck of a television appearance.

Somewhere along the line, Rove performed the mating dance of a lyrebird and they talked about their wedding night, when Rove split his pants whilst attempting to do the splits, Footloose-style. (“Easy access for me!” pipes up Tasma, in another display of hilarity, sexiness and absolute regard to the family of Rove’s first wife, recently-deceased Belinda Emmett – remember her? No, neither does Mr McManus apparently).

What’s wrong Rove - couldn’t you steal any more jokes from Letterman this week? Did you run out of jokes to make about Vegemite? Next time, interview someone half-decent, even if they are related to you. Your brother's probably got something interesting to say that isn't about fucking you. Biggest waste of time this year, and that counts the 45-minutes I spent on hold to Vodafone before hanging up and going into the shop to be served in 12 seconds.

Why didn’t I turn the TV off, or change the channel? Because I was severely hungover and lacked the muscle control (or strength) to lift the remote.

Fuck you, Rove. What the?

Friday, September 18, 2009


There are many thing in life that are boring. Going to work meetings, going to work conferences, being at work, waiting to go home from work… the list goes on. Some people describe this sensation as “boring as batshit,” signifying that batshit holds the upper echelon in the boredom ranks. That’s a big call, considering that there are a great number of things that people might find boring.

My problem is that when you think about it, batshit isn’t that boring. For a start, it comes from bats. Bats are pretty cool; I mean they hang upside down and eat fruit or drink your blood. They use sonar when they fly. They turn into vampires. They fight crime. Batshit can be used as an ingredient in gunpowder.

Let’s compare that to other types of shit:

Birdshit is boring. It’s all over the place and gets stuck to your car.
Dogshit is boring. If you step in it, it gets into the tread on your shoes and you stink.
Catshit is boring. It’s so boring that you make your cat go into another room and shit into a box, that’s how bored by it you are.
Cowshit is boring – it’s big, but otherwise fairly uninteresting.
Peopleshit is commonplace and no one wants to see it.

So the next time you’re sitting around at work and someone says, “Hey man, what did you think of that report?” don’t answer with, “Boring as batshit,” because you’ve since learned that there are many things more boring than the droppings of our flying rodents, so you should say, “It was as boring as the dry birdshit that's on my windscreen, which has been smeared everywhere because I tried to clean it with my windscreen wipers. And FYI, it can’t be used as gunpowder.”

Then you can go and have a coffee.

Thursday, September 10, 2009

My 6:30PM hell

It’s been a harrowing time in Ramsay St of late. Because of the complete retardation of the characters at the moment, Neighbours is even more of a chore than usual. I find myself becoming incredibly frustrated by the pissweak characters and storylines to the point where I look forward to it ending so I can watch The 7PM Project. Yeah. That’s how bad it’s been.

The recent shittiness of Neighbs began with the marriage of Paul and Rebecca. Notwithstanding the fact that their daughter-in-law died the previous week, they were determined to carry on with their nuptials regardless, despite Paul still searching for a best man the morning of the ceremony. After asking his lawyer (Toadie), his doctor (Dr Karl) and a random guy from work (unnamed extra), he finally settled on asking his daughter. Way to prove you’re a popular guy, Paul. I still love you though.

So everything’s going well, the ceremony is without incident, until… Lynne turns up. I fucking hate Lynne. She is just shit. I want to stab her. So she interrupts the wedding and announces that she and Paul are still married. Apparently their divorce wasn’t quite settled, so Lynne’s cunning plan to get some cash from Paul (I’m hoping it’s cash, because if this is her plan to woo him, she’s totally going about it the wrong way) is to turn up in the middle of his wedding and blackmail him until he hands over half of whatever he’s got.

Picking on the owner of a newspaper is a bad idea, because the next day he ran a front-page story with a picture of bag-lady Lynne with the headline “Dirty Whore” (not really, but close). The Erinsborough News is the highest circulating newspaper in existence, by the way. You also don’t need a degree or experience to be a journalist for it, they will run stories purely based on speculation, hearsay, gossip and rumour and the editor also requires a second job as a dishpig at the local café to pay her rent.

Anyway, I hate Lynne and I have no idea what’s going on now. The last I heard, she borrowed money from her daughter, bought the house next door to Paul’s place and then fucked off to Scotland or something. I hope she gets eaten by a cow. Moo.

The other major “storyline” in Neighbs at the moment is the shitstorm that is Zeke and Sunny. Zeke has developed OCD, and we know this because he keeps lining up pens and pencils, stacking his fridge in military formations and ensuring the safety of others to the point that he threw out a pair of high-heeled shoes so no-one wore them and broke their ankle. He’s a Samaritan, is our Zeke. A little, retarded, emo-monkey Samaritan. He has also fallen madly in love with Sunny, the most annoying person in the history of the world (yes, Mr Football, even more annoying than Summer). Sunny is just shit.

Sunny arrived in Dr Karl’s house as an exchange student from Korea. Korea is either on another planet, far away from the place we call “Earth,” or is stuck in a time warp and they are still in the 16th Century. Either way, I wish she’d get in her spaceship, make sure her time circuits are working and fuck off back there. She shits me. This week’s in-depth view of Sunny is about the fact that she finds it a natural instinct to literally run away from any problem (real or imagined) that she encounters:

(a) When it was revealed that she had to kiss Zeke in a play, she ran away from school and was about to hop on the next flight back to Korea. Sadly, someone stopped her.

(b) When she had “those” feelings about Zeke, she ran away to hide the fact that she has braces on her teeth and he would not want to kiss her. I’m assuming her plan was to hide for the two years that it is going to take for her to have perfectly straight teeth. Eventually she was talked out of her cave and brought back to civilisation.

(c) When Hot Donna found out that Sunny was writing love poetry to her on behalf of Ringo, she kissed her. Sunny got angry and ran away, screaming and crying that Donna stole her first kiss. It was kind of the way that you’d kiss your granny after she said that she had just given your grandad a blowjob… and he’s been dead since 1986.

(d) When “the gang” were at a music festival in the middle of nowhere and Declan walked in on her and Zeke about to kiss, she yelled at both of them and ran away, to the point of leaving the festival and falling down a cliff. Unfortunately she survived.

(e) When her relationship with Zeke became known to Karl and Susan, she ran away to hide the shame that she brought onto her family. Susan found her (I wouldn’t have bothered looking) and asked if they were “being careful.” Sunny realised that this is parental code for “sex” and ran away again. When found once more, she yelled at Zeke for pressuring her into sex. It was the first time that it had been suggested, and he wasn’t even the one who brought it up.

(f) When her father found out that she was in a relationship, he said that she was no longer allowed to stay in the same house as him. In traditional Sunny form, she ran away until the problem resolved itself by Zeke moving out of his own house to make her more comfortable.

(g) When Hot Donna was organising the school dance, Sunny (who was part of the planning committee) created a petition to NOT have a school dance. Her reason? She doesn’t know how to dance and would have found it embarrassing if someone tried to dance with her. When Hot Donna asked why she was sabotaging the dance, Sunny ran away.

Someone’s obviously found her since then and brought her back into Erinsborough, because she’s still hanging around and uglifying the set. Last thing I saw was her leaving the microphone on during Zeke’s radio show and bagging out Dr Karl on air.

Run, Sunny, run. Don’t ever be found.

In this shot, Sunny is caught between her two favourite past-times: running away and falling over.

Monday, August 31, 2009

Canberra folklore

People who have lived in Canberra for a long time will have two things in common: the fires of 2003, and Lake George stories. The fires of 2003 were fairly devastating – lives were lost and homes were destroyed – and it helped to unify Canberrans in their stories on what they did on “fire day.”

After a brutally hot and dry summer, eventually the forces of nature arched up and kicked our arses, hitting suburbs with walls of fire and razing half of the nation’s capital. Suburbs were evacuated, roads were closed and Canberra was on high-alert. Me, I sat in my room and played video games until I realised that it was dark outside and only 3pm. On closer inspection of the sky, it became apparent that it was so thick with smoke from the golf course that had gone up in flames about two streets away from the house that it had blocked out the sun. “Hmm,” I said. So I climbed up onto the roof armed with a hose and a six-pack of beer and awaited God’s wrath. The fire thankfully didn’t reach my house, which was good, because by the time the threat of a fiery death had been relieved, my beer was warm and I wasn’t feeling as stable on the roof as I once did. In hindsight, I should have taken some sandwiches up there as well. But I did flood the gutters, you know, just in case the fire was localised to the downpipes of my house, instead of the wooden deck out the back. In any case, I found a few old tennis balls and a soccer ball that didn’t belong to me, so it wasn’t a complete waste of time.

Other people filled up their bathtubs with water and prepared for the long haul; I got drunk on my roof and watched some trees burn.

Lake George, whilst not technically in Canberra, is also not technically a lake. In my opinion, a lake is a place that holds water and does not have livestock grazing in it without fear of drowning. But that is precisely what Lake George is now; a haven for cows and sheep to run amuck in, eat grass and chat idly amongst each other (“Moo.” “Baa.” “Moo?” “Baa.” “Moo.”) without getting their feet wet.

Go back a few years, and the experienced Canberran will tell you stories of how “back in the day,” the water of Lake George lapped at the roadside, and any sheep that were around would be thinking, “Well, I’m not going in there,” and the cows tended to agree.

There’s not a whole lot that anyone can add to the story of how we drove along that road and looked out over the endless stretch of water of Lake George, but somehow we find it incredibly important and exciting to point it out to passengers in our car. I’m never sure what the silence that follows means – it could be “I don’t believe you,” “No way! I need this time to process the very notion that this dry wasteland could have ever been filled with water,” or “I knew I shouldn’t have tried to hitch with this guy.”

This is an actual photo of Lake George. The fishing isn't what it used to be.

Thursday, August 27, 2009



Canberra men have been put on notice the women of the ACT think they are a bunch of unfunny, horny, egotistical commitment-phobes.

At least that's what an online survey of 3700 people around the country has found.
The survey, commissioned by adult dating site Redhotpie.com.au, found men of the nation's capital were ''petrified'' of commitment, most likely to want sex on the first date, and the least funny of any state or territory.

They are also the least romantic.

However, the survey found they had the best level of hygiene, the best bodies, the best earning potential and the best dress sense.

I do like some social commentary. This particular ‘story’ calls Canberran men “unfunny, horny, egotistical commitment-phobes.” This means that Canberran men fit into the mould that the rest of the world call “men”. Quick, call Rove and Charlie Pickering to tell them that men enjoy sex and appear reluctant to enter a relationship. This is groundbreaking stuff right here. They might even spawn a new fucked-up dog’s balls of a show about it. As long as Rove gets to carry on his unusual obsession with Elmo, that’s all that matters.

Since the dawn of time, men have enjoyed sex. Women might also enjoy it; I don’t know – I haven’t bothered asking. Besides, they might charge extra if there are questions involved. By the way, that was a joke. It was a fucking hilarious joke. Don’t call men unfunny just because you don’t understand the humour.

The report then goes on to give us capital blokes a lift by saying that the survey revealed that the lads of Canberra “had the best level of hygiene, the best bodies, the best earning potential and the best dress sense.”

Some Canberrians might read this and think, “Yeah, fuck yeah! Score one for the boys!” I read this and think, “You fucking superficial bitches.” Apparently chicks are only after us for our chiselled abs, Armani suits and bags of cash. I wonder why we’re so “commitment-phobic” when it comes to gold-digging idiots with no sense of humour?

A great experience for everyone - licking a real life Canberra man.

Tuesday, August 25, 2009

Canberra by any other name

Crop circles outside Parliament House prove that aliens have a great taste in cities, and their lasers can burn more than wheat fields. Treat them nicely.

The land of Canberra is a wonderful place, full of roundabouts and broken streetlights and stormwater drains. We have a large board where people are encouraged to stick their old chewing gum, a penchant for Christmas lights the whole year round and a place called the Beaver Galleries, which was quite good, but not exactly what I was looking for. I also went to the Leisure Centre to sit around and play Nintendo, but they kept making me run on treadmills. People should be more careful about what they name their businesses.

Canberra has its fair share of attractions that defy their very definition; for example, the Canberra Museum and Gallery is probably the world’s greatest example of a four-wall collection that have been sparsely decorated with screen prints of flowers and a five-year old’s drawing of a fire engine. It also boasts a single vase that came from Copperart (and is used to hold umbrellas) and a stairwell that leads to an upstairs loft that specialises in minimalist décor and dust. Whether it qualifies as either a museum or gallery is open for debate. I hope that if it ever comes down to a debate, that I'm on the 'opposed' side. I'd also like to be second speaker, but I might be getting ahead of myself.
Other 'interesting interpretations' of Canberra attractions are the National Dinosaur Museum which tries to hide the fact that it has no fossils, models or dinosaur bones by turning the lights off ; and the Shepherds Lookout walking trail does not involve a single shepherd. Add to these the contradictions that are Gold Creek Village, which contains neither gold, nor a creek, nor a village. I mean sure, it has a pub and a few shops and a pub and stuff like a pub… oh wait. Now I get the gold creek part of it. Yeah? Did you see what I did there? I made a pee joke.

Federation Square is a part of the aforementioned Village of the Golden Creek, yet is quite circular in shape. I took my two-year old daughter there and said to her, “This is Federation Square,” and she replied, “It’s a fucking circle, man.” She’s got a mouth on her, for a non-existent baby. Anyway, she hates the place as well, and she gets lost whenever she has to go there. Like father like daughter, huh? If only she got her mother’s sense of direction; she’s like a fighter pilot or a private detective or a pigeon or something cool.

On the other side of the spectrum are the great places of Canberra which scream what they are, what they do and where they’re located to anyone with enough literacy to read the sign above the door. Places like Hyper Dome shopping centre, which is recognisable by its large dome; or it would be if you were flying over the top of it. At ground level, as is the more traditional method of transport in Canberra, it’s more recognisable by the single teenage mothers who hang out at the bus interchange spitting at people. But in a marketing decision applauded by all, the Spitting Teenage Mothers Shopping Centre will be a name resigned to the “what could have been” dream pile.

Parliament House was built to take over the old Parliament House, which is now known as Old Parliament House. If they ever make a newer Parliament House, we’re all fucked.

The Canberra Glasshouse is exactly what it sounds like; a place that deals in glass things. It’s super tops if you’re looking to buy that special something for that special someone, as long as they like things made out of glass, and as long as those things aren’t glasses, vases or anything useful. So… pendants and beads and paperweights. But hey, if glass-blowing is your thing, why not enrol in a glass-blowing demonstration and create your own unique glass decoration? For an extra million dollars, you’ll be able to stand about three steps closer than the rest of Canberra to see a couple of professional glass-blowers blow their glass and tell you what they’re doing. But you’ll have your very own souvenir to take home afterwards, as long as you pay extra for it.

While you’re in the area, why not stop in at the Old Bus Depot markets, which are fantastic, as long as you’re not looking to buy an Old Bus Depot. Man was my face red. Lucky I got outbid on my collection of old buses on eBay; I have no idea what I'd do without a depot to keep them in.

Thursday, August 20, 2009

Wild Canberra

There’s a remarkable natural phenomenon that takes place every year for Canberra and the people who have lived there for years. It occurs after the winter chill has lost its edge and the rays of the sun break through the ice-blue sky to provide warmth, rather than just emitting light. As Canberrans are woken from their winter slumber by the songs of morning birds rather than people scraping ice off their windscreens with old RSL membership cards, their thoughts turn to sand, salt and a two-day migration.

Native Canberrans have a unique sense of hearing and can detect the sound of an ocean wave breaking in another state. No sooner has this sound been registered that Canberrans involve themselves in a ritual that consists of putting an esky into the boot of a car, trying to find swimmers that had been ‘packed away’ in the ritual of winter, locating beach towels, thongs and intricate headwear called a ‘hat’. Then the Canberrans will attempt to find a lotion called ‘sunscreen’ in their home; a practice that is fruitless, time-consuming and can often result in swearing and angry yelling. However, this is easily pacified with the phrase ‘we’ll pick some up on the way’. From there, the Canberrans will leave their home and drive to a common migration site called ‘the beach’.

Upon arrival at the beach, the Canberrans will find a suitable resting place upon the sand to leave their belongings and then rush into the water with the enthusiasm and coordination of a slightly retarded Labrador puppy. Due to Canberra’s chilly climate, the Canberran’s skin is thick and resistant to cold, but the water of the ocean penetrates this barrier and causes shivering, goosebumps and a desire to use the sentence ‘it’s lovely once you’re in.’ Despite the obvious discomfort of swimming in the ocean as soon as the temperature has reached double figures, Canberrans will refuse to admit that they are cold and instead turn their minds to subjects that they know absolutely nothing about, including tides, rips, currents and the fact that ‘the waves are shit’, as if they’d have a clue what a wave looked like anyway.

Like a plague of locusts, Canberrans will occupy the beach and surrounding locations with loud games and screaming children. It is traditional in the Canberra migration ritual to eat New Zealand Natural ice-cream and fish and chips from a ‘great takeaway shop’ that serves remarkably similar food to the ‘shit takeaway shops’ in Canberra.

The final part of the migration ritual occurs just before sunset; the Canberrans will once again pack up their cars with eskies and towels, curse themselves for not bringing an extra pair of undies because the ones currently being worn are ‘wet and uncomfortable as a motherfucker’ and drive home. The idea of leaving in the afternoon is to ‘avoid the traffic’, but the drone-like brains of the Canberran means that each of them is hit with the notion at the same time, and thus a two-hour drive instantly becomes a four-hour drive.

Although the migration ritual usually only lasts for between 12 and 42 hours, the effects of it can last for several days afterwards, as sand continues to be found in bodily crevices, the car and throughout the Canberran’s house. The sunscreen that was ‘to be picked up on the way’ never was, and results in severe sunburn, leading to an enormous increase in the purchase of aloe vera in the Canberra region.

For the Canberrans out there – enjoy your ritual, drive safely and remember to take more CDs than you think you’ll need.

For the coastal locals - we know you hate us. Feel free to leer at us from working at the milk bar, and don't worry - the beach will be yours again tomorrow.

The Watson shopping complex has many things; an IGA, a hairdresser and a pharmacy. But it does not have a beach.

Tuesday, August 11, 2009

Canberra - the awesome place

Canberra is an Aboriginal word meaning “meeting place,” and I swear I heard my dog say it a few years ago when he sneezed. I think ‘meeting place’ is a fairly good translation and should be read as ‘awesome place’ because you’d never ask your friends to meet you at a shit venue, would you?

“Hey Bazza, let’s catch up!”
“Sure MEB, where should we meet?”
“How about at a funeral home?”
“That doesn’t sound awesome.”

If you changed ‘funeral home’ to ‘Viking battle on a pirate ship in space,’ it would be more appealing to Bazza, and awesomeness would ensue. And that’s what Canberra is. A Viking battle on a pirate ship in space. It is awesome.

LOL Mitter Breakfast whya do you think Canebraa is so goud LOLZORS?

The translation for that is: Why is Canberra so bloody good? I’m glad you asked.

Australia is full of hidden nasties like giant squids and sharks which could eat you, or at least have your eye out. I’m sick of reading about people in Queensland being taken by jellyfish and having their brains sucked out. Northern Territorians can’t go anywhere without being attacked by ninety-metre long crocodiles. South Australians have red-back spiders who are so adept at camouflage that they can pose as mailmen, teachers and Rice Bubbles and drain your blood without you even realising. Those in the Sydney region have to deal with cockroaches that skull-fuck you when you’re asleep; other parts of NSW are prone to explode in spontaneous fireballs. The snakes in WA have the run of the joint – they buy shoes made out of human skin, and they don’t even have feet. West Australian snakes also don’t need to make restaurant reservations; they just turn up and get the best table and then order things that aren’t on the menu and will probably eat everyone in the restaurant anyway. Tasmanians have hordes of zombies running around the street, feasting on brains and performing random acts of violence. Victorians have to put up with AFL and art students.

Canberra’s only problem is being too awesome for the rest of the world to comprehend. It’s a problem that we’re learning to deal with.

This is apparently a pirate from space. Who am I to argue with Google Images?

Monday, August 03, 2009

Woo! Canberra! Woo!

There are few things as beautiful as the city of Canberra by the glowing light of a nuclear holocaust

Welcome to Mister Evil Breakfast's Canberra Appreciation Month (MEBCAM) for 2009.

There's not much else to say about Canberra other than - WOO! Canberra! WOO! and since I already said that in the title, there's no real need to repeat myself.

An Ode To Canberra

It's finding twenty bucks in your pants
before they go to Vinnies
It's free cover charge and biker fights
when you get dragged to Sinnies

It's pear cider at O'Malleys
on a Saturday night
It's late for work on Monday
and getting all green lights

It's August and it's Canberra and that can only mean one thing
It's Mister Evil Breakfast's Month of Canberra Appreciating!


A trip to Parly House
and a visit to the place
where I tried to take a cowboy hat
and some guy punched me in the face

We've got Floriade and Questacon
and a lovely little zoo
we used to have Pandora's
til it became In Blue

It's August and it's Canberra! It's MEBCAM time again;
windy, cold, a chance of snow and a high of minus ten

(awesome rap part)
There's libraries, galleries, wineries & observatories,
universities, factories; no parking fees or busy streets.
Intencity, Academy, Trinity, the Hyper D
Lake Burley G, blue-green algae, and that thing outside the ABC.

How fucking tops is Canberra? It rates up really high,
August is the greatest month; it shits on old July.

You can keep your Chapel Street,
your Collins and your Pitt.
Rundle Mall can fuck itself
and the Valley is real shit.

They don't have our Mooseheads,
or some place called Bar 32.
They don't have an ATM outside Club X
like our Northbourne Avenue.

It's MEBCAM time in Canberra, it's August so let's sing:
thank you God for Canberra. Thanks for everything!

Thursday, July 30, 2009


If you think it's disgusting when you accidentally swallow a fly, you should stop and think about how that fly must feel, especially if you haven't brushed your teeth or just eaten a kebab with garlic sauce and onion.

Monday, July 27, 2009

i miss her already

A eugoogoly to Bridget Parker

It's been an emotional week in Ramsay Street. I am constantly breaking down in tears whenever I think about it. I can't eat, I can't sleep. My heart's a mess. I'm like a waterlogged ball that no one wants to kick around anymore.

Today, we farewell Bridget "Didge" Napier nee Parker in blog form. Didge introduced herself to the world of Neighbours by walking across the road while listening to her iPod and was hit by a car. The driver of the car was Susan, who was suffering some MS symptoms at the time and blacked out. Didge was left paralysed on one side of her body - I'm fairly sure it alternated whenever she got tired of holding a walking stick in a particular hand - but swiftly recovered. Then she went to a dance party and the roof fell on her; her soulmate Declan dragged her to safety (after first saving her boyfriend... I'm not sure who that says more about, actually). Didge also fell into a swimming pool while paralysed and almost died. Some would say that Bridget was lucky to have made it as far as she did without being killed. I'm surprised she could get out of bed without being suffocated by her pillow.

A common sight in Neighbours; Didge lying in hospital as Bastoni and wife look on lovingly.

In the field of love, Didge has dated Declan, Ringo, some guy called Josh, a rapist who she ended up killing, Declan, no one and then finally Declan again. As always happens, she fell pregnant after sleeping with Declan, but in true Didge spirit, refused to let this change her life; she was still all over Erinsborough, fighting the good teenager fight, including going to the General Store, the Milk Bar, the footy, the gym and to school camps, where she was swept downstream after her raft capsized and she was trapped for several hours in freezing water, barely conscious and suffering hypothermia. I believe it was her love for Declan and her unborn child that saved her life. This love was recorded in the history books as Didge, Declan, token Asian friend, Donna, Emo Zeke and Ringo happened across an old church while looking for Paul Robinson, who was on the run from the law. In the presence of God, four mates and a batty old vicar, Didge and Dec tied the knot in a ceremony that has been described as "beautiful," "totally Bridget" and "completely fucked."

Speaking of completely fucked, Didge's family has always been just that. Adopted by Steve "I'm Hungry!" Bastoni and Miranda, she has had the best of times and the worst of times. Following in Steve's footsteps, she was interested in veterinary science as well as AFL football, a sport in which it was proven that short, scrawny girls can definitely compete with adult males who have played the game their entire lives. After her brother Riley hooked up with their aunt and left Erinsborough for either Iraq or Sydney, Didge relied on Steve and Miranda and her loyal friends to help her through obstacles from being kicked out of school for being pregnant to always being hungry because she was pregnant as well as looking after her at a music festival while being nine months pregnant.

Steve Bastoni - women want him and men want to be him

As the song says, "Only the Good Die Young" and Bridget (and Paul Robinson) are testimony to that fact. The curse of leaving Erinsborough struck again as a nice, leisurely drive from Victoria to the top of Queensland with a month-old baby and three tired adults resulted in an unforseen tragedy. A horse ran out onto the road and Steve was unable to control the Bastoni-mobile (a 1990 VT Commodore) as this vestige of automotive safety ploughed into it or a tree or something, knocking everyone unconscious, and in fact, throwing both Didge and her baby through the windscreen and into scrubland. Slightly disorientated from the accident, Didge did the brave thing and wandered off with the baby, muttering nonsense to herself and going shit-tins crazy until collapsing somewhere.
The next twenty-four hours were hell for the Parkers, Napiers and everyone in the street as Didge fought off delusions and nightmares as she slipped away.

Tributes in the form of cake-making contests were held by the Scullys, and Karl Kennedy left his shift at the hospital to don the ritualistic blindfold to taste-test a chocolate cake and a vanilla cake, ultimately deciding that both cakes were "fucking terrible." New cakes were made and taken to the devastated Parkers, who no doubt felt like chowing down on some rich, moist chocolate mud after losing their daughter.

I would at this point like to give special mention to Declan's mother, Rebecca, for storming into the Parker's house full of piss and wind and looking like she was about to punch Declan in the face, tell him to get over the loss of his wife and "have some more fucking cake." Instead, she held her son in her arms and cried with him; it would have been a more touching experience if she hadn't have had so much cleavage exposed, but she had barely got dressed after her latest romp with Paul Robinson when she heard the news, so we can be thankful for small mercies that she was dressed at all.

What's next for the Napiers and Parkers? Well, the Parkers are packing up and fucking off out of Ramsay Street. I guess you can't blame them. As for Declan, I would love to see him hit the piss in a week-long binge of drunken angst, ultimately leading to him joining Alcoholics Anonymous and being able to preach at everyone else in the street for their hardships.
"Declan, I have cancer."
"Ringo, I know it's scary. It's how I felt when I went to my first AA meeting."
"Yeah, but dude... I'm going to die. Like, tomorrow."
"That's what I said when I realised I had a problem. I knew it was an issue when I was ordering shandies instead of orange juice."
"A shandy?"
"Yeah, it's lemonade with about a centimetre of beer in it."
"I'm an alcoholic, man. I can't even have lemonade without beer in it."
"I know. The cancer pain has robbed you of speech. I know how you feel, because, well... I'm an alcoholic."
"I fucking hate you, Declan."
"That's the cancer talking. I said things I didn't mean when I was drunk, too."

Rebecca and Paul's wedding will no doubt carry on as per schedule, i.e. next week. It's not the Neighbours way to let a death in the family stop the good times; and there are always going to be more dramas in store when a wedding is on. I predict a fire.

The friendship group will spend a day thinking about all the good times they had with Didge, and then dismiss her completely. You'll always live on in my heart, Bridget.

"that's when good neighbours
become... good... friends."

Tuesday, July 21, 2009

a gastronomical delight

After the "reality sensation" that was MasterChef Australia (and congratulations to whoever it was that won), we can now go back to our regular lives of eating regular food and not worrying about things like red wine jus and wasabi-balsamic mash or trying to find a new taste sensation by combining soy sauce and peas. We don't need to say, "I can really taste the lemon zest in this slow-cooked quail pancake; you've managed to find the right balance of flavours to bring out the texture of the meat to make it your own," anymore. Until the next season, no one will give a creme brulee about food, and the status quo will return - we can once again concentrate on eating proper food that is served to us by some fifteen-year old kid from a drive-thru and wait for The Biggest Loser to hit our screens again.

Mister Evil Breakfast's Guide to Fast Food and Shit and Stuff (MEBGTFFASAS)


The granddaddy of all fast food outlets, Maccas should be underestimated at your peril. It's been around for so long because it's FUCKING AWESOME. There are few things as satisfying as a cheeseburger (two cheeseburgers are pretty good) and the Big Mac (while not as big as it used to be) is still worth the price of admission alone (which is free).

Specialities: Cheeseburgers and Big Macs. Selected stores open 24-hours.
On the downside: Burgers sold at 3am may not contain any sauce and will leave you downtrodden, disappointed and cold.


Few things in the world touch my heart like fried chicken. Although it is often seen as inferior to the golden arches of Maccas, KFC deserves respect and recognition. Their value meals, for instance, are excellent in both quality and quantity, and nothing works better for my hangovers that a cold can of Mountain Dew and a hunk of chook dripping with fat.

Specialties: Wicked wings to die for. Good amount of food for your buck-buck-buck.
On the downside: Staff will always fuck up at least one part of your meal. Some stores have never been cleaned. Refusal to bring back Hot n Spicy coating. May cause salmonella.

Hungry Jacks:

Some people know them as Burger King; here in the great land of Canberra, we have Hungry Jacks. They're the same thing, trust me. Hungry Jacks have a pretty sweet value combo deal going with their variations of "The Whopper." For a fiver, you've got yourself a tidy little pile of food and ice-cream. Lucky it doesn't cost more, because the burgers are shit. In an attempt to make their beef "juicy", it seems that the staff are trained to soak each burger in vats of liquefied cows before serving. For a cheap meal that you have to lick off your arm and can taste all day, you could definitely do worse.

Specialties: Whopper Value Meals, and every girl in the world will swear by their Grilled Chicken, even though I don't rate it that highly. Their onion rings are also the best I've ever had; this might have something to do with the fact that they're the only place that does them. There's gotta be a reason for that.
On the downside: Their burgers require a straw to consume. Being born without tastebuds is also recommended.


I am a massivo fan of the Subway restaurant. It makes me feel happy on the inside whenever I have the option of eating over a foot of sandwich. Subbers has enough choice to keep you interested, but not enough to fluster you if you can't decide between getting red capsicum or green. Even though it bills itself as being a healthy alternative to fast food, that only counts if you eat one of the staff members' hair nets.

Specialties: There's a deal on at the moment to get a foot-long meatball sub for $6. For $20, you'd get three feet of food and change. This is an exceptional meal deal, my friends.
On the downside: Not great for eating on the run or whilst driving. Got rid of their "Valued Customer Cards" before I had a chance to claim many, many freebies.

Ali Baba:

I have no idea how far the kebabs of Ali Baba have spread though Australia; if I had my way, it would dominate the landscape like a narwhal. They have a menu that I've never even thought about looking at - there's really only one thing you need at Baba's, and that's lamb, baby. You can have your choice of salad options, but don't fill your kebab up too much with useless greenery, save room for more lamb. It's good for what ails you. Also available: Beef or chicken. As if.

Specialities: Lamb.
On the downside: It may not actually BE lamb.

Pizza Hut:

Remember when everyone loved Pizza Hut? For some reason, they've become an endangered species. Apparently there are still a few floating around and they serve "All You Can Eat" meals for lunch, but these stories are yet to be confirmed and their sightings are "dodgy" at best. Pizza Hut is like the sasquatch of the fast-food world.

Specialties: All you can eat pizza.
On the downside: May not exist.


Kingsley's (as far as I know) is a Canberra-based southern-fried chicken franchise, and is what attracts (and keeps) visitors to the nation's capital more than anything else. Employment, weather, affordable housing are all fucking made-up bullshit stories. Get someone drunk and ask them "Why are you in Canberra?" and they will say, "Kingsley's chicken." Should Canberra ever host the Olympic Games, pieces of chicken will replace the gold medals. I know I'd be running fast.

Specialities: Chicken fillet burger with coleslaw AND gravy. This is all you need. This is all you'll ever need.
On the downside: A very confusing menu board, but since I know what I want (see "specialties"), this doesn't affect me.

Noodle Choice:

There are a few of these "fast food" Asian-style places popping up all over the world - you might know them as Wok-It-Up or Fly-Ly or Box'o'Soy or Noodles-n-Shit or something. They are all pretty good in terms of the amount of foodage that you get (plus they serve it in those cool take-away boxes that they always have in American movies and TV shows) and as far as my experience goes, tasty as all hell, as long as you don't mind the same taste for whatever you have chosen from the ninety-eight options on the menu.

Specialties: It doesn't matter; it's all the same. And it's all good. It is also very addictive; I think they might also put crack in it. And I don't care.
On the downside: The most impossible thing to have as a "quick meal" - it is a deceptively large serve that you are not legally able to eat with a fork, thus eliminating the option of eating-while-driving.

Hopefully this guide has prepared you for the next time that you are out and about for some fine dining to confidently tell the chef that you need more sauce for your McNuggets.

Friday, July 17, 2009

tip this ya bastard

It's sad to think that if they follow their dreams, all three of these kids will be arrested

Hellooooo everyone I have decide d to do the drunking thing again and tuipping while suckking red qwine and tequilla throguh a stra w and i knw its' porobably not a recmommended mix but it has its place in the wolrd just like evevryone else yea?H

after state of oranges was on wednesyday it makes a tiippers life veryy very hard you know? it's hard. life i s hard enough somethimes but this is a whlole new ballgame. wlel not a whole new ballgame because it's essnteially the same ssport you know it's still RGUBY LEGUE and it is a very fine soport indeed and i do enjoi it even f you dontr't.

with injuris n susspensions and stuff it will be veyr hard to tip this round. it;s a very hard round its a hard life somtimes for a tipper . life is hard for many poeple areound the globe it's hard enough to tipp a nomral week butt this ane is a whole nother ball gamae. have i sad that before???

ths tequila tasts like wine. more tqila please bartender!!111 wait i am the barntender never mind. i am doing a graet job as abartender i should do ths for a living
i am such a good bartneder

Broncos vs Rabbitohs
well. we much take into a count that there iwll be many sore heards in the brisbane area ths weak. and the jails wll be ful of rubgby leugae playsers who hav filmemd their misdddeeds on a mobil ephone . my phone is apieceofshit and it takes the video for a fifteen seconds only for me thats enough for two misdeeds and a cuddle LOL i am so funny (and badd in bed) this wek the rabbithohs will win bcause everyine in brissy will be all partying and bein g corey worhtsington

Bulldogs vs Titans
IT'S A CLASH OF THE TIRTANS and the bulldogz!! wheeeee ths would normallly be a great game normally this wold be but this is sooo not a normal round because of the afomentioned stape of oaring . right. so w i dont know who is out for any of thes e teams becuase ive lost trakc of who is playing htis great game of legdnds . so i thin that canterbudy doggies will win bcause simply they should be betterer than titnas i dont know why honstly . i think kimlorly plays fro the dogs z ns since he didnt do ANYYHING in oringns thn he should be likes the daisy fresh and pretty and shgould play well so i am still tppping the blue and whitse. aslo i don't' like the tittans at all no siree

Panthers vs Raiders
CAAAAAARN YOU RAIDSERS CAAAAAARN Caaarn. Caarn. Carn. Car. C. . they will nOT wiln this game - no way jose - i wish i was called jose and peolpe could say 'noo way jhjose' to me all te time whn i say smothing like 'remmebr when i gave you $2 hundred can i hav it back now plaese?" nad evryone will lau=gh and say 'no way jose' ad i will be happy but stikll a little bit poor. but the araiders arnott goin g too wel at the mmoment despite having desmoshed high-competition-flyers like the stroms and the goal coast butt they ar no match fro whoever thay are playing this weeek. no way jose. hahahahahahaha

batnender my beer tastes like teqila wait never mind.

Sharks vs Manly
chomp chomp chomp says the sharks and manly willbe loookg to cliffy lions and danny more to win this game. what its not 1985 naymore? well. i should chnge my pants then.
manly wshould easley avcount for the cronullas in hwis nsevh vut rhete cuayld ASO==L b nustes. what the fuck did i just try and type? ok. cronulla could upset the manlys in htis one but i will stil tip for the seagles to win.

this is such hard wok!

Roosters vs Warriors
chookoy chooky chooky chooks cheep cheep cheep they will lose

Tigers vs Cowboys
well. ths game depdns on a few th8ngs like hoiw tired will jonathon thruston be after spnding all week haveing the sex wiht his teammates wifes nad grilfiernds? i would b veyr tired so tired soooo sleepy zzzzzzzzzzzz

but i ma not a prfcsssional like thurston asnd he wilL NOT be tierd so the coaboys will win easzily so tip them. go on. tips them you know i am right.

Eels vs Storm
you knswo when yuve had a bit to dnkrink and you are caled up by one of yuor frinds "hye myster svil breakfast you are dsurnk!" and you say "no way jose" bcuase his name is jose and you scretly want to be him but you are trying realy hard to maintain you sobritey butt the hader tyou try and convinse your frnds that you arenyt drunk maks you seem a lot more durnker than you are actually are? thats like the parramcattas playing footy the harder that they try and pl ay makes it more bovious that they are indeeed a litle bit drunk oand .or retarded yes? can do you see wheir I am coming fr0m?

good becuase the meblournes are going to win and i dn't care how much purple they wear i thnk they look good.

The Giant Pie is the new mascot for the AFL

Because of the strong Japanese influence on AFL, this week's tips will presented in haiku form.

Bombers vs Bulldogs
the bombers drop balls
their fancy sash no match for
ugly little dogs

Blues vs Swans
do swans swim on blue
or does the blue hold the swan?
i don't really care

Cats vs Demons
kitten sleeping; dreams
of laughing devil faces
exorcise your cat

Magpies vs Hawks
a brace of magpies
is lucky, apparently.
i saw two today

Dockers vs Lions
blue beanie pride is
sitting by the wharf, smoking;
lions are hungry

Power vs Eagles
talons tightly grip
a power line; electric
currents flow futile

Tigers vs Kangaroos
tiger bares claws but
his stripes can't hide the shame of
Skippy kicking arse.

Saints vs Crows
st pete in heaven
kicks a crow through clouds, through earth
into pits of hell

My head hurts.

Happy tipping this weekend!

Thursday, July 09, 2009

Transform and RUN AWAY

When the best part about a movie is the three minutes in the middle where you nick off to the toilet for a very satisfying whizz, you know you've just made a great investment to the cinema gods. My latest offering was in the form of $15 and about three-quarters of my brain to the geniuses behind Transformers 2: Revenge of The Fallen.

There should be laws against making movies this bad.

The worst thing is that it actually starts out ok - in the first ten minutes, we get Decepticons attacking Shanghai and the Autobots fucking their shit up. Optimus is in full-flight, ripping shards off anyone who comes within range. Nicely done. The Autobots, by the way, are working with the US Government (of course they are) to track down the Decepticons who are all kinds of pissed off about whatever happened in the first movie (possibly the fact that it was made), and are also looking for a new energon source (kind of like Transformers cheeseburgers - a life source) on Earth. So things get messy in Shanghai and buildings, bridges, cars, anything that gets in the way, is demolished by giant robots. Collateral damage, really, when it comes to saving the world. Apparently the US Government has managed to keep the existence of the Transformers a secret from the rest of the world, and they had a "hard time explaining" the 50-foot robot who fought off the 200-foot robot in front of thousands of people. I bet they did.

Minor quibbles aside, the movie was off to a cracking start. I wasn't hating it. The next ten minutes numbed my brain. Quick summary: Sam (hero of first movie) is off to college. His parents have apparently overdosed on "Shit Cliche Pills" and are having a hard time letting go of their son. Then there were two dogs fucking... twice... a couple of fart jokes (courtesy of some robots) and the worst scene in cinematic history where Sam's mum rampages around his college campus on a hash brownie bender.

Sam has also fairly inexplicably decided to leave his hot girlfriend at home... and his best friend, a transforming car named Bumblebee. Yeah Sam, nice work. Why would you want an awesome car and a hot girlfriend? The word "spastic" springs to mind. Actually, that word sprang to mind a lot during the course of this movie, which was a lot because this fucking flick goes for about 2 and a half hours.

Sam holds the key to the energon source that the Decepticons are after, and the Autobots have to try and protect him. Simple enough, really. It's funny how such a basic concept could have been expanded into many great moments. How this movie becomes such a fucking mess by forgetting about the plot and introducing two-thousand comic relief characters is completely beyond me. I swear there were at least a dozen scenes that were filmed for another movie and accidentally spliced into this one.

"But MEB, this is a childrenz' movie! LOL dont you think your're being to harsh on it LOLROFLCOPTER!"

I don't give a flying fuck who this movie is aimed at; it just shouldn't be as retarded as it is. Somewhere in the middle of this pile of shit, we meet an ice-cream van Transformer. Yep. An ice-cream van. While the Decepticons have fucking tanks, jets, armoured cars and construction vehicles that join together to form a giant fuck-off Transformer, the Autobots have ice-cream vans. But wait, it gets better - the ice-cream van is actually TWO Autobots - apparently the job of handing out soft-serves to the other Transformers is such a hard job that it requires the service of the two newest additions to my crowbar list, Mudflap and Skids. For no real reason, they switch from being joint ice-cream vendors to individual forms - some shit Holden Barina-type cars. Come on, US Government and Autobots... surely you could have found something that you know... had at least four gears and wouldn't break down all the time?

Mudflap and Skids then go about making this shit-flick even worse. They talk smack. They argue. They punch each other. They sound like they're from "da ghetto" and have mother-fucking gold teeth and admit that their "readin' aint so good, you know?" I was waiting for one of them to try and prostitute another Autobot off and then punch them in the mouth if they resisted. I've heard talk of a spin-off series featuring these two fucktards. Can't wait - I've always wondered what a transforming Barina would look like wearing a purple robe and a massive hat.

Seriously, the FATE OF THE WORLD IS AT STAKE (apparently) and who do the Autobots get to look after Sam? Not Ironhide. Not Ratchet. Hot Rod? No. Let's trust the fate of humanity to these fucking homos. Sometimes the world deserves to be blown up.

"LOL MEB you are angree 2day. but how good did the tranfomres look?!?!?!?!?! LOL"!"

The giant fucking robots did look fantastic, admittedly... until they moved. Congrats to the special effects team for giving me a seizure every time Optimus blinked. There are gears and cogs and shit spinning around so much on screen for the slightest movement, that when it comes down to two Transformers fighting it out, you have no fucking clue as to what's going on. I wasn't sure if it was supposed to be like those "Magic Eye" pictures that were awesome in 1994, but I'm pretty sure at one stage I saw a unicorn. I sure as fuck didn't see an entertaining film.

By the time "robot heaven" was introduced, I was ready to piss all over the movie reel. But then I realised that the director, producers, actors and even the boom-mike guy had already done that.

Transformers 2 sucked.

I would trust transforming shoes to save the world more than I would most things

Thursday, July 02, 2009

What a Lote rubbish

Lote Tuqiri was sensationally sacked by the ARU this week. No reasons have been given, but since he used to play rugby league, we can assume with some degree of confidence that he got a bit pissy and may have involved himself in some sort of sexual altercation. Apparently Tuqiri (who really should have another U in his name somewhere) was the highest-earning player in the Wallabies with a salary of over $1 million per year. Imagine how much money he would have earned if he was any good? It boggles the mind.

So this means that there's a spot opening up for some lucky punter to sit out on the wing and chat up the front row of the crowd. I could handle that. I’m quite witty.

Dear Wallabies Coach-man,

My name is Mister Evil Breakfast, and I would like to apply for the position of "winger" as advertised on seek.com.au following the recent departure of your last crack-fuelled show-pony princess with stupid hair.

I have attached my resume to this application for your interest. I am hoping that your interests include drawings of ninjas fighting dinosaurs, as that forms the basis of my CV at present. While it may appear that I do not have a lot (or any) experience in playing "rugby", I have been playing team sports for eighteen years, and have been described on more than one occasion as "quite slippery." I do not like rugby union, nor do I have much idea about how to play it, and thus I feel I would be a suitable replacement for Lote Tuqiri. I have never been involved in an official rugby match, but during high school, I once tackled a guy who was way bigger than me during lunchtime footy and I broke his collarbone. This is at least one tackle more than Lote Tuqiri has ever made in his life, which I feel puts me in good stead for this position. I also rang that guy up that night to see how he was, which (a) makes me a good ambassador for the game, and (b) so I could rub in that I hurt him. He was off school for a few days, such was the ferocity of my tackle.

My physical fitness is good, although I do have dodgy knees and a bad back, but this should not be a concern in considering my application, as from my experience in watching the “game they play in heaven”, I have noticed that there isn’t a whole lot of running involved. I am quite good at standing around while a couple of fat guys lie on each other, waddle forward and lie on each other some more. It’s not entirely about the fat guys lying around though; I can also stand around while some guy lines up a penalty kick, or stand around while a scrum forms seventeen times. Standing around is not only a hobby, it’s a passion of mine and something that I feel could form a part of my career.

In terms of my rugby skills, I cannot kick the ball tremendously well, I fumble simple catches and cannot pass to my right-hand side. Even though my talent would put me in the top echelon of the current Wallabies side, I would not expect to be handed the captaincy straight away. I’m sure whoever is leading the team now is doing a bang-up job when it comes to calling the toss. For the record, I always call tails – it never fails.

My current work contract is almost up so I am available to start immediately. I would be more than interested in negotiating a salary with you – Tuqiri’s contract was apparently worth $1 million and I would be more than willing to accept an offer between $40,000 and $1,000,000. If you do opt for the cheapest option, this would give the ARU plenty of money to buy more head tape, or a rule book or even to pay someone to find a use for the scrum-half.

I would also appreciate a parking space wherever it is that we train or play; my current work has just put their parking fees up and I reckon I’m going to struggle to get through the week and still have enough money for noodles and beer. Although with my blossoming rugby career, I should probably start looking after myself a bit better and cut out noodles; they're apparently made entirely out of MSG anyway. According to popular science, there is a steak in every stubbie, and I would like to have more steak, and wash it down with a beer.

I have read on the Wallabies' stats page that Lote Tuqiri weighed over 100 kilograms. By my reckoning, that means that I am over 30 kilos faster than he was. I would also require a smaller sized jersey (you can't go wrong with a medium, honestly) and wouldn't take up as much space on the team bus or plane. If you're sitting next to me, you can have the arm-rest, I don't mind at all. I'm a team player and will do anything for the coaching staff and my team-mates. Except for Matt Giteau, he seems like a cock.

If there’s anything else that you would like me to extrapolate on (including the meaning of the word “extrapolate”), please feel free to contact me. But don’t call too early, I’m usually a bit dusty in the morning, and don’t even think about getting any sense out of me before 11am on the weekend.

I look forward to dominating a professional sport that I don’t really care about very soon.


Mister Evil Breakfast

I wouldn't have 30kgs of arms to carry around the field with me

Friday, June 26, 2009


Happy Friday, sportsfans. Because I'm being a bit lazy, the ever-lovely April O'Neil is filling in for this week's footy tips. Take it away, tiger...


Apparently my last lot of so called ‘celebrity’ tips were nothing to write home about. Or as Todd put it ‘they sucked’. Thanks Todd.

I thought my first step might be to actually watch a game – novel concept I know. It just so happened that we managed to score a littl’ ol’ game here in WA, so I trundled on down to watch the Rabbitohs and the Storm to take some notes. Apparently WA is the ‘adopted home’ of the Rabbitohs, which would normally be a good enough reason to support them. However any team, anywhere, dressed like a Christmas tree can forget getting any merch money from me. Who actually came up with those colours? And stripes? Don’t NRL clubs employ people with fancy titles like ‘marketing officers’ to run a whole series of concept designs on mahoosive pieces of card past a panel for a majority vote? Surely a whole panel of people couldn’t be responsible for such a fashion faux pas. Unless it was a panel made up of people with fashion tastes like my dad. Then anything goes.

Mister Evil Breakfast:

Sorry April, I'm going to have to interrupt. Because you are (a) a girl and (b) from a non-rugby-league-loving part of Straya, you think that uniforms are important, and because you're an AFL-kind-of-person, you have invented positions within the club such as "marketing officers" to recreate the fucking jersey every sixteen seconds so some punter who supports the team has to shell out another trillion dollars for a fucking sleeveless jumpie that they'll get to wear once before it becomes outdated. Souths have it all settled: they got some colourblind champion to design their uniform back in 1735 and have not looked back since. That's the way it should be.

I found my seat (after a visit to the bar) which was behind the try line (see I even picked up some lingo) where the Rabbitohs were doing their warm-up. Actually, it looked more like they were preparing for a massivo group sex session (which I’ve heard is not uncommon in NRL). First they started with a little ‘ball’ tossing, followed by what appeared to be karma sutra stretches before some grappling and rolling around on the ground with each other, intertwined tighter than your nanna’s crocheting wool. I kid you knot (pun intended). I mean honestly (who throws a shoe), it’s no wonder NRL has a bad reputation.

Now a couple of the rules got me. I played a bit of touch rugby in my day, so I can get the general gist of having to throw the ball backwards and aiming for the try line. But when one team kicked the ball out of play and then got it back I was a bit perplexed. Are the umpires feeling sorry that they can’t keep the ball in play and therefore give it back to them? ‘It’s ok tiger, we know you were trying hard. Why don’t you have another go, see if you can’t keep it within the field of play this time?' 'Cheers mate, we'll give that a burl'.


Can you explain to me then why someone who doesn't quite catch the ball in AFL still gets credited with a mark? If he truly "had control" of the ball, he would have held onto it. Still, fans of a game that gives away a point for "close enough" will probably never be able to fully appreciate the ballet that is rugby league.

So now that I’m full bottle (yes it only took one 90 minute game), I’m going to give this tipping caper another shot.

Bulldogs and Cowboys.
Bulldogs are in second spot, and my favourite and playing number happens to be 2. Which would be ok if I ever decided to take up rugby, as the right wing threequarter (what exactly does he do with the other quarter?) because I’m not bad on the right side of the field. Plus if ‘wing’ actually refers to being near the sideline if you get bored you can always chat to the bench or the spectators. Anyway, Bulldogs for me.

Wests Tigers V Dragons
I actually bought a really cool glass dragon when I was in Canberra, found him the other day when I was unpacking boxes. I don’t have any tigers, or wests for that matter. If that wasn’t enough reason to tip the Dragons, sitting on top of the ladder probably works in your favour.

Titans v Warriors
IT’S THE CLASH OF THE TITANS... and the Warriors. Denzel Washington coaches the Titans, overcomes adversity and rock throwing racists to deliver a feel good movie about footy. Apparently there is also movie titled The Warriors, but I haven’t seen it, and therefore it’s got nothing. Titans

Roosters V Sharks
My goodness, they are so far down the ladder they're almost not on it. Raiders are obviously there for sympathy; keep them company before their mahoosively late run at the top 8. Have there been any coach sackings yet? Any talk that the Roosters are throwing matches to get better draft picks (do they even have draft picks in NRL?). I don't know and I’m guessing nobody really cares. I'm picking the Refs and if they don't win then it'll probably be the Sharks, who’ll want to lose less.

Raiders V Storm
So last time I did the unthinkable and tipped against the Raiders... so they won. I did take part of the credit for their win and using women’s logic (if I tip them and loose I’ll be more pissed than if I don’t tip them and they win) I’m potentially going to upset all the MEB readers and tip against them again. I’ll understand if I don’t get invited back.... Storm, just, and that’s as quietly as I can say it.

Eels v Broncos
I think the whole of Queensland could be having a mahoosive party for the next 4 days having won the Origin Series. That'll be enough energy for them to go out and smash the Eels this week, unless of course they are drug and alcohol tested before they play, in which case the Eels might stand a chance with no opposition. But I'm betting that won't happen (the drug and alcohol testing that is), so Broncos.

Knights v Rabbitohs
So after their karma sutra group sex warm-up, the Rabbitohs were all over the Storm – and they weren’t playing badly either. But they peaked early (typical) and the Storm were able to last the distance and win the game. Rather than focusing on who’s on top (no, What’s on top, Who’s on second) Rabbitohs should have been focusing on the Stormers’ wingers who pretty much had a country mile (and half a pitch) to score tries. I haven’t seen the Knights play, I hope they don’t try to dry hump the pitch before they play. Knights.

Why are there only 7 games? Are the Sea Eagles and Panthers having a week off for good behaviour? Or did they just not feel like playing this week?
Oh, and yes boys and girls, I know it's only an 80 minute game. It was a poor attempt at humour... full bottle... 90 minutes... never mind. Sigh!


Because it's a split round due to State of Origin. No team in the history of the NRL has ever been rewarded for "good behaviour." There was a moment in 2002 when a team was "not as bad as the others" but that's about as close as we came.

Thanks for the tips, April!

Everything about this photo is just awkward


I have not paid any attention to anything regarding AFL, not even on Sports Tonight. It's like it doesn't exist, although I am assured that they are still playing it. Maybe I need to knock out some teeth or something so I'll be more attuned to the AFL supporter.

Bombers vs Blues
These two traditional rivals (possibly) face up for what is going to be (possibly) the greatest game of AFL ever. I can't put a struck match between them. This will be a draw.

Magpies vs Dockers
The mighty Maggies up against the rather confusing Dockers. Both of these teams have the ability to catch a ball and kick it between some posts. Who could possibly pick a winner out of these two combatants? Not me. Draw.

Crows vs Swans

I've been salivating in anticipation of this game coming up. I have spent hours poring over statistics and game plans to try and figure out who might have the upper hand. After weighing up the pros and cons of each team, I have concluded that this week, they will fight out a draw.

Lions vs Demons
This is a tricky one - the Lions have that guy who kicks the ball, but the Demons will be looking for that guy who catches the ball to leave his mark on the game as well. The refs will be blowing their whistles and the crowd will be eating pies. I will be tipping a draw.

Eagles vs Hawks
Have you figured out what I'm doing yet? Yeah, I'm picking draws. This tip is no different. The feathers will fly in what can only be described as the most remarkable tied-score game of the round.

Cats vs Power
Wait. Cat Power - remember her? She was pretty good, but I'd be very wary if you were head to her concert. The Cats will look to have this one in the bag, but just watch out for a massive comeback in the bottom of the ninth from the Powers to lock up the scores. Someone will have a crack from about 70 metres out to win it on the siren, but he'll miss.

Kangaroos vs Bulldogs

This is a long round. I'm pretty sure this will be a draw. No, wait. Kangaroos. No... It will be a draw. Yep.

Saints vs Tigers

Sagittarius: Your AFL game this weekend will result in a tie, and many people will wonder why either of you bothered turning up to the game at all.

I figure "Sagittarius" is close to "Saints" (it helps if you can't read) and was the first star-sign that I thought of. Strangely, it's not even my star-sign. Well that's just weird.

Tune in again next week where I attempt to give a shit. Until then, just remember that Tipping is not just a city in China.

Wednesday, June 24, 2009

executive producers produce things quite executively

This film strip is apparently showing the movie '8', the much-anticipated follow up to 'Se7en.'

I do enjoy going to the "cinema" to watch a "movie". It is one of life's simple pleasures. People have been doing it for thousands of years, ever since Grug motioned to his cavemen friends to "come over and watch the wall with the man painted on it." That movie was later re-released by Kevin Costner as "The Postman." I prefer the original, myself.

Since our cave-dwelling forefathers had their cave-movie nights, the art of film has come a long way; there's movement and sound and special effects and boobs to keep us all entertained. As technology improves, movie-makers have decided to throw out scripts in order to fit in more effects - if anyone saw the latest three Star Wars films, you'll know what I mean. George Lucas took the term "special effects" and reversed it so that anything that appeared on screen that wasn't computer-generated therefore became more "special" than the other things that were. I fucking hate you, George Lucas. And thanks for pissing on Indiana Jones as well; you have officially ruined that hat forever. Why not fuck up some more great films? Dipshit.

Every movie that comes out these days has a budget that could feed lobster and Johnny Walker Blue to a large nation of starving hippopotamuses for years, yet very few of these films are actually any good. Strangely, some folk opt to "save money" on movie prices by installing in-home cinema systems in their loungerooms. I'm sure that their $8,000 TV and $12,000 surround-sound unit have paid for themselves while they sit around watching Pearl Harbour in glorious plasma-flatscreen-la-de-fucking-dah quality. If a movie needs to be loud enough to create stress fractures in your walls for you to enjoy it, you're probably too retarded to appreciate a decent film anyway.

Sorry, I think I got a bit off track there. That's unlike me.

There are a lot of dicks who decide to go to the cinema, seemingly to watch the same movie in the same session that I have decided to attend. Upon entering the cinema of choice, it is apparent that most people have left their brain in the car, so in order to minimise the collateral damage the next time you venture outside of your home-cinema complex, please remember the following guidelines:

Mister Evil Breakfast's Guide To Going To The Movies And Not Annoying The Shit Out Of Me So I Don't Fuck You Up With An Axe-Sharpened Crowbar (MEBGTGTTMANATSOOMSIDFYUWAASC).

1. Tickets
The first rule of MEBGTGTTMANATSOOMSIDFYUWAASC is not to forget to bring some cash. Hitting Hoyts for a flick didn't start out as free, and it sure as fuck isn't going to get free anytime soon. Complaining to the kid behind the counter about how expensive everything is is NOT COOL. Last time I checked, they didn't leave the pricing decisions up to the fifteen year old emos who work there. Most places these days have got everything organised - if you don't have cash, use your card. Got no funds - go for credit. No credit; go home. Don't even think about cracking out the chequebook - the kid at the counter has most likely never seen one in his life anyway. If you have no money, just piss off back to your place and watch Sea Patrol or something.
You may find that there are other people trying to buy tickets at the same time as you. This is called "a ticket queue." Don't piss and moan about the line; you're a part of the problem.

My advice:
Stand in line with a friend and annoy the piss out of those around you with your loveable larrikin antics and social observations.

2. Candy Bar
I don't like the word "candy" at all. It's so hideously All-American that I expect it to have its own sitcom and at least one spin-off special and be a guest on Rove and talk about its junior baseball career. However, going to the flicks can be hungry work - the clever devils at the cinemas have realised this and catered for it by the provision of tasty treats. These are also disturbingly expensive, but if you're willing to buy a bag of chips for $8, they're willing to sell them for $8. If you're a tight-arse like me, you will be drawn to the "Value Combos" that are on offer. Drink, popcorn, bag o' chocolates. Sounds sweet, right? But don't think that the large option is the best deal though, despite the kid at the counter telling you that the large-sized combo is only 50 cents more than the medium combo. What they're not telling you is that the medium already costs $129.50 and is the size of a zepellin anyway. You will not be able to eat it all by the end of the movie, and you cannot seriously ever consider taking it home to finish later. And besides, there are only four pieces of popcorn in the box that are actually warm. Do not mention to the popcorn-dealing-candy-bar-attendant kid how much you can buy popcorn for in the supermarket; unless you brought a microwave to the cinema, that pack of popcorn kernels was a massive seventeen cent waste. Either pay the kid for your popcorn, or head back home for some Sea Patrol.

My advice:
Plan ahead and buy some M&Ms from Woolies before you go in; you can buy an M&M factory cheaper than you can buy them at Hoyts. Better yet, get your friend to buy them and eat his.

3. Previews
As is tradition, there are small snippets, or "previews" of upcoming movies that are played before the feature film. The world is divided by the humble preview - you either love them or you hate them. Personally, I'm all for them. I like to see what's coming up so I can rag out people who bothered to see the latest piece of shit that "the producer of The Notebook" put their name to. It is also very NOT COOL to "tsk" and "nnuuuh" if there are more than three previews. If you don't like it, fuck off home and watch Sea Patrol. I'm sure the twelve thousand commercial breaks in that piece of shit will keep you entertained. I like to rate each film solely by its preview, and I'm never afraid to loudly voice my opinion on it. This can have its drawbacks if your opinion on the latest Matthew McConnaughey movie is "put a fucking shirt on, you sack of shit" and your girlfriend makes you take her to see that film two days later. Your treat.

My advice:
If you don't like previews, go and take a piss. For the amount of money that you paid for your ticket, that toilet break is worth around $900.
Be prepared for humble pie if you bag out the latest shirtless wonder's romantic comedy exploits.

4. The movie
All that waiting and popcorn tossing and it's finally here. The movie is beginning! Oh boy, this sure is exciting. Try not to clap too much; as some people scare easily and they could have a heart attack and die.

It is now officially dark - whatever foodstuffs you have brought in with you are now somewhere in your lap - now is a good chance to see just how capable you are with your hands. Sure, you may be able to unclasp a bra strap one-handed, but can you find the opening of your Maltesers while stuffing popcorn into your mouth (or if your aim is bad, your ears… or if you’re hilarious, into your friend’s ears)? It's also a time for shhhh - if you must say something, make it audible only to the person next to you, and make sure that you know that person. Sometimes some smart-arsed comments are not welcomed when whispered to strangers.

Please try to keep up with the movie. Asking plot questions is NOT COOL, because while someone is explaining it to you, things continue to roll in the movie and if that person loses track of what's going on while they're explaining the last hour to you, you're both fucked and they may hate you forever. If your mobile phone isn't off yet - do it now. If it rings, I'll track you down and beat you to death with it. Unless it's a good phone, then I'll steal it and beat you to death with mine (which is switched off/not working). If you have set your phone to "vibrate", don't answer it unless you're Jack Bauer. If there was a life and death situation that only you could handle, I doubt you'd be wasting time by seeing a fucking movie.

If you didn’t pee before you came in, you might need to have a quick slash at some stage during the film. This is not a problem – you’re missing the movie, not me. But when you come back into the cinema, please don’t be yelling, “Yo Keisha! Where the fuck you at?" and then fall down the stairs. She’s actually fairly surprised that you made it back to the right cinema at all, and was secretly hoping that you got lost and starved to death.

My advice:
If you must do something with your mouth, fill it up with popcorn and chocolate, or chew a pencil, or give out blowjobs or something. Just shut the fuck up.

5. After the movie
The credits roll and the house lights come back on; the movie as we know it is over. This is a tricky time during the movie experience – some people like to sit back and reflect on what they’ve just seen; others jump over seats in a fucking mad rush to get out and steal cigarettes from people at the bus interchange. Me, I like to play a game with whoever I’m with to try and get them to stay in the cinema with me for as long as possible. If I can be the last person out of the room, then my day has just got significantly better.

This is also a good time to become that old guy and the elf-chick from the SBS movie show and give the film a quick review. If you’re an idiot, this may backfire and you’ll probably give away that you couldn’t keep up with the plot and you wished that Adam Sandler at least had a cameo in it.

My advice:
Throw away your rubbish on your way out – cause the kids who work at the cinemas sure as fuck won’t.

That’s about it, really. If you’ve been to the late session, you may steal whatever promotional things are hanging in the foyer, including cardboard cut-outs, drink cups, popcorn boxes and David Carradine (what, too soon?). If you’ve been to an earlier session, you should think about (but ultimately resist) sneaking into another cinema to watch half a movie that you didn’t want to see in the first place, and go and grab a beer and some hot chips instead.

Please hold onto your ticket and enjoy the movie!