Well bugger me if it isn’t about 2 weeks till Christmas. I almost forgot to dig a chimney into the wall, stick my “Stop here, Santa” sign on the roof and hang my socks for the jolly red man to fill with presents.
Speaking of presents, I hear you all asking, “What’s in this year?” I’m glad you asked. I give you:
Mister Evil Breakfast’s Guide to Chrissy Pressies 2007
For the little brat that has everything, give him/her/it a hat that someone gave you in 1992, when the Chicago Bulls were ‘in’ and you desperately wanted Michael Jordan’s baby/rookie gold card that you would put in an airtight glass case, then put that in an airtight vault in an airtight country and then blast that country into space. I’m sure you had a plan for the rookie gold card as well. Hats are always a good idea, especially in these climate-changing days where your face can melt just by thinking about going outside. The Chicago Bulls are as well, cause they haven’t been good since 1995 or something, and are probably due for a comeback, if they’re still in the NBA. I really don’t know; I haven’t been interested in basketball since I discovered that it sucked.
For your mum and dad: Well, you probably know them better than I do, but you can never go wrong with CDs that are so generic it hurts. ‘The Best of Elvis Presley’, ‘Number 1’s of the 50s’, ‘Mozart’s Greatest Hits’, ‘Classical Classics’ and ‘Greatest Drumbeats of Early Man’ will really remind them just how old they are, and how little you expect their musical tastes have changed over the years.
Similarly, your uncle should receive either the ‘World’s Greatest Beer Drinking Songs’, ‘World’s Best Driving Songs’ or ‘Top Aussie Barbecue Tunes’ CD, which all, strangely, have the same songs on them.
For the grannies, don’t be afraid to go out on a limb and give an original present to the older ducks. Like lavender. Anything with lavender. Anything at all. Lavender and old peeps go together like super and glue. When they're apart, they’re ok, but put them together and you're having way more fun.
For your best mate, you should give something that will last forever and always remind them of you, regardless of what happens. A six-pack should suffice, but if you really want to go the extra 0.9144 meters, go for the Boags St. George, Little Creatures or Hahn Premium. If you couldn’t be arsed, don’t go any lower than Tooheys Extra Dry.
For that special someone, romance is the key. I recommend ‘Warnie’s Guide to Leg-Spin Bowling’, which not only includes all of Shane’s 708 Test wickets, it’s got every delivery that Warney ever appealed for, plus extensive reasoning by the great man himself as to why it should have been out. NOTE: Giving this gift may actually estrange you from your girlfriend over the Christmas/New Year period, but since the Boxing Day and New Year’s Tests are on, you weren’t likely to be seeing her very often anyway.
For the ladies to treat their gentlemen friends, I suggest ‘Warnie’s Guide to Leg-Spin Bowling’, just in case your boyfriend doesn’t give it to you. You can also bowl to him in the back yard, which means you get to spend more time together. It also means that he can slog you over the fence for a while, so he can finally be better at cricket than someone.
You know how people always say, “Oh, my little 2-year old was more interested in the paper and boxes than the toys!” Seriously, give the kid some boxes and paper. You CAN be that guy. Do it.
On the big day, make sure you have some ‘back up’ presents on hand, just in case some idiot and their cats drop by for a drink. Books you’ve read, DVDs you’ve watched and clothes you don’t want anymore are always good ideas. Wrap a few things on Christmas Eve just to be sure. NOTE: Make sure your unexpected X-mas well-wisher gives you a present first. You don’t want to give away your least favourite shit to a cheapskate, do you?
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Wednesday, December 05, 2007
insert subject line
There are so many great phrases in the Australian lexicon, like; "G'day no worries too right sheila blokey Warnie Boonie Merv," just to name one. "She'll be apples" and "git faaahked" are also useful in their versatility. And I'm sorry to my plethora of overseas readers, but you just can't get away with using our Aussie idioms if you don't have the beautiful drawl that comes from living this close to heaven.
But the single greatest phrase that can be uttered by... well... anyone, regardless of whether you're a sunburnt little dusty-faced dinki-di Aussie battler or Captain of the Sri Lankan Pudding Team, is "No offence, but..." It is basically the equivalent of a 'get out of jail free card'. It gives the speaker the right to bad-mouth anyone about anything, whether it's regarding their appearance, their lifestyle, their job, their personality, their dog, their obsession with cowboys, their choice of movie when you go to get a DVD, their toenails or their choice of capsicums or tomatoes on Ready Steady Cook. Simply prefix whatever you're thinking with "No offence, but", and let fly with the abuse.
Avoid this:
"Your hair looks shit."
"Fuck you, man."
by doing this:
"No offence, but your hair looks shit."
"I know, Stefan just hasn't been the same since his arm was bitten off by a rabid goat."
Here's a common scenario:
"I'm sleeping with your girlfriend."
"Fuck you, man."
Try this:
"No offence, but I'm sleeping with your girlfriend."
"Fuck you, man."
"Hey, I said 'no offence'."
"Oh. Right. Sorry."
"That's ok. Don't do it again though."
"I said I was sorry."
"Buy me a beer and we're even."
"Ok man."
If Hitler said "No offense, but I'm invading Poland," the world would be a very different place indeed.
But the single greatest phrase that can be uttered by... well... anyone, regardless of whether you're a sunburnt little dusty-faced dinki-di Aussie battler or Captain of the Sri Lankan Pudding Team, is "No offence, but..." It is basically the equivalent of a 'get out of jail free card'. It gives the speaker the right to bad-mouth anyone about anything, whether it's regarding their appearance, their lifestyle, their job, their personality, their dog, their obsession with cowboys, their choice of movie when you go to get a DVD, their toenails or their choice of capsicums or tomatoes on Ready Steady Cook. Simply prefix whatever you're thinking with "No offence, but", and let fly with the abuse.
Avoid this:
"Your hair looks shit."
"Fuck you, man."
by doing this:
"No offence, but your hair looks shit."
"I know, Stefan just hasn't been the same since his arm was bitten off by a rabid goat."
Here's a common scenario:
"I'm sleeping with your girlfriend."
"Fuck you, man."
Try this:
"No offence, but I'm sleeping with your girlfriend."
"Fuck you, man."
"Hey, I said 'no offence'."
"Oh. Right. Sorry."
"That's ok. Don't do it again though."
"I said I was sorry."
"Buy me a beer and we're even."
"Ok man."
If Hitler said "No offense, but I'm invading Poland," the world would be a very different place indeed.
Thursday, November 22, 2007
The art of man
Being a guy is already the coolest thing ever - you can be a pirate, for one. Girls can only be pirates' wenches. You can be a Viking; women aren't allowed into Valhalla. You can be a cowboy, whereas chicks have to put up with being Injun princesses. There are probably other good things too, but those are the main points.
But the best thing about being a guy is peeing. The male form is so advanced that we can do it whilst standing up. Some genius who may or may not be Thomas Crapper, invented a toilet a few years back, and people have been tinkering with it ever since, just to get it right. As such, we have about twelve thousand varieties of buckets in which to pee.
I present
Mister Evil Breakfast's Guide to Public Toilets (male)
The first thing you will notice upon entering male public toilets is the smell. We can't help it, male toilets are the natural breeding grounds for with urinal cakes. Urinal cakes, as their name suggests, consist mainly of stale urine, and should not be eaten, regardless of how hungry you are. I believe they were at one point used as torture devices during World War II. They are also the only reason that we haven't been attacked and enslaved by an alien species.
The second thing you will notice is the choice between urinal and stall. The stalls are only there for decoration and overflow. You should never use a stall in a public toilet unless it is quite literally life or death. Even so, you should consider death. Most places will just have a big sheet of metal upon which to pee. Easy as. With some practice, you can avoid splashback onto your shoes, and more importantly, your neighbour's shoes. Sometimes you will find a grate that protects you from falling into the urinal. Use this grate wisely, and don't stand on it. Chances are, a billion people have already peed on it. Gross.
If there is a crowd in the toilet, don't feel like you should start a sing-a-long. Unless you're drunk, really drunk, and you have song in your heart. No one will deny you this. On second thoughts, it's probably better to sing to everyone in there than to make general chit-chat with one bloke you don't know, as he may think you're trying to pick him up. Unless you are. If that is the case, good luck. When you get to the front of the queue, look at the urinal and if you have to judge whether or not you could squeeze in, then No, You Shouldn't. If a stall becomes available, feel free to use it. Otherwise, wait patiently for a larger space to become available at the urinal.
Note: If you are using a stall to pee, don't close the door, otherwise people will think you're doing some private business in there. And you just don't need that kind of aggravation.
When it comes time to hand washing, it is recommended that you do, lest your hands and anything else you touch fall off. If the bathroom supplies handtowel, then you're one lucky punter. If not, use your jeans. The hand dryer things don't really work, and do you really want that urinal cake smell blasted onto your digits? Even worse are the ones with the towel in them that you just wipe and rotate. Gross. I hope the inventor of that monstrosity is stuck in the Blackboard Scratching Department of the Blackboard Factory. It exists, I went there on a school excursion once.
A few quick pointers:
- eyes front when you are at the urinal. This is obvious.
- don't drink your beer while you're peeing. It puts people off.
- if you drop something into the urinal - food, cigarettes, mobile phone... it's gone. Let it go.
- having a spew doesn't give you the right to occupy a space at the urinal/in the stall all night. Get it over with and get out.
- pushing a mate into the urinal might sound like a really funny thing to do, but it has consequences. Consider these consequences. Then push.
- you are permitted to adjust your hair while you're in the bathroom. You are not permitted to bring a razor or toothbrush.
Happy peeing, gents! And remember: No matter how much you shake and dance, the final drop goes in your pants.
But the best thing about being a guy is peeing. The male form is so advanced that we can do it whilst standing up. Some genius who may or may not be Thomas Crapper, invented a toilet a few years back, and people have been tinkering with it ever since, just to get it right. As such, we have about twelve thousand varieties of buckets in which to pee.
I present
Mister Evil Breakfast's Guide to Public Toilets (male)
The first thing you will notice upon entering male public toilets is the smell. We can't help it, male toilets are the natural breeding grounds for with urinal cakes. Urinal cakes, as their name suggests, consist mainly of stale urine, and should not be eaten, regardless of how hungry you are. I believe they were at one point used as torture devices during World War II. They are also the only reason that we haven't been attacked and enslaved by an alien species.
The second thing you will notice is the choice between urinal and stall. The stalls are only there for decoration and overflow. You should never use a stall in a public toilet unless it is quite literally life or death. Even so, you should consider death. Most places will just have a big sheet of metal upon which to pee. Easy as. With some practice, you can avoid splashback onto your shoes, and more importantly, your neighbour's shoes. Sometimes you will find a grate that protects you from falling into the urinal. Use this grate wisely, and don't stand on it. Chances are, a billion people have already peed on it. Gross.
If there is a crowd in the toilet, don't feel like you should start a sing-a-long. Unless you're drunk, really drunk, and you have song in your heart. No one will deny you this. On second thoughts, it's probably better to sing to everyone in there than to make general chit-chat with one bloke you don't know, as he may think you're trying to pick him up. Unless you are. If that is the case, good luck. When you get to the front of the queue, look at the urinal and if you have to judge whether or not you could squeeze in, then No, You Shouldn't. If a stall becomes available, feel free to use it. Otherwise, wait patiently for a larger space to become available at the urinal.
Note: If you are using a stall to pee, don't close the door, otherwise people will think you're doing some private business in there. And you just don't need that kind of aggravation.
When it comes time to hand washing, it is recommended that you do, lest your hands and anything else you touch fall off. If the bathroom supplies handtowel, then you're one lucky punter. If not, use your jeans. The hand dryer things don't really work, and do you really want that urinal cake smell blasted onto your digits? Even worse are the ones with the towel in them that you just wipe and rotate. Gross. I hope the inventor of that monstrosity is stuck in the Blackboard Scratching Department of the Blackboard Factory. It exists, I went there on a school excursion once.
A few quick pointers:
- eyes front when you are at the urinal. This is obvious.
- don't drink your beer while you're peeing. It puts people off.
- if you drop something into the urinal - food, cigarettes, mobile phone... it's gone. Let it go.
- having a spew doesn't give you the right to occupy a space at the urinal/in the stall all night. Get it over with and get out.
- pushing a mate into the urinal might sound like a really funny thing to do, but it has consequences. Consider these consequences. Then push.
- you are permitted to adjust your hair while you're in the bathroom. You are not permitted to bring a razor or toothbrush.
Happy peeing, gents! And remember: No matter how much you shake and dance, the final drop goes in your pants.
Monday, November 19, 2007
eirolac a flah
An orange world; Henry lived in an orange world. It was like he saw everything through a haze of sweltering Martian heat. The houses were orange, the walls were orange, every car on the orange road was orange. The orange sun burnt in the orange sky, while the occasional orange cloud dropped an orange shadow over the orange grass. Orange dogs chased orange cats through orange streets while orange people walked the orange footpath to their orange buildings.
Henry's orange life was tragically cut short when he tripped on a seemingly invisible basketball and fell down a flight of orange stairs. If only someone had told Henry that he'd had Tic-Tac boxes taped over his eyes, he'd probably still be here today.
Henry's orange life was tragically cut short when he tripped on a seemingly invisible basketball and fell down a flight of orange stairs. If only someone had told Henry that he'd had Tic-Tac boxes taped over his eyes, he'd probably still be here today.
Monday, November 12, 2007
Mister Late Night Tele
Dear TV programming people,
I am writing to thank you for providing me with some brilliant late-night television. Lonely? You bet I am! So thank you for the endless advertisements of "hot, sexy babes" that are either waiting to take my call, waiting to be downloaded onto my phone, or waiting to meet me for some romance. The only problem is that I wasn't sure if the person that I was talking to, downloading or texting was my ideal partner. But there you were again to lend your sweaty, hairy hand. No sooner had I wondered if "Mister Evil Breakfast" and "Jane" were soulmates that you offered me a service to that would make sure I was doing the right thing, simply by using signs of the Zodiac. And then another service that offered the same results, but by using ancient Chinese text messaging traditions. And then another one using a foolproof mathematical formula. And then one that doesn't use anything but a random number generator. After using all of these "Love Rating" sms lines, I have discovered that Jane just isn't for me. I'm glad I found that out before I spent any money on an actual relationship with her. I did, however, spend over $5,500 on sms fees, but I think assurance is worth that.
Another great thing about being a late-night tv viewer is that you get all sorts of great information about erectile dysfunction. A lot. As in, twice per ad break. And the commercials are always hilarious and well acted, and handle this delicate situation with great discretion. One day, I too hope to play the piano with my wang. Oh how I dream.
And please, don't worry about putting on dull programmes late at night, just make sure whatever you put on is repeated a week later, or even better, the next day. I love Dave Letterman, really, and am incredibly happy that his show is on every night. The same show. Every night. "Wow, George Clooney is on tonight!" "Hey look, George Clooney's back on." "Boy, Clooney and Letterman must be best friends." "Fucking Clooney." "This Top Ten sounds pretty familiar. I hope George Clooney is on tonight."
And the Infomercials... I love them. I really really really really do. I swear. They are ingeniously crafted so that if you stay awake and watch them, you'll suddenly find yourself on the phone whilst reaching for your credit card. If you fall asleep on the couch in front of them, you'll wake up with the phone in one hand, your credit card in the other and a sick feeling in your stomach. The longer you watch Infomercials, the more sense they make, and nothing, NOTHING should stop you from having perfectly sliced carrots, perfectly clear skin, perfectly smooth legs, perfectly sculpted abs and perfectly empty bank account.
Long live Vermin.
But seriously, if you show that fucking ad with Tara Reid on it again, I will stab you with my Rock'n'Chop before you can even marvel at the German engineered handle (made in Taiwan).
Thank you, and goodnight.
Mister Evil Breakfast
I am writing to thank you for providing me with some brilliant late-night television. Lonely? You bet I am! So thank you for the endless advertisements of "hot, sexy babes" that are either waiting to take my call, waiting to be downloaded onto my phone, or waiting to meet me for some romance. The only problem is that I wasn't sure if the person that I was talking to, downloading or texting was my ideal partner. But there you were again to lend your sweaty, hairy hand. No sooner had I wondered if "Mister Evil Breakfast" and "Jane" were soulmates that you offered me a service to that would make sure I was doing the right thing, simply by using signs of the Zodiac. And then another service that offered the same results, but by using ancient Chinese text messaging traditions. And then another one using a foolproof mathematical formula. And then one that doesn't use anything but a random number generator. After using all of these "Love Rating" sms lines, I have discovered that Jane just isn't for me. I'm glad I found that out before I spent any money on an actual relationship with her. I did, however, spend over $5,500 on sms fees, but I think assurance is worth that.
Another great thing about being a late-night tv viewer is that you get all sorts of great information about erectile dysfunction. A lot. As in, twice per ad break. And the commercials are always hilarious and well acted, and handle this delicate situation with great discretion. One day, I too hope to play the piano with my wang. Oh how I dream.
And please, don't worry about putting on dull programmes late at night, just make sure whatever you put on is repeated a week later, or even better, the next day. I love Dave Letterman, really, and am incredibly happy that his show is on every night. The same show. Every night. "Wow, George Clooney is on tonight!" "Hey look, George Clooney's back on." "Boy, Clooney and Letterman must be best friends." "Fucking Clooney." "This Top Ten sounds pretty familiar. I hope George Clooney is on tonight."
And the Infomercials... I love them. I really really really really do. I swear. They are ingeniously crafted so that if you stay awake and watch them, you'll suddenly find yourself on the phone whilst reaching for your credit card. If you fall asleep on the couch in front of them, you'll wake up with the phone in one hand, your credit card in the other and a sick feeling in your stomach. The longer you watch Infomercials, the more sense they make, and nothing, NOTHING should stop you from having perfectly sliced carrots, perfectly clear skin, perfectly smooth legs, perfectly sculpted abs and perfectly empty bank account.
Long live Vermin.
But seriously, if you show that fucking ad with Tara Reid on it again, I will stab you with my Rock'n'Chop before you can even marvel at the German engineered handle (made in Taiwan).
Thank you, and goodnight.
Mister Evil Breakfast
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Monday, October 08, 2007
Closer each day, with a little understanding
Living in Australia isn't an easy thing. You could get eaten by a shark as soon as you step outside, your shoes could be literally made out of Black Widow spiders, or you could have your eyes melted by the sun shining off Bert Newton's face. Or, of course, you could get beaten up by Bert Newton's son. Or you could be Bert Newton's wife. It's a fucking minefield out there.
But spare a thought for the millions of poor Australians who are part of a soap opera. Be it Summer Bay, Erinsborough or Wondan Valley (how the hell do you spell that, anyway?), every day is a new adventure in tragedy. If you happen to wake up tomorrow and you look like Kate Ritchie (I apologise for that), here are some tips on how to live another happy day in paradise...
Mister Evil Breakfast's Guide to Life as a Soap Opera Character
1. If you fall in love, which is an occurance which will happen at least 70 times in the average soap character's life, be careful. As soon as you utter those three magic words, "I love you," prepare to either spend the next week in the hospital as a patient or a 'helpless victim of circumstance.' Whichever the case, you'll most likely find yourself in a coma. But all is not lost, cause if you're in a coma, the chances of you actually dying are slim to none. Death in a soap is either instantaneous or non-existant. Waking from a coma is also a fairly easy process, all it takes is someone to discuss their deepest feelings with you. Just like a slap in the arse with a wet sheep, you'll wake and will suffer no ill-effects at all. Not only that, you and the entire cast won't ever recall anyone ever even being in a coma after a week.
Any visit to the hospital will be a fairly eventful one. Whether you've just had heart surgery, had your face reattached after it was cut off following an accident with a 'tampered' lawnmower, or you're just there for a check-up, you'll have your own room, be ordered to "stay another night" and will probably find out you're adopted after a few blood tests.
2. Getting married is a practice fraught with danger. On your wedding day, it's law for any soap star to either be involved in a car accident, a skydiving accident or the sudden appearance of a long lost relative (most likely a mother or father), their wife/husband (either current or ex) or a child from a previous relationship that no-one ever knew about. Be prepared for a fairly harsh few days, but don't stress too much - a disturbance like that will only ever last for three days, and twenty minutes after you're married, you will be discussing children.
3. Having children isn't an easy process for a soap character. If you're married, you will have some serious struggles in getting pregnant, especially if everything else in your relationship is going well. After a visit to the doctor for a check-up (see #1), you may even find yourself with ovarian cancer or that your uterus is actually a pair of bagpipes.
But chill. If you really want a kid, just apply for an adoption. You can do it over the net, and will be accepted either the first or second time you check your email. Are you worried that your violently abusive past, drug history and lack of employment will hurt your application? Stress less, amigo. You're a good person, and that will work wonders for you. Expect a kid in a week.
Not married? Having sex? Well, you're in some serious trouble. The first time you have sex, you WILL get pregnant. Did you cheat on your partner? Pregnancy. Did you make a mistake and sleep with the bad boy of the show? Have fun explaining your baby to your over-protective father.
Pregnancies last about a month, and your child will be a baby for about 5 years (if your contract lasts that long) and then suddenly appear in high school.
4. School is a strange place. All of the kids are all in the same classes together, always in the one classroom, which is always taught by the same teacher (probably someone's parent), regardless of age or academic prowess. You'll probably encounter a bully - stay strong and learn that walking away is the best defence, and they'll disappear forever. If the bully is of the opposite sex, you will definitely begin dating (refer #3).
5. Employment is an option for everyone. If you're a high school kid looking for some extra pocket money, don't bother with McDonalds or Woolworths, working at the corner store (which only ever has packets of chips and slices of home-made quiche for sale anyway), will keep you busy for the next three years. If you ever finish Year 12 and are thinking of going to uni, expect the owner of the store to die, or run off to Botswana to his great aunt's house because she needs a kidney and he's the only matching donor. Bingo. You own the store. You'll immediately turn it into a cool hang-out place, with a lot of neon lights and some funky art on the walls. Strangely, it didn't seem to cost you anything. Unfortunately, it will burn down the next day. Insurance? Hell no. Just wait for the neighbourhood to rebuild it from scratch. As you re-open the joint, use these words: "Thanks to everyone for this, this is fantastic. And I've learnt my lesson from dealing with dodgy fire sprinkler installers from anyone who aren't in the opening credits, I've got four different kinds of fire insurance, and the back storeroom is definitely off limits for clumsy four year olds with a box of matches!" Wait for the laughter to die down, cut the ribbon and begin your life again. You may be ripped off by the kid you hired to look after the till though.
If you're an adult, you're probably the only person in the city with your chosen profession. Doctor? Lawyer? Refrigerator repairman? Welcome to high living, and of course a little bit of improvisation. If you're an ear, nose and throat specialist, you'll definitely have to come in for some amputation work on someone whose leg was caught in the doors of an elevator as it fell fifteen stories. If you're a cop, you'll be directing traffic while leading a homicide case and tracing calls from a kidnapper. Just watch out - one wrong move will put your career in jeopardy. Forever. If you're a lawyer, you may have to sue yourself at least once in your lifetime.
Good luck, future UK panto stars!
But spare a thought for the millions of poor Australians who are part of a soap opera. Be it Summer Bay, Erinsborough or Wondan Valley (how the hell do you spell that, anyway?), every day is a new adventure in tragedy. If you happen to wake up tomorrow and you look like Kate Ritchie (I apologise for that), here are some tips on how to live another happy day in paradise...
Mister Evil Breakfast's Guide to Life as a Soap Opera Character
1. If you fall in love, which is an occurance which will happen at least 70 times in the average soap character's life, be careful. As soon as you utter those three magic words, "I love you," prepare to either spend the next week in the hospital as a patient or a 'helpless victim of circumstance.' Whichever the case, you'll most likely find yourself in a coma. But all is not lost, cause if you're in a coma, the chances of you actually dying are slim to none. Death in a soap is either instantaneous or non-existant. Waking from a coma is also a fairly easy process, all it takes is someone to discuss their deepest feelings with you. Just like a slap in the arse with a wet sheep, you'll wake and will suffer no ill-effects at all. Not only that, you and the entire cast won't ever recall anyone ever even being in a coma after a week.
Any visit to the hospital will be a fairly eventful one. Whether you've just had heart surgery, had your face reattached after it was cut off following an accident with a 'tampered' lawnmower, or you're just there for a check-up, you'll have your own room, be ordered to "stay another night" and will probably find out you're adopted after a few blood tests.
2. Getting married is a practice fraught with danger. On your wedding day, it's law for any soap star to either be involved in a car accident, a skydiving accident or the sudden appearance of a long lost relative (most likely a mother or father), their wife/husband (either current or ex) or a child from a previous relationship that no-one ever knew about. Be prepared for a fairly harsh few days, but don't stress too much - a disturbance like that will only ever last for three days, and twenty minutes after you're married, you will be discussing children.
3. Having children isn't an easy process for a soap character. If you're married, you will have some serious struggles in getting pregnant, especially if everything else in your relationship is going well. After a visit to the doctor for a check-up (see #1), you may even find yourself with ovarian cancer or that your uterus is actually a pair of bagpipes.
But chill. If you really want a kid, just apply for an adoption. You can do it over the net, and will be accepted either the first or second time you check your email. Are you worried that your violently abusive past, drug history and lack of employment will hurt your application? Stress less, amigo. You're a good person, and that will work wonders for you. Expect a kid in a week.
Not married? Having sex? Well, you're in some serious trouble. The first time you have sex, you WILL get pregnant. Did you cheat on your partner? Pregnancy. Did you make a mistake and sleep with the bad boy of the show? Have fun explaining your baby to your over-protective father.
Pregnancies last about a month, and your child will be a baby for about 5 years (if your contract lasts that long) and then suddenly appear in high school.
4. School is a strange place. All of the kids are all in the same classes together, always in the one classroom, which is always taught by the same teacher (probably someone's parent), regardless of age or academic prowess. You'll probably encounter a bully - stay strong and learn that walking away is the best defence, and they'll disappear forever. If the bully is of the opposite sex, you will definitely begin dating (refer #3).
5. Employment is an option for everyone. If you're a high school kid looking for some extra pocket money, don't bother with McDonalds or Woolworths, working at the corner store (which only ever has packets of chips and slices of home-made quiche for sale anyway), will keep you busy for the next three years. If you ever finish Year 12 and are thinking of going to uni, expect the owner of the store to die, or run off to Botswana to his great aunt's house because she needs a kidney and he's the only matching donor. Bingo. You own the store. You'll immediately turn it into a cool hang-out place, with a lot of neon lights and some funky art on the walls. Strangely, it didn't seem to cost you anything. Unfortunately, it will burn down the next day. Insurance? Hell no. Just wait for the neighbourhood to rebuild it from scratch. As you re-open the joint, use these words: "Thanks to everyone for this, this is fantastic. And I've learnt my lesson from dealing with dodgy fire sprinkler installers from anyone who aren't in the opening credits, I've got four different kinds of fire insurance, and the back storeroom is definitely off limits for clumsy four year olds with a box of matches!" Wait for the laughter to die down, cut the ribbon and begin your life again. You may be ripped off by the kid you hired to look after the till though.
If you're an adult, you're probably the only person in the city with your chosen profession. Doctor? Lawyer? Refrigerator repairman? Welcome to high living, and of course a little bit of improvisation. If you're an ear, nose and throat specialist, you'll definitely have to come in for some amputation work on someone whose leg was caught in the doors of an elevator as it fell fifteen stories. If you're a cop, you'll be directing traffic while leading a homicide case and tracing calls from a kidnapper. Just watch out - one wrong move will put your career in jeopardy. Forever. If you're a lawyer, you may have to sue yourself at least once in your lifetime.
Good luck, future UK panto stars!
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Mister Evil Breakfast's Guide to Drinking: Part 1
In at least one time in your life, you may find yourself involved in a situation where you are expected to buy drinks, or "shout a round", for a number of people. It sounds quite simple really, but it can also be an excellent way to judge the character of your fellow drinkers.
1. The First Round shouter.
The First Round Shouter is a sneaky little prick - he appears to be the good bloke by getting in early and buying a round, but this is just his cunning ploy to either get his round in before more people turn up, or to get everyone beers before the beers become spirits.
2. The Pee-Breaker
The Pee-Breaker will wait until at least you've left the group to go to the toilet, and then he rushes to the bar, grabs a round and is back before your zip has even come down. If someone disappears to the toilet in the middle of a shout, they have at least 5 minutes to return before you can officially rule them out of the shout.
(if Mr Football catches you being a Pee-Breaker, you'd better start running)
3. The Miscounter
Someone who constantly misses at least one person in organising a shout. If he misses more than one person, they are then able to legally form a Super League (see below) in protest.
4. Super League
A few people who will be part of the larger group's conversations and plans, but will only buy drinks for their fellow rebels.
5. The "I'll Pay if You Go" Guy
Sounds like a good deal, doesn't it? Someone slips you a $20 and all you have to do is order for him and receive half of the credit for the shout. Unfortunately, the shout cost is at least $40, and it's still your round next.
6. Frothy Mo shouter
Everyone takes a sip of their freshly-bought schooner, and as you wipe the beer foam from your top lip, you hear, "Alright boys, who wants a drink?" He'll only ever buy for himself, but will accept a drink from just about anyone.
7. Phone Call Shouter
The glasses are down on the bar, and everyone's already looking for their next drink. I've done mine, you've done yours, he's done his, that leaves... the Phone Call Shouter strikes again. All eyes are on him, and he reaches into his pocket, pulls out his phone and then runs outside to "take his call". Strangely, the call ends as soon as someone else takes the bullet and buys his round.
8. The Bad Luck Shouter
One round is worth four beers. The next round is worth four beers. Enter two more guys and their girlfriends. The next round is worth six beers and two Breezers. Then the new guys and their girls leave. The next round is worth four beers. Bad luck.
9. The Soft Drink shouter
Occasionally, there'll be a guy who isn't drinking alcohol who's out with you. It's up to the group dynamic to work out whether or not they are included in the shout, or if they need to buy at least one round anyway. Don't be surprised if this debate causes fights or loses you friends.
10. Last Round Guy
The bar staff are yawning, the mops are out, the sun is rising and there's a kebab out there with your name on it. You somehow manage to swallow the last mouthful of beer, somehow manage to put the empty glass back on the table, and somehow manage to coerce one more round out of your friends.
Drink responsibly!
1. The First Round shouter.
The First Round Shouter is a sneaky little prick - he appears to be the good bloke by getting in early and buying a round, but this is just his cunning ploy to either get his round in before more people turn up, or to get everyone beers before the beers become spirits.
2. The Pee-Breaker
The Pee-Breaker will wait until at least you've left the group to go to the toilet, and then he rushes to the bar, grabs a round and is back before your zip has even come down. If someone disappears to the toilet in the middle of a shout, they have at least 5 minutes to return before you can officially rule them out of the shout.
(if Mr Football catches you being a Pee-Breaker, you'd better start running)
3. The Miscounter
Someone who constantly misses at least one person in organising a shout. If he misses more than one person, they are then able to legally form a Super League (see below) in protest.
4. Super League
A few people who will be part of the larger group's conversations and plans, but will only buy drinks for their fellow rebels.
5. The "I'll Pay if You Go" Guy
Sounds like a good deal, doesn't it? Someone slips you a $20 and all you have to do is order for him and receive half of the credit for the shout. Unfortunately, the shout cost is at least $40, and it's still your round next.
6. Frothy Mo shouter
Everyone takes a sip of their freshly-bought schooner, and as you wipe the beer foam from your top lip, you hear, "Alright boys, who wants a drink?" He'll only ever buy for himself, but will accept a drink from just about anyone.
7. Phone Call Shouter
The glasses are down on the bar, and everyone's already looking for their next drink. I've done mine, you've done yours, he's done his, that leaves... the Phone Call Shouter strikes again. All eyes are on him, and he reaches into his pocket, pulls out his phone and then runs outside to "take his call". Strangely, the call ends as soon as someone else takes the bullet and buys his round.
8. The Bad Luck Shouter
One round is worth four beers. The next round is worth four beers. Enter two more guys and their girlfriends. The next round is worth six beers and two Breezers. Then the new guys and their girls leave. The next round is worth four beers. Bad luck.
9. The Soft Drink shouter
Occasionally, there'll be a guy who isn't drinking alcohol who's out with you. It's up to the group dynamic to work out whether or not they are included in the shout, or if they need to buy at least one round anyway. Don't be surprised if this debate causes fights or loses you friends.
10. Last Round Guy
The bar staff are yawning, the mops are out, the sun is rising and there's a kebab out there with your name on it. You somehow manage to swallow the last mouthful of beer, somehow manage to put the empty glass back on the table, and somehow manage to coerce one more round out of your friends.
Drink responsibly!
where did i come from, where did i go?
To me, the solution to childhood obesity can be solved quite simply: Musical Theatre.
Unless Childhood Obesity means something other than what I think it does.
Unless Childhood Obesity means something other than what I think it does.
Monday, August 27, 2007
the MEBCAM feast
As is tradition at the end of MEBCAM, a feast of KFC is served on the 31st of each August – it is entirely up to the host as to which burger, value meal, combo bucket or feed box to serve. But the tradition of the MEBCAM feast is steeped in… uh… tradition. MEBCAM was a pagan ritual set up to pay homage to the Canberra gods for the greatest place on earth. There was Paak-Wey, who was the god of travel, and one of the most popular of the ancient deities. He was often depicted with a steering wheel in one hand, a mobile phone in the other and a large Coke between his knees. Paak-Wey’s followers can be easily identified even today, as they wear his motto proudly: I voted for a dragway.
Other popular gods included Staij For (the goddess of weather), Mousse-Hed (god of alcohol and love) and HottDoggs (god of late night tv game shows). In ancient MEBCAM ceremonies, offerings were made to the gods for their benevolence in the past, continued generosity for the future, and more comfortable seating at Hoyts cinemas today. Offerings included gold and precious stones, virgin sacrifices, and in at least one case, $100 000 worth of fireworks set to go off to the tune of “Purple Haze”. As the story goes, the gods became tired of these gifts (especially the fireworks), as the gold and stones had no value in Publik Serviss (where the gods lived, also where all Canberrans go after death), the virgin sacrifices were increasingly hard to find, and the music and lights show didn’t have ample parking. They wanted food – fried chicken, to be precise, but could not order due to the incompetent fourteen year old working on drive-thru. This angered them so much that they released the banished god of mayhem and irritation, Viziting Tewrist, from his prison (Queanbeyan) and he tore through the city like a chilled wind, complaining about the weather, the people, the jobs, the buildings, the trees, that dog, your brother, an emu, The Cheesecake Shop, an escalator… anything that could be criticised, was. His criticism wore down many, and they sided with him in his harsh interpretation of Canberra, but there was still an army of strong-willed Canberrans who fought back, with powerful protective chants like “fuck off back to Melbourne, you skivvy-wearing wanker,” “Sydney? Where’s that?” and “Yeah, Queensland’s ok. But have you been to Tasmania?” While not destroying Viziting Tewrist completely, it diminished his power enough to trap him inside the ‘Chasm of Wind’, which exists between the Woden Library and the Plaza entrance (where the big fountain was, before it dried up in the drought of 1792). Even on still days, where there is not a breath of wind, this corridor inexplicably generates gusts with enough power to knock off a hat, blow away loose papers or cause you to say, “Shit, where did this wind come from?”
So this Friday the 31st of August, grab a bit of KFC and do your best to appease the gods, raise your cholesterol and think, “Fuck, you know what? Canberra is bloody good. Isn’t it?”
Isn’t it indeed.
Other popular gods included Staij For (the goddess of weather), Mousse-Hed (god of alcohol and love) and HottDoggs (god of late night tv game shows). In ancient MEBCAM ceremonies, offerings were made to the gods for their benevolence in the past, continued generosity for the future, and more comfortable seating at Hoyts cinemas today. Offerings included gold and precious stones, virgin sacrifices, and in at least one case, $100 000 worth of fireworks set to go off to the tune of “Purple Haze”. As the story goes, the gods became tired of these gifts (especially the fireworks), as the gold and stones had no value in Publik Serviss (where the gods lived, also where all Canberrans go after death), the virgin sacrifices were increasingly hard to find, and the music and lights show didn’t have ample parking. They wanted food – fried chicken, to be precise, but could not order due to the incompetent fourteen year old working on drive-thru. This angered them so much that they released the banished god of mayhem and irritation, Viziting Tewrist, from his prison (Queanbeyan) and he tore through the city like a chilled wind, complaining about the weather, the people, the jobs, the buildings, the trees, that dog, your brother, an emu, The Cheesecake Shop, an escalator… anything that could be criticised, was. His criticism wore down many, and they sided with him in his harsh interpretation of Canberra, but there was still an army of strong-willed Canberrans who fought back, with powerful protective chants like “fuck off back to Melbourne, you skivvy-wearing wanker,” “Sydney? Where’s that?” and “Yeah, Queensland’s ok. But have you been to Tasmania?” While not destroying Viziting Tewrist completely, it diminished his power enough to trap him inside the ‘Chasm of Wind’, which exists between the Woden Library and the Plaza entrance (where the big fountain was, before it dried up in the drought of 1792). Even on still days, where there is not a breath of wind, this corridor inexplicably generates gusts with enough power to knock off a hat, blow away loose papers or cause you to say, “Shit, where did this wind come from?”
So this Friday the 31st of August, grab a bit of KFC and do your best to appease the gods, raise your cholesterol and think, “Fuck, you know what? Canberra is bloody good. Isn’t it?”
Isn’t it indeed.
Monday, August 20, 2007
A Brief History of Canberra
I've had the Prime Possum theme stuck in my head for the past week. It's been the greatest seven days of my life.
Many people reading this blog (and yes, I can see the irony of saying "many people" and "this blog" in the same sentence) will probably be wanting more information on the wonderful land of Canberra, since they've probably already packed their eskimo jackets in anticipation to move here. Note to those people: Bring pants as well.
Canberra is one of the most ancient cities in the world. It was founded around 1 billion BC by Kevin H. Canberra, a traveller from Antarctica who was sick of the heat and humidity of his own country. Impressed with the layout of the land, Kevin began 'the new world' by building a mall at one end of the city limits, and houses at the other end. This meant that you could sit back and admire the landscape for the duration of your travelling time, which was around 6 weeks, as the early inhabitants of Canberra were fish, and they hadn't evolved legs yet. It didn't take long for that to happen though, as Canberra's first drought struck the year after Kevin laid the first stone. Funnily enough, that drought is still going, so it shouldn't take long before we grow wings. Awesome.
Kevin's legacy as Captain of Canberra was abrupty ended when he was attacked by a rogue shopping trolley that had escaped the blue-green algae from Lake Gininderra. Fingers were pointed at UC students, other fingers at patrons of Sails (now The Lighthouse). In the end, it was realised that they were the same people. Their punishment was to be subjected to poor university residential dwellings and the worst McDonalds drive-thru ever made. It is still a sentence that is being served today.
The next leader of the Berra was Reginald War-Memorial, whose dream was to create a building so beautiful, so unique and with such emotional power that it would be talked about for generations to come, and stand as a momument to the struggles and hardships of Australian history. And so he began work on Telstra tower.
The Telstra Tower was completed in 1682, and still stands to this day as one of Canberra's most recognisable landmarks. However, this was not always the way. The Tower created a rift between the citizens of Canberra who saw this as a massive waste of money, seeing as telecommunications were still a few hundred years away.
The next Lord of Canberra was Elmer G. Kingsley, an explorer from Cooma. He saw the Tower and kept walking north, and lo! Welcome to Canberra. Kingsley is known in the tomes of history as the laziest of all explorers, as that was about as far as he ever went. Next time you're driving around Canberra, wondering which way is north, just look for the Tower, and think of Kingsley. It may not happen for a while, but then again, it might. I'm not a fucking mind-reader here people, I'm just a die-hard historian. Kingsley later set up a franchise to sell fast food to the people of Canberra, the likes of which can still be found at RJs food wagon in Woden.
This is taking way too long and I'm losing interest (so I can't imagine how you're feeling right now), so we'll skip forward a millenium or so and look at Canberra today.
2007's Canberra is the busiest city in the world, with a population of around 70 billion people. Its major exports are Persian rugs, refresher towels and ceramic figurines of old people having sex. Great works of art are found on the outside walls of prominent buildings, park benches are adorned with poetry (Pete craves cock, according to the work of one unknown writer in Glebe Park) and the residential architecture issues constant reminders of the 1970s and 80s. If Mission Brown is your favourite colour, then you're in luck - 96% of houses are 83% brown, and there is a 100% chance that this is not going to change anytime soon.
Tourism is also a huge part of the Canberran economy, with around a squillion people per year entering Ngunnawal country to catch a glimpse of the big fountain in the middle of Lake Burley Griffin, or to have their photos taken outside the Woden cinemas. With pubs, clubs and trendy restaurants as far as the eye can see (the shorter-sighted you are, the better), young and old will mingle seamlessly under the watchful eye of the sometimes-working-sometimes-not streetlights.
Traveller's tip: If you find yourself lost in the labyrinth of the city centre, feel free to approach any local Canberran and ask for directions. The most it will cost you is $3 in change (for a sandwich or a bus ride home, apparently) or two cigarettes.
Pollution has been called a problem, with smoke often thick in the air on busier streets. This is quite easily countered by winding up your window while the windscreen washing lepers drool and flick ash on the side of your car. For those without cars, the public transport system is second to none, and many Canberrans have 'discovered the pluses of buses', including many escaped mental patients, unemployed drug addicts and fourteen year-old mothers of three, who will always give you the option of either taking one of her children away, or the opportunity to give her another one. Now THAT is Canberran hospitality!
The only downside of coming to Canberra is leaving. As we Canberrans say, "Come back soon!" (but not if you're from Sydney. You guys can go get fucked.)
Many people reading this blog (and yes, I can see the irony of saying "many people" and "this blog" in the same sentence) will probably be wanting more information on the wonderful land of Canberra, since they've probably already packed their eskimo jackets in anticipation to move here. Note to those people: Bring pants as well.
Canberra is one of the most ancient cities in the world. It was founded around 1 billion BC by Kevin H. Canberra, a traveller from Antarctica who was sick of the heat and humidity of his own country. Impressed with the layout of the land, Kevin began 'the new world' by building a mall at one end of the city limits, and houses at the other end. This meant that you could sit back and admire the landscape for the duration of your travelling time, which was around 6 weeks, as the early inhabitants of Canberra were fish, and they hadn't evolved legs yet. It didn't take long for that to happen though, as Canberra's first drought struck the year after Kevin laid the first stone. Funnily enough, that drought is still going, so it shouldn't take long before we grow wings. Awesome.
Kevin's legacy as Captain of Canberra was abrupty ended when he was attacked by a rogue shopping trolley that had escaped the blue-green algae from Lake Gininderra. Fingers were pointed at UC students, other fingers at patrons of Sails (now The Lighthouse). In the end, it was realised that they were the same people. Their punishment was to be subjected to poor university residential dwellings and the worst McDonalds drive-thru ever made. It is still a sentence that is being served today.
The next leader of the Berra was Reginald War-Memorial, whose dream was to create a building so beautiful, so unique and with such emotional power that it would be talked about for generations to come, and stand as a momument to the struggles and hardships of Australian history. And so he began work on Telstra tower.
The Telstra Tower was completed in 1682, and still stands to this day as one of Canberra's most recognisable landmarks. However, this was not always the way. The Tower created a rift between the citizens of Canberra who saw this as a massive waste of money, seeing as telecommunications were still a few hundred years away.
The next Lord of Canberra was Elmer G. Kingsley, an explorer from Cooma. He saw the Tower and kept walking north, and lo! Welcome to Canberra. Kingsley is known in the tomes of history as the laziest of all explorers, as that was about as far as he ever went. Next time you're driving around Canberra, wondering which way is north, just look for the Tower, and think of Kingsley. It may not happen for a while, but then again, it might. I'm not a fucking mind-reader here people, I'm just a die-hard historian. Kingsley later set up a franchise to sell fast food to the people of Canberra, the likes of which can still be found at RJs food wagon in Woden.
This is taking way too long and I'm losing interest (so I can't imagine how you're feeling right now), so we'll skip forward a millenium or so and look at Canberra today.
2007's Canberra is the busiest city in the world, with a population of around 70 billion people. Its major exports are Persian rugs, refresher towels and ceramic figurines of old people having sex. Great works of art are found on the outside walls of prominent buildings, park benches are adorned with poetry (Pete craves cock, according to the work of one unknown writer in Glebe Park) and the residential architecture issues constant reminders of the 1970s and 80s. If Mission Brown is your favourite colour, then you're in luck - 96% of houses are 83% brown, and there is a 100% chance that this is not going to change anytime soon.
Tourism is also a huge part of the Canberran economy, with around a squillion people per year entering Ngunnawal country to catch a glimpse of the big fountain in the middle of Lake Burley Griffin, or to have their photos taken outside the Woden cinemas. With pubs, clubs and trendy restaurants as far as the eye can see (the shorter-sighted you are, the better), young and old will mingle seamlessly under the watchful eye of the sometimes-working-sometimes-not streetlights.
Traveller's tip: If you find yourself lost in the labyrinth of the city centre, feel free to approach any local Canberran and ask for directions. The most it will cost you is $3 in change (for a sandwich or a bus ride home, apparently) or two cigarettes.
Pollution has been called a problem, with smoke often thick in the air on busier streets. This is quite easily countered by winding up your window while the windscreen washing lepers drool and flick ash on the side of your car. For those without cars, the public transport system is second to none, and many Canberrans have 'discovered the pluses of buses', including many escaped mental patients, unemployed drug addicts and fourteen year-old mothers of three, who will always give you the option of either taking one of her children away, or the opportunity to give her another one. Now THAT is Canberran hospitality!
The only downside of coming to Canberra is leaving. As we Canberrans say, "Come back soon!" (but not if you're from Sydney. You guys can go get fucked.)
Monday, August 13, 2007
Canberra's A-List of Evil Breakfastness
Canberra, being the thriving metropolis that it is, certainly does have its fair share of top-end celebrities. Move over Brad Pitt, whoever you are. Step aside, Bono, or whatever your name is. This is Canberra. And this is the Top 5 Canberra Celebs (in the order that I thought of them in).
5. The guy from the Magnet Mart ads.
“The challenge keeps us cheaper.” Beautiful.
The Magnet Mart guy lives and works somewhere in Canberra, betwixt Banks and Gungahlin. Being one of Canberra’s most well-known and well-loved celebrities certainly has its drawbacks, and he has become somewhat of a recluse, for fears of being mobbed by legions of screaming fans. When he does venture out of his solid gold mansion, Magnet Mart guy can be found in the Woden Plaza food court, trying as hard as he can to blend in with the rest of Canberra, with his suit and tie, freshly waxed bald head, and fluro sunnies resting on top. In a world first medical event, he had his sunglasses surgically attached to his head in early 2001.
Magnet Mart guy, apparently you’re a tool, but I still love you. In that way.
4. Anyone from WIN News.
Whenever there’s a groundbreaking story to cover in the ACT, these guys are onto it. Whether it’s a new statue being dedicated, or plans for a new statue, or a statue being vandalised, the WIN News team are there to make sure Canberra knows. Journalism at its highest, especially with the classic sign off, “If you have a story, email it to us at the address below.” Nice work.
I haven’t actually seen WIN News for about 400 years though. It’s not my fault The Simpsons is on at the same time.
3. The Canberra Cabs voice guy
This champion must be fighting off the ladies with a stick. And the blokes, too. Actually, anyone who’s ever met the guy will probably want a piece, just to make sure he’s dead. The Canberra Cabs voice guy is the most well-known and most-hated guy who’s ever graced Canhattan. Canvegas? Eh. For anyone who’s ever wanted to order a taxi at any time of the day or night, and has been greeted with this voice from Hades, knows that their phone has about 4 seconds to live before it’s crushed by involuntary hand spasms.
The quick syllables yet incredibly slow speech of the Canberra Cabs voice guy is just… uuugh I just spewed all over the keyboard just by thinking about it.. uuh.
Hllo. Wlcme. To. Can-berra. Cabs. If. Yew. Are. Wishing. To. Go. To. The. Airport. Say. Airport.
Seriously, the airport isn’t that great.
If. You. Are. Ready. Now…… Say. Ready.
“Ready.”
If. You. Would. Like. To. Make. A. Booking. For. The. Future. Say. Future.
“Ready.”
Pls. Say. Th. Name. Of. Yr. Pick. Up. Point.
“Your mum’s house.”
You. Sed. 14 Westham Crescent. Is. This. Corrct?
“No.”
Pls. Say. Yes. Or. No.
“No.”
Pls. Say. Th. Name. Of. Yr. Pick. Up. Point.
“Jolimont Centre.”
You. Sed. 14 Westham Crescent. Is. This. Corrct?
“Yes.”
Pls. Say. Yes. Or. No.
“Yes.”
I. Cannot. Under. Stand. You.
*click*
If I ever meet you, Canberra Cabs voice guy, I’m going to shake your hand and then rip it off and beat you with it. I don’t even think Westham Crescent exists.
2. Jackie Chan’s parents.
Now, these guys may or may not live in Canberra, I think it’s Queanbeyan actually, but in the true Aussie tradition of claiming people for our own when they’re clearly not from here at all, we’ll let our guard down and take in a couple of Quanger battlers. Rumour has it that they once owned a pub, or a club, or a restaurant or something (details are my life), but since I’m not sure where or what it actually is, I’ll just say it’s probably my most favourite place in the whole wide world. I’ll even go so far as to say it will either be the venue of my wedding, or my actual bride.
Jackie Chan is awesome, I don’t care what you say. Shanghai Noon will be remembered like Citizen Kane.
1. Prime Possum
Prime Possum (for those not in the know) is a 10 second filler for Channel 7, who appears at 7:30 each night to tell the little ones to go to bed. If you’re not from Canberra (you unlucky souls), you’ve probably got your own version. But ours is better.
Prime Possum lives high up in a tree.
Prime Possum, soft and cuddly.
Prime Possum loves every boy and girl.
So let’s help Prime Possum to make a better world.
He’s also usually accompanied by a young hottie who’s tired of being a stripper at Sinnies or a Canberra Raiders cheerleader (Canberra + Winter + short skirts and a mid-riff top = unhappy ‘dancers’), although for a while, Remy Broadway was his right-hand man. You may remember Remy from his work on ABC’s “The Late Show” as Piffy the Bellringer during possibly the greatest toilet break ever. He still has puffy sleeves.
So who is inside Prime Possum? Rumours are wild – the old Prime newsreaders; Tiny from Rods N’ Tackle; Robbo from Fyshwick.com.
I prefer to believe that Prime Possum really is a 6 foot possum, who does live high up in a tree, wears corporate t-shirts and pats children’s heads as they lay in bed. Awesome.
5. The guy from the Magnet Mart ads.
“The challenge keeps us cheaper.” Beautiful.
The Magnet Mart guy lives and works somewhere in Canberra, betwixt Banks and Gungahlin. Being one of Canberra’s most well-known and well-loved celebrities certainly has its drawbacks, and he has become somewhat of a recluse, for fears of being mobbed by legions of screaming fans. When he does venture out of his solid gold mansion, Magnet Mart guy can be found in the Woden Plaza food court, trying as hard as he can to blend in with the rest of Canberra, with his suit and tie, freshly waxed bald head, and fluro sunnies resting on top. In a world first medical event, he had his sunglasses surgically attached to his head in early 2001.
Magnet Mart guy, apparently you’re a tool, but I still love you. In that way.
4. Anyone from WIN News.
Whenever there’s a groundbreaking story to cover in the ACT, these guys are onto it. Whether it’s a new statue being dedicated, or plans for a new statue, or a statue being vandalised, the WIN News team are there to make sure Canberra knows. Journalism at its highest, especially with the classic sign off, “If you have a story, email it to us at the address below.” Nice work.
I haven’t actually seen WIN News for about 400 years though. It’s not my fault The Simpsons is on at the same time.
3. The Canberra Cabs voice guy
This champion must be fighting off the ladies with a stick. And the blokes, too. Actually, anyone who’s ever met the guy will probably want a piece, just to make sure he’s dead. The Canberra Cabs voice guy is the most well-known and most-hated guy who’s ever graced Canhattan. Canvegas? Eh. For anyone who’s ever wanted to order a taxi at any time of the day or night, and has been greeted with this voice from Hades, knows that their phone has about 4 seconds to live before it’s crushed by involuntary hand spasms.
The quick syllables yet incredibly slow speech of the Canberra Cabs voice guy is just… uuugh I just spewed all over the keyboard just by thinking about it.. uuh.
Hllo. Wlcme. To. Can-berra. Cabs. If. Yew. Are. Wishing. To. Go. To. The. Airport. Say. Airport.
Seriously, the airport isn’t that great.
If. You. Are. Ready. Now…… Say. Ready.
“Ready.”
If. You. Would. Like. To. Make. A. Booking. For. The. Future. Say. Future.
“Ready.”
Pls. Say. Th. Name. Of. Yr. Pick. Up. Point.
“Your mum’s house.”
You. Sed. 14 Westham Crescent. Is. This. Corrct?
“No.”
Pls. Say. Yes. Or. No.
“No.”
Pls. Say. Th. Name. Of. Yr. Pick. Up. Point.
“Jolimont Centre.”
You. Sed. 14 Westham Crescent. Is. This. Corrct?
“Yes.”
Pls. Say. Yes. Or. No.
“Yes.”
I. Cannot. Under. Stand. You.
*click*
If I ever meet you, Canberra Cabs voice guy, I’m going to shake your hand and then rip it off and beat you with it. I don’t even think Westham Crescent exists.
2. Jackie Chan’s parents.
Now, these guys may or may not live in Canberra, I think it’s Queanbeyan actually, but in the true Aussie tradition of claiming people for our own when they’re clearly not from here at all, we’ll let our guard down and take in a couple of Quanger battlers. Rumour has it that they once owned a pub, or a club, or a restaurant or something (details are my life), but since I’m not sure where or what it actually is, I’ll just say it’s probably my most favourite place in the whole wide world. I’ll even go so far as to say it will either be the venue of my wedding, or my actual bride.
Jackie Chan is awesome, I don’t care what you say. Shanghai Noon will be remembered like Citizen Kane.
1. Prime Possum
Prime Possum (for those not in the know) is a 10 second filler for Channel 7, who appears at 7:30 each night to tell the little ones to go to bed. If you’re not from Canberra (you unlucky souls), you’ve probably got your own version. But ours is better.
Prime Possum lives high up in a tree.
Prime Possum, soft and cuddly.
Prime Possum loves every boy and girl.
So let’s help Prime Possum to make a better world.
He’s also usually accompanied by a young hottie who’s tired of being a stripper at Sinnies or a Canberra Raiders cheerleader (Canberra + Winter + short skirts and a mid-riff top = unhappy ‘dancers’), although for a while, Remy Broadway was his right-hand man. You may remember Remy from his work on ABC’s “The Late Show” as Piffy the Bellringer during possibly the greatest toilet break ever. He still has puffy sleeves.
So who is inside Prime Possum? Rumours are wild – the old Prime newsreaders; Tiny from Rods N’ Tackle; Robbo from Fyshwick.com.
I prefer to believe that Prime Possum really is a 6 foot possum, who does live high up in a tree, wears corporate t-shirts and pats children’s heads as they lay in bed. Awesome.
Monday, August 06, 2007
Wonders of the Breakfast World
While the Big Skiing Kangaroo is still under construction (but to be honest, not much else has been done, other than have the sign put up) Canberra does appear to be lacking in the architecture that stands out, that defines a city. New York has the Empire State Building, Paris with its Eiffel Tower, Barcelona with Gaudi. Canberra, the greatest city in the world, has a selection to appeal to each and every one of its inhabitants.
The ABC Obelisk. Located in the heart of the city, driving along Northbourne Avenue is now even more of a treat. It’s always fun to be stuck at the same set of traffic lights for three or four changes, but if you’re lucky and find yourself within sight of the ABC Building, you have the added bonuses of (a) knowing exactly how long you’ve been sitting there; and (b) knowing just how cold it is outside. So when you get to wherever it is that you’re going (and if you’re me, you’ll be late), someone will say, “Phroar. How cold is it?” And even though you know they’re making more of a statement than asking a question, you can reply with “well, at 8:27 it was 2 degrees.” Conversation starter or stopper? You be the judge.
Civic Sheep. Just outside Subway, near the Carousel of Justice (and cans of Coke for $1, bargain) there's a statue of two sheep. One is sitting on a throne, legs splayed like Paris Hilton (but less crying). The other is looking at the Paris sheep, slightly bemused, like Lindsay Lohan. I’m pretty sure there’s a plaque describing what is actually going on with them, but it’s quite small and at the bottom of the Lindsay Lohan sheep, and I have a restraining order, so I can’t get close enough to read it. These sheep provide endless hours of amusement for drunken idiots wandering Civic at night, and unless you’ve had your photo taken with your crotch pressed up against Paris sheep, you can’t really say you’ve experienced Canberra. The Blarney Stone can kiss my Canberran arse, the sheep is where it’s at.
The Homeworld Lantern. Shining out from the depths of Tuggeranong like the Lighthouse of Alexandria, this beacon reminds everyone of where they are – especially handy if you’ve just come out of Wanniassa or Chisholm or another confusing, crazy suburb that lives down there, and your choices are to turn left or right – one will take you down to Tharwa or Mittagong or some bumfuck nowhere place, and the other will put you back onto the Parkway. Just stop, and look around. High above the treeline, glowing like the star that led the Wise Men to baby Jesus, is the Homeworld Lantern. Get your bearings and carry on, soldier. Is also handy if you’re in Tuggers and looking for KFC.
In ancient Canberran mythology, the Homeworld Lantern was created from the eye of Sharon, the fifteen year old Tuggeranong goddess of fertility and Centrelink. According to the classic poem “4 eva”, which was written on the underpass wall on Boddington Crescent in Kambah, Sharon and Tracee (the goddess of hydroponic plant growth) were locked in an epic battle over who pashed Wayne (the semi-deity of black jeans) first. Tracee ripped out Sharon’s eye and threw it into Lake Tuggeranong, which then spewed it back out and into the sky. Sharon, one-eyed and bloody, still managed to defeat Tracee by luring her onto Wheeler Crescent, where she became stuck in the Wheeler/Sternberg loop, and no-one ever heard from her again. For years afterwards, people entering Wanniassa said they entered it with a full pack of cigarettes, and when they left, they were all gone.
The Parkway Datto. The sight of a broken down car on the Tuggeranong Parkway is not a rare one. But there is one car that has become a part of Canberra’s folklore over several years – the Parkway Datto. The Parkway Datto (or PD, for those in the know) has the mystical ability to appear in a slightly different position along the stretch of road that joins Tuggeranong to Belconnen to each person who views it. So too, does the car lose another piece of itself. First the hubcaps are gone, then the wheels get stolen, then the back window is smashed, the front windscreen disappears, then the mirrors, bonnet, the steering wheel. All gone. But yet, the PD never completely disappears. A mystery made by man, but beyond our comprehension.
The ABC Obelisk. Located in the heart of the city, driving along Northbourne Avenue is now even more of a treat. It’s always fun to be stuck at the same set of traffic lights for three or four changes, but if you’re lucky and find yourself within sight of the ABC Building, you have the added bonuses of (a) knowing exactly how long you’ve been sitting there; and (b) knowing just how cold it is outside. So when you get to wherever it is that you’re going (and if you’re me, you’ll be late), someone will say, “Phroar. How cold is it?” And even though you know they’re making more of a statement than asking a question, you can reply with “well, at 8:27 it was 2 degrees.” Conversation starter or stopper? You be the judge.
Civic Sheep. Just outside Subway, near the Carousel of Justice (and cans of Coke for $1, bargain) there's a statue of two sheep. One is sitting on a throne, legs splayed like Paris Hilton (but less crying). The other is looking at the Paris sheep, slightly bemused, like Lindsay Lohan. I’m pretty sure there’s a plaque describing what is actually going on with them, but it’s quite small and at the bottom of the Lindsay Lohan sheep, and I have a restraining order, so I can’t get close enough to read it. These sheep provide endless hours of amusement for drunken idiots wandering Civic at night, and unless you’ve had your photo taken with your crotch pressed up against Paris sheep, you can’t really say you’ve experienced Canberra. The Blarney Stone can kiss my Canberran arse, the sheep is where it’s at.
The Homeworld Lantern. Shining out from the depths of Tuggeranong like the Lighthouse of Alexandria, this beacon reminds everyone of where they are – especially handy if you’ve just come out of Wanniassa or Chisholm or another confusing, crazy suburb that lives down there, and your choices are to turn left or right – one will take you down to Tharwa or Mittagong or some bumfuck nowhere place, and the other will put you back onto the Parkway. Just stop, and look around. High above the treeline, glowing like the star that led the Wise Men to baby Jesus, is the Homeworld Lantern. Get your bearings and carry on, soldier. Is also handy if you’re in Tuggers and looking for KFC.
In ancient Canberran mythology, the Homeworld Lantern was created from the eye of Sharon, the fifteen year old Tuggeranong goddess of fertility and Centrelink. According to the classic poem “4 eva”, which was written on the underpass wall on Boddington Crescent in Kambah, Sharon and Tracee (the goddess of hydroponic plant growth) were locked in an epic battle over who pashed Wayne (the semi-deity of black jeans) first. Tracee ripped out Sharon’s eye and threw it into Lake Tuggeranong, which then spewed it back out and into the sky. Sharon, one-eyed and bloody, still managed to defeat Tracee by luring her onto Wheeler Crescent, where she became stuck in the Wheeler/Sternberg loop, and no-one ever heard from her again. For years afterwards, people entering Wanniassa said they entered it with a full pack of cigarettes, and when they left, they were all gone.
The Parkway Datto. The sight of a broken down car on the Tuggeranong Parkway is not a rare one. But there is one car that has become a part of Canberra’s folklore over several years – the Parkway Datto. The Parkway Datto (or PD, for those in the know) has the mystical ability to appear in a slightly different position along the stretch of road that joins Tuggeranong to Belconnen to each person who views it. So too, does the car lose another piece of itself. First the hubcaps are gone, then the wheels get stolen, then the back window is smashed, the front windscreen disappears, then the mirrors, bonnet, the steering wheel. All gone. But yet, the PD never completely disappears. A mystery made by man, but beyond our comprehension.
Wednesday, August 01, 2007
MEBCAM returns!
It's August, so you know what that means...
C is for the Capital of Australia (and my heart)
A is for the month of August (Canberra Appreciation Month)
N is for the Nowhere else I’d rather be
B is for the Burley of Walter Burley Griffin fame, who designed our fair city.
E is for the Easy-going cab drivers
R is for the Rest of the world (and how they can get stuffed cause they don’t live here. Losers)
R is for the extra R in Canberra
A is for the way you say “Hey” or try to start speaking Scottish after a few pints.
Welcome to Mister Evil Breakfast's Canberra Appreciation Month for 2007!
C is for the Capital of Australia (and my heart)
A is for the month of August (Canberra Appreciation Month)
N is for the Nowhere else I’d rather be
B is for the Burley of Walter Burley Griffin fame, who designed our fair city.
E is for the Easy-going cab drivers
R is for the Rest of the world (and how they can get stuffed cause they don’t live here. Losers)
R is for the extra R in Canberra
A is for the way you say “Hey” or try to start speaking Scottish after a few pints.
Welcome to Mister Evil Breakfast's Canberra Appreciation Month for 2007!
Friday, July 20, 2007
Mister Round 19 Breakfast
Welcome sportsfans to Round 19. I am slowly climbing the footy tipping ladder. Another 14 427 places to climb, and I will be in top position. And then you can all worship me like the god that I am. If I decide to let you. On the other hand, I could smite you down.
Sharks vs Manly
Well, since I hate Manly, I can’t tip them. The Sharks by 14. (But Manly will probably win)
Titans vs Bulldogs
The Titans were horribly thrashed by the mighty mighty Raiders last week. I don’t see much changing for them this time around. They may even get beaten by more. Dogs by at least 30. Ouch.
Panthers vs Dragons
Wow… here’s two underachieving teams wasting everyone’s time by playing each other. The Dragons have Gasnier back, which will no doubt give Penrith a boost, because he is quite possibly the most overrated player in the history of time. Can’t pass, can’t kick, can’t tackle. Better put him in the thick of things then. Hopefully he’ll play for 3 minutes, injure his left tit and that’ll be the last we ever hear of him again. Should be sweet. Panthers by 10.
Knights vs Roosters
Does anyone care? Knights by a bee’s dick.
Storm vs Raiders
The magnificent green machine kicked arse last week, led by the little terrier Alan Tongue. That guy is worth 40 points, as he proved last week in defence. With Will Zillman floating around the back, look for the Raiders to put on at least 30 points. Unfortunately, the Storm will put on at least 60. Poor Raiders.
Warriors vs Tigers
How good are the Warriors playing at the moment? To be honest, I have no idea, but I saw them a few weeks ago, and they looked shit-hot. Compare this to the Tigers, who were looking pretty ordinary (I last saw them in 1994) and it’s a clear cut decision. Warriors by 8.
Cowboys vs Souths
Every time I tip the Cowboys, they lose. So… Cowboys, by 16. (Go you Bunnies!)
Broncos vs Eels
Well well well. Dazza Lockyer is out, and Tonie Fucking Carroll is stepping up into the number 6 jersey. That’s kind of scary, really. It could either be the best or worst decision of all time. Ever. This could be a fairly poignant moment in the history of time, as Carroll decides to beat seven shades of shit out of whoever Parra have stuck opposite him. Still… Parra by 14.
Sharks vs Manly
Well, since I hate Manly, I can’t tip them. The Sharks by 14. (But Manly will probably win)
Titans vs Bulldogs
The Titans were horribly thrashed by the mighty mighty Raiders last week. I don’t see much changing for them this time around. They may even get beaten by more. Dogs by at least 30. Ouch.
Panthers vs Dragons
Wow… here’s two underachieving teams wasting everyone’s time by playing each other. The Dragons have Gasnier back, which will no doubt give Penrith a boost, because he is quite possibly the most overrated player in the history of time. Can’t pass, can’t kick, can’t tackle. Better put him in the thick of things then. Hopefully he’ll play for 3 minutes, injure his left tit and that’ll be the last we ever hear of him again. Should be sweet. Panthers by 10.
Knights vs Roosters
Does anyone care? Knights by a bee’s dick.
Storm vs Raiders
The magnificent green machine kicked arse last week, led by the little terrier Alan Tongue. That guy is worth 40 points, as he proved last week in defence. With Will Zillman floating around the back, look for the Raiders to put on at least 30 points. Unfortunately, the Storm will put on at least 60. Poor Raiders.
Warriors vs Tigers
How good are the Warriors playing at the moment? To be honest, I have no idea, but I saw them a few weeks ago, and they looked shit-hot. Compare this to the Tigers, who were looking pretty ordinary (I last saw them in 1994) and it’s a clear cut decision. Warriors by 8.
Cowboys vs Souths
Every time I tip the Cowboys, they lose. So… Cowboys, by 16. (Go you Bunnies!)
Broncos vs Eels
Well well well. Dazza Lockyer is out, and Tonie Fucking Carroll is stepping up into the number 6 jersey. That’s kind of scary, really. It could either be the best or worst decision of all time. Ever. This could be a fairly poignant moment in the history of time, as Carroll decides to beat seven shades of shit out of whoever Parra have stuck opposite him. Still… Parra by 14.
Monday, July 16, 2007
Mister Advertising Breakfast
Is it just me, or is there an absolute goat load of shit ads on tv at the moment? Sometimes the remote control is juuuuuust out of arm's reach, so I'm forced to watch these 30 second drivel pieces.
I proudly present:
SHIT ADS
Fresh Wick Air Spray (or whatever the fuck it’s called). An elephant and a centipede hook up, a 5 foot butterfly lends some milk to the cow next door. What does this have to do with air freshener? Fuck all and nothing, that’s what. Stupid, crap ad. Go to hell. I'd rather see a book of carpet samples talking to a left-footed gumboot about the demise of the Adelaide Rams than watch this retarded campaign carry on. Actually, I'd rather see the carpet samples talking to a gumboot more than anything. Anything.
The “Children See, Children Do” ad – not that I exactly hate it, but I’m a little confused. There’s a chick smoking, a bloke chucking his tinnie on the ground, a bird having a spew, a dude yelling at his Dry Cleaner, a little ferret yelling at a baby, which are all bad things yes yes no one’s disputing that… but then there’s some dude chucking rocks at a fence. What’s the deal with rock fence man? Maybe I’m an idiot, but I don’t see the fence complaining.
Coco Pops ads. They’re shit.
Rivers ads. Shit. And annoying. And they make me dizzy. And the one with the chicks running just looks plain uncomfortable.
The Tooheys Extra Dry ad with the numbnut with the stupid hair doing whatever the fuck he’s doing. You know the one, it doesn’t make any sense at all. He grows some pod things, and then rides his lawnmower. Yeah. It’s a shame, cause I was just starting to like Extra Dry again. Thanks for ruining that. Actually, TEDs have had a shit run of ads, starting with that one where the guy’s tongue goes for a wander. You suck, Tooheys.
The Snap Break Microwaveable Vegies ad. They don’t explain anything about why that guy has suddenly turned to eating his greens. It’s just crap, and the chick in it used to be in Breakers.
The KFC Toasted Twister ad, only because it has Fraser from Neighbours in it. Walking. But not acting.
The Telstra ad with Bob Geldof in it. I hate Bob Geldof for no apparent reason, so this one is there by proxy. The Dustin Hoffman one isn’t much chop either. I guess those guys need some money. A dumptruck of it would do nicely. Thanks Telstra.
Coke ads are annoying me. Pity. Coke is good shit.
Any of the Brand Power ads with a former Australian ‘celebrity’. Like I give a toss if Georgie Parker washes her dog’s nuts with Johnson and Johnson’s Dog Nut Formula, or if that chick from that other crap show has a migraine. Here’s a cure – take one glass of Toughen the Fuck Up and punch yourself in the throat.
Whatever the ad for “Team Australia” is all about – that’s just ridiculous. I never realised we missed Steve Irwin that much that we had to have auditions for Australia ’s biggest knob-end.
Any Dodo Internet ad with that stupid Tara Reid person in it. Actually, any Dodo Internet ad at all. Tara Reid just makes them worse. She’s not hot, she’s not talented, and I doubt that Dodo would have had the proverbial dumptruck to coerce her into doing it, which means she probably did it for the cost of three West Coast Coolers and a round of mini golf with the winner of Big Brother.
The AAMI ad with the little annoying girl in the backseat telling her dad how much petrol needs to be. I have almost mastered my mind powers to reach into the tv and punch her. And when I do it, you'd better be watching. Anyway, if she can find petrol for $1.10, I'll eat my own feet. Unless that car she's in is a Delorean and they're driving around at 88 miles per hour, that price of petrol is just not going to happen. She shits me because of the false hope that she represents. The only good thing about this ad is the hottie that they show at the end of the ad. That chick must be about a trillion years old by now.
These ads all suck. Give me 20 minutes, a budget of $40 (so I can buy a case of beer) and watch me write a thousand better ads.
Seriously. I need $40.
I proudly present:
SHIT ADS
Fresh Wick Air Spray (or whatever the fuck it’s called). An elephant and a centipede hook up, a 5 foot butterfly lends some milk to the cow next door. What does this have to do with air freshener? Fuck all and nothing, that’s what. Stupid, crap ad. Go to hell. I'd rather see a book of carpet samples talking to a left-footed gumboot about the demise of the Adelaide Rams than watch this retarded campaign carry on. Actually, I'd rather see the carpet samples talking to a gumboot more than anything. Anything.
The “Children See, Children Do” ad – not that I exactly hate it, but I’m a little confused. There’s a chick smoking, a bloke chucking his tinnie on the ground, a bird having a spew, a dude yelling at his Dry Cleaner, a little ferret yelling at a baby, which are all bad things yes yes no one’s disputing that… but then there’s some dude chucking rocks at a fence. What’s the deal with rock fence man? Maybe I’m an idiot, but I don’t see the fence complaining.
Coco Pops ads. They’re shit.
Rivers ads. Shit. And annoying. And they make me dizzy. And the one with the chicks running just looks plain uncomfortable.
The Tooheys Extra Dry ad with the numbnut with the stupid hair doing whatever the fuck he’s doing. You know the one, it doesn’t make any sense at all. He grows some pod things, and then rides his lawnmower. Yeah. It’s a shame, cause I was just starting to like Extra Dry again. Thanks for ruining that. Actually, TEDs have had a shit run of ads, starting with that one where the guy’s tongue goes for a wander. You suck, Tooheys.
The Snap Break Microwaveable Vegies ad. They don’t explain anything about why that guy has suddenly turned to eating his greens. It’s just crap, and the chick in it used to be in Breakers.
The KFC Toasted Twister ad, only because it has Fraser from Neighbours in it. Walking. But not acting.
The Telstra ad with Bob Geldof in it. I hate Bob Geldof for no apparent reason, so this one is there by proxy. The Dustin Hoffman one isn’t much chop either. I guess those guys need some money. A dumptruck of it would do nicely. Thanks Telstra.
Coke ads are annoying me. Pity. Coke is good shit.
Any of the Brand Power ads with a former Australian ‘celebrity’. Like I give a toss if Georgie Parker washes her dog’s nuts with Johnson and Johnson’s Dog Nut Formula, or if that chick from that other crap show has a migraine. Here’s a cure – take one glass of Toughen the Fuck Up and punch yourself in the throat.
Whatever the ad for “Team Australia” is all about – that’s just ridiculous. I never realised we missed Steve Irwin that much that we had to have auditions for Australia ’s biggest knob-end.
Any Dodo Internet ad with that stupid Tara Reid person in it. Actually, any Dodo Internet ad at all. Tara Reid just makes them worse. She’s not hot, she’s not talented, and I doubt that Dodo would have had the proverbial dumptruck to coerce her into doing it, which means she probably did it for the cost of three West Coast Coolers and a round of mini golf with the winner of Big Brother.
The AAMI ad with the little annoying girl in the backseat telling her dad how much petrol needs to be. I have almost mastered my mind powers to reach into the tv and punch her. And when I do it, you'd better be watching. Anyway, if she can find petrol for $1.10, I'll eat my own feet. Unless that car she's in is a Delorean and they're driving around at 88 miles per hour, that price of petrol is just not going to happen. She shits me because of the false hope that she represents. The only good thing about this ad is the hottie that they show at the end of the ad. That chick must be about a trillion years old by now.
These ads all suck. Give me 20 minutes, a budget of $40 (so I can buy a case of beer) and watch me write a thousand better ads.
Seriously. I need $40.
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Mister Footy Tips NRL Breakfast
G'day tigers,
It's Friday (maybe) and that means everyone in the known world will get to about 4:30, crack a beer and think about the weekend, then someone will say, "Did you do your footy tips?" and then there'll be a massive rush to get to the computer to punch in your teams for the weekend. No wonder the internet is so slow around 5pm, the entire universe is logging on to do their tips.
Here are mine:
Warriors/Panthers - well... the Panthers are a better team, but rarely turn up to play these days. And I'm never sure if Rhys Wesser is actually ever running fast. Or if Wesser has an H in it. I don't think so. But the Warriors have a thousand players in their team without vowels in their names, so they win on the hardest to spell comp. So the Warriors to win this one by 12. Choice.
Manly/Bulldogs - basically a decision for who I hate more. Which is Manly. But since I'm not doing so well in the tips this year, I'll have to go against my guts and pick a winner. So Manly by a thousand, cause the Dogs are SHIT.
Raiders/Cowboys - The Cowboys are out and out the best team in the North Queensland area. Unfortunately, they don't like to show off too often, so have decided to lose their last few games by the small matter of a million points. And they're the Raiders, so I have to tip them. And it's in Canberra, and it's cold, so the Raiders should quite easily post a century. Will Zillman could be in for man of the match.
Roosters/Eels - I hate the Roosters. Probably cause Braith Anasta plays for them. But moreso because they're crap little girls who plait each other's hair in the change room. They don't tackle because they're afraid of breaking nails or ruining their hair. Except Craig Wing, who is worried his mascara might run. But he'll always wipe some dirt on his face by the end of the game. It drives the girlies wild cause he's "rough". But he's just signed on for the Bunnies, so he's null and void anyway, moreso than usual. Parra by 18.
Titans/Knights - any team with Matt Rogers in it should be hated. Like the way any team that had Anthony Mundine in it should be hated. So I'd say GO KNIGHTS, but they will most likely lose, so tip the Titans, but secretly go for Newcastle. Andrew Johns is rolling over in his wheelchair.
Souths/Sharkies - Hmmmm... if this were a contest in the wild, I'd probably tip the Sharks. Rabbits can get quite vicious if you piss them off and corner them, but I still don't think they'd beat a shark. Especially if they were in water. If it's a land battle... yeah, I'd probably still tip the Sharks. By 14.
Storm/Dragons - Mundine ruined the Dragons. Actually, Jamie Ainscough ruined the Dragons. Ricky Walford almost made up for that, but not quite. And Rod Wishart will live on as the only Steeler anyone can remember. The Storm are going pretty bloody well, so we'll have to assume they'll touch up the Dragons by about 24 points.
Broncos/Tigers - The Broncos have always been a great team. Even when they weren't around, I would back them. But now they're not so good, but I always think they still are. FUCK. Does that make sense? No? Too bad. They'll lose, but I'm tipping them, because I have a funny feeling Alan Langer will come back. And Michael Hancock. And I don't like the Tigers much without Benji. Broncs by 2. Yep, it's a close one.
Good luck, and I will not be held accountable for loss of body organs to pay for your gambling losses.
It's Friday (maybe) and that means everyone in the known world will get to about 4:30, crack a beer and think about the weekend, then someone will say, "Did you do your footy tips?" and then there'll be a massive rush to get to the computer to punch in your teams for the weekend. No wonder the internet is so slow around 5pm, the entire universe is logging on to do their tips.
Here are mine:
Warriors/Panthers - well... the Panthers are a better team, but rarely turn up to play these days. And I'm never sure if Rhys Wesser is actually ever running fast. Or if Wesser has an H in it. I don't think so. But the Warriors have a thousand players in their team without vowels in their names, so they win on the hardest to spell comp. So the Warriors to win this one by 12. Choice.
Manly/Bulldogs - basically a decision for who I hate more. Which is Manly. But since I'm not doing so well in the tips this year, I'll have to go against my guts and pick a winner. So Manly by a thousand, cause the Dogs are SHIT.
Raiders/Cowboys - The Cowboys are out and out the best team in the North Queensland area. Unfortunately, they don't like to show off too often, so have decided to lose their last few games by the small matter of a million points. And they're the Raiders, so I have to tip them. And it's in Canberra, and it's cold, so the Raiders should quite easily post a century. Will Zillman could be in for man of the match.
Roosters/Eels - I hate the Roosters. Probably cause Braith Anasta plays for them. But moreso because they're crap little girls who plait each other's hair in the change room. They don't tackle because they're afraid of breaking nails or ruining their hair. Except Craig Wing, who is worried his mascara might run. But he'll always wipe some dirt on his face by the end of the game. It drives the girlies wild cause he's "rough". But he's just signed on for the Bunnies, so he's null and void anyway, moreso than usual. Parra by 18.
Titans/Knights - any team with Matt Rogers in it should be hated. Like the way any team that had Anthony Mundine in it should be hated. So I'd say GO KNIGHTS, but they will most likely lose, so tip the Titans, but secretly go for Newcastle. Andrew Johns is rolling over in his wheelchair.
Souths/Sharkies - Hmmmm... if this were a contest in the wild, I'd probably tip the Sharks. Rabbits can get quite vicious if you piss them off and corner them, but I still don't think they'd beat a shark. Especially if they were in water. If it's a land battle... yeah, I'd probably still tip the Sharks. By 14.
Storm/Dragons - Mundine ruined the Dragons. Actually, Jamie Ainscough ruined the Dragons. Ricky Walford almost made up for that, but not quite. And Rod Wishart will live on as the only Steeler anyone can remember. The Storm are going pretty bloody well, so we'll have to assume they'll touch up the Dragons by about 24 points.
Broncos/Tigers - The Broncos have always been a great team. Even when they weren't around, I would back them. But now they're not so good, but I always think they still are. FUCK. Does that make sense? No? Too bad. They'll lose, but I'm tipping them, because I have a funny feeling Alan Langer will come back. And Michael Hancock. And I don't like the Tigers much without Benji. Broncs by 2. Yep, it's a close one.
Good luck, and I will not be held accountable for loss of body organs to pay for your gambling losses.
Friday, June 15, 2007
Mister State of Evil
QLD 10 def NSW 6.
And really, it should have been a lot more.
After possibly the most boring game of State of Origin football ever, I have decided to chronicle the spectacle for years to come via this great medium known as the interweb. Generations to come will be able to read about the mediocrity of Australia’s best players, and this game will live on long after it has been forgotten. Although most of it has been forgotten by me already, but the general theme of the game has been captured beautifully.
It all started badly when Guy Sebastian came on to sing the national anthem. Credit where credit is due, this dude can sing, but there’s no need for that R’n’B trill voice shit going on in Advance Australia Fair. If I wanted to hear Christina Aguilera’s latest single, I would have stabbed myself in the face. Just bang out the anthem with modesty and passion, thanks Guy. Leave the showing off to your Westfield appearances.
Run through the sides, blah blah blah Karmichael Hunt blah blah blah Berrigan blah Thurston blah Petero. Blah blah NSW some guy some other guy blah blah. Basically the same team that looked ordinary in Game 1. Of interest to me was Anthony Minichello had been replaced by Brett Stewart from Manly, and although I hate Manly like I hate all inbred spastics, this guy is pretty good. So maybe they will win, I think. And then they confirm that Braith Anasta is still there, so no, they probably won’t. Although Braith already has some tape holding his head together, so I dare say someone (most likely Danny Buderus) has king-hit him in warm up. Or maybe he was waxing his monobrow and got carried away.
So it’s kick-off time, and some guy kicks it to some other guy, who passes it to someone else and they run forward. It’s a beautiful, intricate game, like if chess pieces could do ballet, and then do kickboxing all the time instead of either playing chess or dancing ballet steps. I'm enjoying the fact that Willie Mason is getting his arse handed to him every time he thinks about getting involved in the game. Look for him to be dropped for Game 3, but selected for the Kangaroos. So not much is happening for a while, and then someone scores. I can’t remember exactly what happened, but I’m pretty sure I was unimpressed.
Speaking of being unimpressive, I don’t get why so many people rate Karmichael Hunt. The dude has never broken the line with his “massive” side-step, which is just him running slowly across field and jumping whenever someone gets close enough to tackle him.
Oh look, Willie Mason just knocked Jonathon Thurston out of the way. Well done, Willie, you’ve just run over the smallest man alive. Welcome to you being 6’3 and 110kgs. Idiot.
Justin Hodges doesn’t pass ever, which is pretty handy for NSW, cause he likes to get into dummy half and amble forward. Here’s another guy who has no pace or agility. Well done. Although after his ‘passing’ efforts a few years back, maybe it’s for the best.
Matt Cooper also seems to be having trouble letting go of the ball, or for that matter, doing anything useful when he does have it. Tits on a bull. And this NSW Bull already has enough tits, so goodbye Coop. Nice seeing you again. I’m sure you’ll do well at whatever side you’re playing for these days.
More running, a try to the Blues (nice one Stewie!) and we might have a game FINALLY. Nope, more rubbish in the 2nd half. I can’t recall anything, as there was a slow moving ant on the wall that captured my attention for most of the 40 mins. I think even Ray Warren lost interest, and started reading from The Great Gatsby on air. No one noticed.
It did get a bit exciting in the last 5 minutes when NSW could have stolen it from QLD, as they all finally started throwing the pill around (except for Cooper). But then they dropped the ball (Cooper again) and didn’t really do anything to deserve winning. Although the stats will show that QLD won, we can safely say that Rugby League was the real loser.
Wrap: Kimmorley was just a bit more useful than Mullen, but that’s not terribly difficult. I guess it’s hard to form a half-line partnership when your partner is Braith Anasta. Surely there’s someone else that we can find who can actually play this sport? Bring friggin Laurie Daley out of retirement. But not Fittler, I hate that prick.
Hot Tip for Game 3: Drop Mason, Anasta and Cooper. Bring in me, my left nut and Will Zillman. Game 3 would be saved, and the Origin spirit would live on.
And really, it should have been a lot more.
After possibly the most boring game of State of Origin football ever, I have decided to chronicle the spectacle for years to come via this great medium known as the interweb. Generations to come will be able to read about the mediocrity of Australia’s best players, and this game will live on long after it has been forgotten. Although most of it has been forgotten by me already, but the general theme of the game has been captured beautifully.
It all started badly when Guy Sebastian came on to sing the national anthem. Credit where credit is due, this dude can sing, but there’s no need for that R’n’B trill voice shit going on in Advance Australia Fair. If I wanted to hear Christina Aguilera’s latest single, I would have stabbed myself in the face. Just bang out the anthem with modesty and passion, thanks Guy. Leave the showing off to your Westfield appearances.
Run through the sides, blah blah blah Karmichael Hunt blah blah blah Berrigan blah Thurston blah Petero. Blah blah NSW some guy some other guy blah blah. Basically the same team that looked ordinary in Game 1. Of interest to me was Anthony Minichello had been replaced by Brett Stewart from Manly, and although I hate Manly like I hate all inbred spastics, this guy is pretty good. So maybe they will win, I think. And then they confirm that Braith Anasta is still there, so no, they probably won’t. Although Braith already has some tape holding his head together, so I dare say someone (most likely Danny Buderus) has king-hit him in warm up. Or maybe he was waxing his monobrow and got carried away.
So it’s kick-off time, and some guy kicks it to some other guy, who passes it to someone else and they run forward. It’s a beautiful, intricate game, like if chess pieces could do ballet, and then do kickboxing all the time instead of either playing chess or dancing ballet steps. I'm enjoying the fact that Willie Mason is getting his arse handed to him every time he thinks about getting involved in the game. Look for him to be dropped for Game 3, but selected for the Kangaroos. So not much is happening for a while, and then someone scores. I can’t remember exactly what happened, but I’m pretty sure I was unimpressed.
Speaking of being unimpressive, I don’t get why so many people rate Karmichael Hunt. The dude has never broken the line with his “massive” side-step, which is just him running slowly across field and jumping whenever someone gets close enough to tackle him.
Oh look, Willie Mason just knocked Jonathon Thurston out of the way. Well done, Willie, you’ve just run over the smallest man alive. Welcome to you being 6’3 and 110kgs. Idiot.
Justin Hodges doesn’t pass ever, which is pretty handy for NSW, cause he likes to get into dummy half and amble forward. Here’s another guy who has no pace or agility. Well done. Although after his ‘passing’ efforts a few years back, maybe it’s for the best.
Matt Cooper also seems to be having trouble letting go of the ball, or for that matter, doing anything useful when he does have it. Tits on a bull. And this NSW Bull already has enough tits, so goodbye Coop. Nice seeing you again. I’m sure you’ll do well at whatever side you’re playing for these days.
More running, a try to the Blues (nice one Stewie!) and we might have a game FINALLY. Nope, more rubbish in the 2nd half. I can’t recall anything, as there was a slow moving ant on the wall that captured my attention for most of the 40 mins. I think even Ray Warren lost interest, and started reading from The Great Gatsby on air. No one noticed.
It did get a bit exciting in the last 5 minutes when NSW could have stolen it from QLD, as they all finally started throwing the pill around (except for Cooper). But then they dropped the ball (Cooper again) and didn’t really do anything to deserve winning. Although the stats will show that QLD won, we can safely say that Rugby League was the real loser.
Wrap: Kimmorley was just a bit more useful than Mullen, but that’s not terribly difficult. I guess it’s hard to form a half-line partnership when your partner is Braith Anasta. Surely there’s someone else that we can find who can actually play this sport? Bring friggin Laurie Daley out of retirement. But not Fittler, I hate that prick.
Hot Tip for Game 3: Drop Mason, Anasta and Cooper. Bring in me, my left nut and Will Zillman. Game 3 would be saved, and the Origin spirit would live on.
Wednesday, June 06, 2007
Mr Evil Blogfast
Mister Evil Breakfast’s People I’d Like To Punch #3:
Websnob
You probably know someone like this – you might even be that person, and secretly proud of it.
You’re a wanker.
You are the person who has just downloaded every tv show, movie and documentary ever. I ask you about an episode of Party of Five, where tragedy strikes the Salinger family. You know the one, it was not-to-be-missed television. Yep, I’ve got it, you say, proud as Avril Lavigne at rhyming ‘better’ with ‘like, so whatever’.
Where did you get it? inquiring minds want to know.
The smile drops from your face like David Hasselhoff on a hamburger. Your reply is short and useless, like Fred Savage. The internet.
The internet? You wanknut.
What on earth is this wondrous interthing of which you speak? I have been in a coma for the last 27 years of my life and have no idea what you are talking about. It just seems too complicated to bother thinking about. The internet? I’ll just sit here with my stone tools and make grunting noises like Paris Hilton.
You wanktard. The internet is a pretty large place. I’d say it would probably rival Casey Donovan in terms of size, and may even be slightly more entertaining. Last time I checked, there’s more than just one site on there now. Why not save me a bit of time and tell me the site name? I’d rather not go through a thousand freakin crappy fansites about the episode where Bailey smiled so wide his dimples caused a ripple in the space/time continuum and Neve Campbell saw into the future (and it looked bleak; not even her making out with Denise Richards could save her. [But thanks for the memories]) just to find this one episode. Where did you download it?
There’s heaps of sites, comes your swift reply. Almost as swift as my pet shark eating your elbows, I think to myself. Ever tried to use a mouse without elbows? Your arms would get really tired, and you wouldn’t be able to download anything. Seriously, it would suck arse.
Yes, there are heaps of sites, wankface, that’s why I asked. Don’t tell me it’s too complicated for me to understand; I invented the interwebs, wankarse.
You’re the person who has a new pair of shoes, a shirt, a CD or DVD that you bought off the internet, and you’re just that little bit too proud of it. Look at me, you say. I purchased this from a computer. I have split the atom.
How dare anyone else be interested in the things that I am, you say to yourself. I am unique and special and if anyone else has a t-shirt with Pac Man on it, I will lose my edge over the rest of society.
Where did you purchase it?
The internet. Next time, just tell me you bought while you were trekking through the Philippines, and the shop that you bought it from has since been washed away by mudslides and tsunamis. To be honest, I was just making conversation anyway, and you look like a tool.
You're a wanker. Google that.
Websnob
You probably know someone like this – you might even be that person, and secretly proud of it.
You’re a wanker.
You are the person who has just downloaded every tv show, movie and documentary ever. I ask you about an episode of Party of Five, where tragedy strikes the Salinger family. You know the one, it was not-to-be-missed television. Yep, I’ve got it, you say, proud as Avril Lavigne at rhyming ‘better’ with ‘like, so whatever’.
Where did you get it? inquiring minds want to know.
The smile drops from your face like David Hasselhoff on a hamburger. Your reply is short and useless, like Fred Savage. The internet.
The internet? You wanknut.
What on earth is this wondrous interthing of which you speak? I have been in a coma for the last 27 years of my life and have no idea what you are talking about. It just seems too complicated to bother thinking about. The internet? I’ll just sit here with my stone tools and make grunting noises like Paris Hilton.
You wanktard. The internet is a pretty large place. I’d say it would probably rival Casey Donovan in terms of size, and may even be slightly more entertaining. Last time I checked, there’s more than just one site on there now. Why not save me a bit of time and tell me the site name? I’d rather not go through a thousand freakin crappy fansites about the episode where Bailey smiled so wide his dimples caused a ripple in the space/time continuum and Neve Campbell saw into the future (and it looked bleak; not even her making out with Denise Richards could save her. [But thanks for the memories]) just to find this one episode. Where did you download it?
There’s heaps of sites, comes your swift reply. Almost as swift as my pet shark eating your elbows, I think to myself. Ever tried to use a mouse without elbows? Your arms would get really tired, and you wouldn’t be able to download anything. Seriously, it would suck arse.
Yes, there are heaps of sites, wankface, that’s why I asked. Don’t tell me it’s too complicated for me to understand; I invented the interwebs, wankarse.
You’re the person who has a new pair of shoes, a shirt, a CD or DVD that you bought off the internet, and you’re just that little bit too proud of it. Look at me, you say. I purchased this from a computer. I have split the atom.
How dare anyone else be interested in the things that I am, you say to yourself. I am unique and special and if anyone else has a t-shirt with Pac Man on it, I will lose my edge over the rest of society.
Where did you purchase it?
The internet. Next time, just tell me you bought while you were trekking through the Philippines, and the shop that you bought it from has since been washed away by mudslides and tsunamis. To be honest, I was just making conversation anyway, and you look like a tool.
You're a wanker. Google that.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
drinking makes you sexy
Drinking Game #2 - Big Brother
For those of us who are just too lazy to change the channel at 7pm after Neighbours, make sure there's a bottle of your favourite liquor under the couch, and make BB even more fun than watching random strangers talk about their toenail clippings.
- 1 shot every time someone says “at the end of the day”.
- 2 shots whenever someone says “I love you” to one of the perfect strangers they’ve been whored up with. Have two more shots if that perfect stranger is either Cousin Larry or Balky Bartogamoose.
- 1 shot whenever there’s a shot of a famewhore in a bikini sitting next to a bloke in three jackets and beanie, just so she can get her tits on tv one more time. And hey, cold weather brings out the nips, which brings in the viewers, which sells famewhore magazines.
- when a previous housemate (from any season):
- is actually heard of again (1 shot).
- heard of again in a positive light (2 shots).
- seen with their boobs hanging out in ‘Zoo’, ‘Ralph’ or ‘FHM’ (1 shot).
- 1 shot each time you see a guy wearing a beanie but not a shirt.
- 1 shot if someone on the show calls being in the house “an experience” or “a journey” rather than a “three month holiday”.
- 2 shots whenever one of the female housemates starts talking about how fat or unattractive she is, just so the fatter and more unattractive housemates can tell her that she’s beautiful.
- 1 shot whenever someone fixes their hair in one of the million mirrors in the house. Hey, better make sure you look good, just in case one of the cameras captures you with a bad hair moment.
- 2 shots if someone claims not to care about the prize money – win it and we’ll see how much you don’t care. Give it to me if it’s really all about “the experience”.
- 1 shot if the phrase “under the radar” comes out.
- 2 shots when you’re not sure if the show is hosted by a haggis or if Gretel Kileen really is still alive.
- 2 shots when someone describes themselves as “wild, crazy and outrageous” but are really just dumb sluts.
- 1 shot if someone says “stirring the pot”.
- 2 shots whenever someone asks the token gay bloke about being homosexual, as if they were from a different planet. “So, can you still eat chicken?”
- 1 shot whenever you think Mike Goldman has just had a fresh line of Wizz Fizz.
- 2 shots when the ‘intellectual’ housemate invents a word to try and talk down to a ‘retarded’ housemate (e.g. “I love the diversality of this place. It’s got such a culturalisation.”)
- 2 shots whenever one of the housemates reveals a very ‘special’, ‘spiritual’ and ‘emotional’ secret or moment with the other window lickers, breaks down in tears and receives lots of hugs and “we love ya, mate”’s. 3 shots if this is during a week when that particular spastic is up for eviction.
- 5 shots if you vote for the numpties in the house.
With three BB shows on daily, attempting this game may seriously damage (or end) your life.
Bottoms up!
For those of us who are just too lazy to change the channel at 7pm after Neighbours, make sure there's a bottle of your favourite liquor under the couch, and make BB even more fun than watching random strangers talk about their toenail clippings.
- 1 shot every time someone says “at the end of the day”.
- 2 shots whenever someone says “I love you” to one of the perfect strangers they’ve been whored up with. Have two more shots if that perfect stranger is either Cousin Larry or Balky Bartogamoose.
- 1 shot whenever there’s a shot of a famewhore in a bikini sitting next to a bloke in three jackets and beanie, just so she can get her tits on tv one more time. And hey, cold weather brings out the nips, which brings in the viewers, which sells famewhore magazines.
- when a previous housemate (from any season):
- is actually heard of again (1 shot).
- heard of again in a positive light (2 shots).
- seen with their boobs hanging out in ‘Zoo’, ‘Ralph’ or ‘FHM’ (1 shot).
- 1 shot each time you see a guy wearing a beanie but not a shirt.
- 1 shot if someone on the show calls being in the house “an experience” or “a journey” rather than a “three month holiday”.
- 2 shots whenever one of the female housemates starts talking about how fat or unattractive she is, just so the fatter and more unattractive housemates can tell her that she’s beautiful.
- 1 shot whenever someone fixes their hair in one of the million mirrors in the house. Hey, better make sure you look good, just in case one of the cameras captures you with a bad hair moment.
- 2 shots if someone claims not to care about the prize money – win it and we’ll see how much you don’t care. Give it to me if it’s really all about “the experience”.
- 1 shot if the phrase “under the radar” comes out.
- 2 shots when you’re not sure if the show is hosted by a haggis or if Gretel Kileen really is still alive.
- 2 shots when someone describes themselves as “wild, crazy and outrageous” but are really just dumb sluts.
- 1 shot if someone says “stirring the pot”.
- 2 shots whenever someone asks the token gay bloke about being homosexual, as if they were from a different planet. “So, can you still eat chicken?”
- 1 shot whenever you think Mike Goldman has just had a fresh line of Wizz Fizz.
- 2 shots when the ‘intellectual’ housemate invents a word to try and talk down to a ‘retarded’ housemate (e.g. “I love the diversality of this place. It’s got such a culturalisation.”)
- 2 shots whenever one of the housemates reveals a very ‘special’, ‘spiritual’ and ‘emotional’ secret or moment with the other window lickers, breaks down in tears and receives lots of hugs and “we love ya, mate”’s. 3 shots if this is during a week when that particular spastic is up for eviction.
- 5 shots if you vote for the numpties in the house.
With three BB shows on daily, attempting this game may seriously damage (or end) your life.
Bottoms up!
Friday, May 18, 2007
someone dropped a bomb somewhere
Righto. So some fat loser has decided to sue to NSW Government because he was bullied… and he won, so now he never has to work a minute in his sad, useless life. I hope now he understands why he was bullied.
Boo fucking hoo, you got beat up and called names when you were young. Welcome to school, pally boy. I’d say most of the people who went to school would have been bullied at one stage. It builds character. You enter school as a bucket of porridge, and leave sculpted out of Lego. If I hadn’t been bullied at school, I probably wouldn’t be able to juggle beer kegs with my pecs like I can now. Actually, I probably would, but I’d only be able to keep three in the air. Maybe four.
So thanks, Mr Useless Bastard for setting a stupid precedent which will no doubt “inspire” a whole new generation of pussies to claim mental anguish and be forced to sit at home with a bag of Cheese and Bacon Balls watching Oprah and then go on The Biggest Loser to “inspire” some other useless bastards.
You know what would be more inspiring? If you dried those pretty little pig eyes, cowboyed up and didn't receive the Mister Evil Breakfast Award for being this week's biggest oxygen-pirate. Take the knocks and come back (like Rocky) bigger and better than last time (until Rocky 4). Sure, it would mean you'd have to get a job and actually participate in life, but at least people wouldn't hate you. I polled a thousand people (ok, one, and it was me) and 100% of my survey think you suck.
You'd better spend that money on training to become a time-travelling ninja so you can go back and tear your bullies a new hole, or I'm gonna fire up my size 11s and kick you in the teeth so bad that even the bloke from The Pogues will think, "Fuck man, that guy's ugly."
Boo fucking hoo, you got beat up and called names when you were young. Welcome to school, pally boy. I’d say most of the people who went to school would have been bullied at one stage. It builds character. You enter school as a bucket of porridge, and leave sculpted out of Lego. If I hadn’t been bullied at school, I probably wouldn’t be able to juggle beer kegs with my pecs like I can now. Actually, I probably would, but I’d only be able to keep three in the air. Maybe four.
So thanks, Mr Useless Bastard for setting a stupid precedent which will no doubt “inspire” a whole new generation of pussies to claim mental anguish and be forced to sit at home with a bag of Cheese and Bacon Balls watching Oprah and then go on The Biggest Loser to “inspire” some other useless bastards.
You know what would be more inspiring? If you dried those pretty little pig eyes, cowboyed up and didn't receive the Mister Evil Breakfast Award for being this week's biggest oxygen-pirate. Take the knocks and come back (like Rocky) bigger and better than last time (until Rocky 4). Sure, it would mean you'd have to get a job and actually participate in life, but at least people wouldn't hate you. I polled a thousand people (ok, one, and it was me) and 100% of my survey think you suck.
You'd better spend that money on training to become a time-travelling ninja so you can go back and tear your bullies a new hole, or I'm gonna fire up my size 11s and kick you in the teeth so bad that even the bloke from The Pogues will think, "Fuck man, that guy's ugly."
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
quiche
If you drive your car around with a smashed windscreen and ripped seats, you can fool parking inspectors into feeling sorry for you, and you can park pretty much anywhere.
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
Mister Big Brother
Welcome Winter, welcome Big Brother. That's right, another year of "surprise twists", "sexy singles" and "unpredictable mayhem" will be the only thing on tv for the next 3 months. I'm not saying this is a terrible show, I'll let the rest of Australia say that, and I have in fact been known to kick back on the couch with my uggies, a doona, a cup of hot Milo and at least three Milk Arrowroots and watch this reality phenomenon.
But my problem is this: The outside world is now missing 16 window lickers. Who will provide now that they're locked up together to fondle each other and dribble about, like, how they, like, are discovering themselves, you know?
But my problem is this: The outside world is now missing 16 window lickers. Who will provide now that they're locked up together to fondle each other and dribble about, like, how they, like, are discovering themselves, you know?
Thursday, April 19, 2007
rip rip woodchip
So… the environment is decaying, right? All because we’re too busy having three hour showers, driving our cars around and leaving the fridge door open all day. Well sue me if I prefer to drink my butter in the evening. No matter what you do, you’re never going to be able to avoid all those hippies out there who expect you to shower in your toilet, knock down your house to plant a tree, only eat the fruit which the magical gay unicorn has deemed appropriate and who kick you in the arse for having another exhaust pipe tacked onto the back of your SUV. And now Winter is on its cold, miserable way, and we’re bound to get told by Sandra Sully sooner or later that having heating is just not good for the world. Well excuse me, Sandra, but we can’t all use our millions of dollars to keep us warm, can we? Heaters apparently create carbon shit and produce greenhouse emissions and contribute to global warming. Apparently this isn’t such a good thing, even though it is, in the end, the desired effect.
And so, in accordance with the Kyoto Protocol II, I present:
Mister Evil Breakfast’s Handy Enviro Hints.
- setting fire to someone in your living room provides a lot of warmth, heat and entertainment, so you can switch off the heater, lights and television for a night of good old fashioned fun.
- deodorants are a major contributor to the hole in the ozone layer due to their high levels of CFCs. Instead of wearing deodorant, try these alternatives: 1. wear Pine-Fresh air fresheners instead of necklaces and earrings; 2. be like a real hippie and avoid physical labour or activity, just sit around and complain about everything; 3. don’t ever go out in public again.
- cars pollute an awful lot. How about leaving the car at home and walking to work? Hippies don’t mind walking to work – it does help that they’re unemployed and can thus spend their day wandering between the bong and the hammock.
- Showers and baths use a lot of water, most of which is wasted. Here’s how you should now go about showering:
1. Stand in a bucket whilst under the flow of water. This will collect all water from the shower.
2. When lathering soap or shampoo, turn off all running water. Pneumonia is a small price to pay for a healthy planet.
3. Rinse soap (as long as it’s chemically approved by the Tree Huggers Union of Cosmos 9)
4. Take bucket/s out of shower. Use this water in which to wash your clothes.
5. DO NOT USE A DRYER TO DRY YOUR CLOTHES. A clothesline or airing rack will do just fine. If your clothes do not dry in time, wear them anyway. This will prevent you from sweating, and should give you another two or three wears out of each shirt.
6. Take the water from the washing and use it to clean up any plates, crockery or cutlery that you have used.
7. The water should by now be pretty cloudy, with chunks of food floating on top. Bring to a boil, stirring occasionally. Serves 4.
- A lot of people leave lights on unnecessarily, which adds a lot of carbon to the atmosphere. If you were to collect all the carbon from one house’s light switch emissions and put it into a bag, you’d need a big bag, apparently. To cut back on your light use, try poking out your eyes.
- Microwaves are very harmful to everyone (except cockroaches, apparently). They melt and mutate things (and are NO good at reheating a cold McDonalds burger). Here’s a handy tip: Hunt your own food and cook it yourself. Hitting a cow with a couple of grenades will give you the juiciest, most tender steak you’ve ever had.
- Take along a bucket to your next sporting event. Collecting the spit from the Australian Cricket team or football team could help many drought stricken areas in rural Australia. The amount of spit from last week’s Brisbane vs Titans NRL match, for example, was enough to open a new waterslide theme park, and actually caused some flood damage in parts of New South Wales.
Come on, Australia. We can make this great brown land a little bit more green.
If we all pull together, it would be kind of gay.
And so, in accordance with the Kyoto Protocol II, I present:
Mister Evil Breakfast’s Handy Enviro Hints.
- setting fire to someone in your living room provides a lot of warmth, heat and entertainment, so you can switch off the heater, lights and television for a night of good old fashioned fun.
- deodorants are a major contributor to the hole in the ozone layer due to their high levels of CFCs. Instead of wearing deodorant, try these alternatives: 1. wear Pine-Fresh air fresheners instead of necklaces and earrings; 2. be like a real hippie and avoid physical labour or activity, just sit around and complain about everything; 3. don’t ever go out in public again.
- cars pollute an awful lot. How about leaving the car at home and walking to work? Hippies don’t mind walking to work – it does help that they’re unemployed and can thus spend their day wandering between the bong and the hammock.
- Showers and baths use a lot of water, most of which is wasted. Here’s how you should now go about showering:
1. Stand in a bucket whilst under the flow of water. This will collect all water from the shower.
2. When lathering soap or shampoo, turn off all running water. Pneumonia is a small price to pay for a healthy planet.
3. Rinse soap (as long as it’s chemically approved by the Tree Huggers Union of Cosmos 9)
4. Take bucket/s out of shower. Use this water in which to wash your clothes.
5. DO NOT USE A DRYER TO DRY YOUR CLOTHES. A clothesline or airing rack will do just fine. If your clothes do not dry in time, wear them anyway. This will prevent you from sweating, and should give you another two or three wears out of each shirt.
6. Take the water from the washing and use it to clean up any plates, crockery or cutlery that you have used.
7. The water should by now be pretty cloudy, with chunks of food floating on top. Bring to a boil, stirring occasionally. Serves 4.
- A lot of people leave lights on unnecessarily, which adds a lot of carbon to the atmosphere. If you were to collect all the carbon from one house’s light switch emissions and put it into a bag, you’d need a big bag, apparently. To cut back on your light use, try poking out your eyes.
- Microwaves are very harmful to everyone (except cockroaches, apparently). They melt and mutate things (and are NO good at reheating a cold McDonalds burger). Here’s a handy tip: Hunt your own food and cook it yourself. Hitting a cow with a couple of grenades will give you the juiciest, most tender steak you’ve ever had.
- Take along a bucket to your next sporting event. Collecting the spit from the Australian Cricket team or football team could help many drought stricken areas in rural Australia. The amount of spit from last week’s Brisbane vs Titans NRL match, for example, was enough to open a new waterslide theme park, and actually caused some flood damage in parts of New South Wales.
Come on, Australia. We can make this great brown land a little bit more green.
If we all pull together, it would be kind of gay.
Monday, April 16, 2007
Mister Punching Breakfast
People I'd Love To Punch #2: Boyd from Neighbours
I’d love to punch Boyd from Neighbours. Really hard. Repeatedly.
Boyd is a young up-and-comer in the world that is Ramsay Street. He has been married and separated; is blasting his way through a degree in medicine so fast that I’m surprised he hasn’t opened his own surgery since Dr Karl closed office and single-handedly saved baby Kerry's life... and possibly Stingray's as well. Fuck, he could have brought Madge back to life if he really wanted (he just doesn't want to). At the very least, he’s cured cancer and several strains of bird flu in his spare time. He’s been ‘addicted’ to ‘drugs’; lost, found then lost his father; boinked a chick that he found in Tasmania senseless for two weeks, then left his wife for her, then left her for his wife; and still finds time to be a dishpig at the local bar. All this, and he’s only about 19 years old, as well as being possibly the ugliest man alive, with what can only be described as “big fat girly arms” that he continues to flaunt with gay abandon (and I mean gay) under countless singlets and pink tank-tops. His own mother is the only one who tells him he’s handsome (haven’t we all been there?) and I guess if you squint really hard at your tv, it just might be true. Especially if the tv is turned off.
But physical abnormalities aside (except for his little piggy eyes, those things freak me out. I mean, his head is WAY too big for eyes that small) it’s really his acting (I use that term loosely) that annoys me the most.
Here is a typical scene from Neighbours:
SUSAN
Hi Boyd, how are you?
BOYD
Just fine, Susan, what’s been going on? How was your holiday?
SUSAN
Just wonderful, thanks. It’s amazing what a bit of sun and relaxation can do.
BOYD
Yeah, I’d love a holiday soon, but the money’s too tight.
SUSAN
Well, if you’re after some extra cash, I hear Ned is buying used pink singlets. Maybe you could sell him some of yours?
BOYD
Thanks, that sounds great.
After Boyd (which isn’t even a real name, what the fuck is wrong with Neighbours? Boyd, Jenae, Pepper, Ringo… don’t even get me started on Fraser… it’s a fucking spell-checker’s worst nightmare, seriously) gets his hands on the script, he makes some “artistic” changes (noted in bold):
SUSAN
Hi Boyd, how are you?
BOYD (angry look #2)
Just fine Susan, how are you? (sneer) How was your holiday? (sneer)
SUSAN
Just wonderful, thanks. It’s amazing what a bit of sun and relaxation can do.
BOYD (angry look #2a)
(sneer) Yeah, I’d love a holiday soon, but money’s a bit tight. (shifty look #7)
SUSAN
Well, if you’re after some extra cash, I hear Ned is buying used pink singlets. Maybe you could sell him some of yours?
BOYD (loud)
Thanks, (sneer) that sounds great. (angry look #8 or shifty look #42)
But it’s good to see that Boyd’s finally going to sneer his way into a scene that he might be able to do well, as he bails up his ex-wife in his house and sneers at her this week. But since it’s Boyd, he’ll fuck it up and offer her tea instead.
PUNCH!
I’d love to punch Boyd from Neighbours. Really hard. Repeatedly.
Boyd is a young up-and-comer in the world that is Ramsay Street. He has been married and separated; is blasting his way through a degree in medicine so fast that I’m surprised he hasn’t opened his own surgery since Dr Karl closed office and single-handedly saved baby Kerry's life... and possibly Stingray's as well. Fuck, he could have brought Madge back to life if he really wanted (he just doesn't want to). At the very least, he’s cured cancer and several strains of bird flu in his spare time. He’s been ‘addicted’ to ‘drugs’; lost, found then lost his father; boinked a chick that he found in Tasmania senseless for two weeks, then left his wife for her, then left her for his wife; and still finds time to be a dishpig at the local bar. All this, and he’s only about 19 years old, as well as being possibly the ugliest man alive, with what can only be described as “big fat girly arms” that he continues to flaunt with gay abandon (and I mean gay) under countless singlets and pink tank-tops. His own mother is the only one who tells him he’s handsome (haven’t we all been there?) and I guess if you squint really hard at your tv, it just might be true. Especially if the tv is turned off.
But physical abnormalities aside (except for his little piggy eyes, those things freak me out. I mean, his head is WAY too big for eyes that small) it’s really his acting (I use that term loosely) that annoys me the most.
Here is a typical scene from Neighbours:
SUSAN
Hi Boyd, how are you?
BOYD
Just fine, Susan, what’s been going on? How was your holiday?
SUSAN
Just wonderful, thanks. It’s amazing what a bit of sun and relaxation can do.
BOYD
Yeah, I’d love a holiday soon, but the money’s too tight.
SUSAN
Well, if you’re after some extra cash, I hear Ned is buying used pink singlets. Maybe you could sell him some of yours?
BOYD
Thanks, that sounds great.
After Boyd (which isn’t even a real name, what the fuck is wrong with Neighbours? Boyd, Jenae, Pepper, Ringo… don’t even get me started on Fraser… it’s a fucking spell-checker’s worst nightmare, seriously) gets his hands on the script, he makes some “artistic” changes (noted in bold):
SUSAN
Hi Boyd, how are you?
BOYD (angry look #2)
Just fine Susan, how are you? (sneer) How was your holiday? (sneer)
SUSAN
Just wonderful, thanks. It’s amazing what a bit of sun and relaxation can do.
BOYD (angry look #2a)
(sneer) Yeah, I’d love a holiday soon, but money’s a bit tight. (shifty look #7)
SUSAN
Well, if you’re after some extra cash, I hear Ned is buying used pink singlets. Maybe you could sell him some of yours?
BOYD (loud)
Thanks, (sneer) that sounds great. (angry look #8 or shifty look #42)
But it’s good to see that Boyd’s finally going to sneer his way into a scene that he might be able to do well, as he bails up his ex-wife in his house and sneers at her this week. But since it’s Boyd, he’ll fuck it up and offer her tea instead.
PUNCH!
Friday, April 13, 2007
such a waste
According to this (http://www.news.com.au/entertainment/story/0,23663,21543395-7484,00.html), Justin Timberlake and Madonna are teaming up to work on her new album. Madonna’s, I mean. Welcome to the wonderful world of multiplying zeroes, people. This is the guy who apparently brought sexy “back” from wherever the hell it was (probably in the shed. Everything’s in the shed) and the chick who made ugly, dumb sluts feel good about being ugly, dumb sluts for three decades now. Well done, Mads. For someone not blessed with a lot of talent or good looks, you’ve done alright for yourself. I especially liked the way you re-recorded “American Pie” to make sure everyone knew you were a media whore, and then changed your accent to Eurotrash. Bring back the pointy boobs.
And JT? Well… fuck. If that guy isn’t following in the footsteps of Michael Jackson, I’ll eat one of his gay hats. They both came from a bubblegum pop band, cracked the big time, decided they were bigger than Jesus, left the other losers behind and embarked on a strangely successful solo career. Both are claiming titles to be the “King of Pop”, both look and act like giant homos, and both pretend they’re black.
Mark my words, children of the world – Timberlake will be playing Mickey Mouse Club with you very soon.
And JT? Well… fuck. If that guy isn’t following in the footsteps of Michael Jackson, I’ll eat one of his gay hats. They both came from a bubblegum pop band, cracked the big time, decided they were bigger than Jesus, left the other losers behind and embarked on a strangely successful solo career. Both are claiming titles to be the “King of Pop”, both look and act like giant homos, and both pretend they’re black.
Mark my words, children of the world – Timberlake will be playing Mickey Mouse Club with you very soon.
Thursday, April 05, 2007
so much anger
Mister Evil Breakfast’s list of people I want to punch in the head (Part 1: Groups)
In no particular order:
People who wear their sunglasses on the back of their head.
I’m not sure I really need to explain this; these people are fucking useless. My punch would be directed at the back of their sunglassed head, and then when they turn around, BANG, right in the hooter, as a reminder of where their sunglasses really should be.
People who use mobile phones in a nightclub.
BANG. Right in the mouth. And then in the ear. How’s that conversation going now, arsehead?
People who keep track of how many drinks they’ve had on a night out.
Seriously, no one cares, and if you can remember it a week later, you obviously weren’t drinking to your full potential. I’d keep punching you until I sobered up.
Conversation makers at the urinals.
Seriously. Just piss and shut up. I’m not interested. Talk to me while we're in the toilet and I’ll punch you in the back of the head so you fall into the trough and you can still taste urinal cakes four weeks later.
Bogan parents with shitty little ugly, smelly bogan kids who have snot dribbling down their chin who like to punch you in the nuts as you walk past them in the street.
I think I’ve explained that one pretty well already. They get a punch in their own little bogan nuts, in the hope that this may stop them procreating. It’s not that I don’t mind punching small children in the head, but I’d just rather not get snot on my hands.
If you find yourself thinking, "Hey that sounds like me!" as you read this list, you'd better be on the lookout for a pirate with a big right hook, cause that's me about to punch you into next week so I can track you down and punch you again.
In no particular order:
People who wear their sunglasses on the back of their head.
I’m not sure I really need to explain this; these people are fucking useless. My punch would be directed at the back of their sunglassed head, and then when they turn around, BANG, right in the hooter, as a reminder of where their sunglasses really should be.
People who use mobile phones in a nightclub.
BANG. Right in the mouth. And then in the ear. How’s that conversation going now, arsehead?
People who keep track of how many drinks they’ve had on a night out.
Seriously, no one cares, and if you can remember it a week later, you obviously weren’t drinking to your full potential. I’d keep punching you until I sobered up.
Conversation makers at the urinals.
Seriously. Just piss and shut up. I’m not interested. Talk to me while we're in the toilet and I’ll punch you in the back of the head so you fall into the trough and you can still taste urinal cakes four weeks later.
Bogan parents with shitty little ugly, smelly bogan kids who have snot dribbling down their chin who like to punch you in the nuts as you walk past them in the street.
I think I’ve explained that one pretty well already. They get a punch in their own little bogan nuts, in the hope that this may stop them procreating. It’s not that I don’t mind punching small children in the head, but I’d just rather not get snot on my hands.
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Mr Football returns...
...and demands respect.
Melbourne, The Demons
Melbourne is a pathetic club. They have not looked like winning a premiership in about six decades.
This is the club that makes up the numbers more than any other team.
If they were to fold nobody would miss them.
They have no spirit, no heart and no soul.
I won't even bother predicting where this team will finish because they are irrelevant.
- Mr Football
Melbourne, The Demons
Melbourne is a pathetic club. They have not looked like winning a premiership in about six decades.
This is the club that makes up the numbers more than any other team.
If they were to fold nobody would miss them.
They have no spirit, no heart and no soul.
I won't even bother predicting where this team will finish because they are irrelevant.
- Mr Football
Thursday, March 15, 2007
fancy a tipple?
Mister Evil Breakfast’s Drinking Games
#1. The Biggest Loser
This is the most frustratingly frustrating television show since Chances. To spice it up a little, why not make a bit of a game of it?
For this, you will need:
* 1 television that picks up The Biggest Loser (without this, you’re pretty much just left drinking, which may not be such a bad thing)
* 1 couch or chair (recommended)
* a case of tequila (personal choice), a bucket of lemons & as much salt as is legal for one person to own
Let’s play!
- take a shot each time the tubbies are shown sitting around bitching about how hard life is, rather than exercising and not being so fucking fat (warning: excessive drinking is imminent).
- take a shot whenever Ajay has a vague look on her face (warning: can get dangerous).
- drink each time there’s any kind of recap (warning: each show contains about 2 minutes of new footage).
- shoot whenever someone mentions Damien being “an inspiration”.
- have a drink whenever Laura cries (warning: a funnel may be necessary).
- drink whenever Courtney talks about “playing the game.”
- have a shot when Shannan gets all excited about nothing. Seriously, is this guy the Crocodile Hunter for fat bastards or what?
- take a drink whenever someone “hurts” themselves and can’t participate, then complains that things are “just not fair.”
- shoot whenever Greg mentions that he’s the “strongest”, “fittest” or “fastest” in the game (make it a round 5 drinks if it’s all three).
- take three shots if you ever think “yeah, he/she is looking hot”. You sick puppy.
- take a shot when Munnalita acts like the world is against her.
- shoot whenever someone adds a useless voiceover (for example, when the screen shows the tubbies going into the gym, and there’s a shot of Mel saying, “And we went into the gym for a workout.” Fuck that shits me. I hate this show).
- chug when someone mentions their “journey”. You’re losing weight, you fat fucks, you’re not going anywhere.
- shoot if you see an ex-contestant (a) eating vegetables and looking happy; (b) running awkwardly and pretending they’re enjoying themselves; (c) playing with children and wishing they were in front of the couch with a bag of chips; or (d) showing you a pair of oversized trousers.
And that’s the way we play. Just remember: It doesn’t matter how much you vomit or for how long you’re passed out for after attempting this – you can take solace in the fact that you’re not an overweight media whore.
See you on next year’s Subway ads, Damo!
#1. The Biggest Loser
This is the most frustratingly frustrating television show since Chances. To spice it up a little, why not make a bit of a game of it?
For this, you will need:
* 1 television that picks up The Biggest Loser (without this, you’re pretty much just left drinking, which may not be such a bad thing)
* 1 couch or chair (recommended)
* a case of tequila (personal choice), a bucket of lemons & as much salt as is legal for one person to own
Let’s play!
- take a shot each time the tubbies are shown sitting around bitching about how hard life is, rather than exercising and not being so fucking fat (warning: excessive drinking is imminent).
- take a shot whenever Ajay has a vague look on her face (warning: can get dangerous).
- drink each time there’s any kind of recap (warning: each show contains about 2 minutes of new footage).
- shoot whenever someone mentions Damien being “an inspiration”.
- have a drink whenever Laura cries (warning: a funnel may be necessary).
- drink whenever Courtney talks about “playing the game.”
- have a shot when Shannan gets all excited about nothing. Seriously, is this guy the Crocodile Hunter for fat bastards or what?
- take a drink whenever someone “hurts” themselves and can’t participate, then complains that things are “just not fair.”
- shoot whenever Greg mentions that he’s the “strongest”, “fittest” or “fastest” in the game (make it a round 5 drinks if it’s all three).
- take three shots if you ever think “yeah, he/she is looking hot”. You sick puppy.
- take a shot when Munnalita acts like the world is against her.
- shoot whenever someone adds a useless voiceover (for example, when the screen shows the tubbies going into the gym, and there’s a shot of Mel saying, “And we went into the gym for a workout.” Fuck that shits me. I hate this show).
- chug when someone mentions their “journey”. You’re losing weight, you fat fucks, you’re not going anywhere.
- shoot if you see an ex-contestant (a) eating vegetables and looking happy; (b) running awkwardly and pretending they’re enjoying themselves; (c) playing with children and wishing they were in front of the couch with a bag of chips; or (d) showing you a pair of oversized trousers.
And that’s the way we play. Just remember: It doesn’t matter how much you vomit or for how long you’re passed out for after attempting this – you can take solace in the fact that you’re not an overweight media whore.
See you on next year’s Subway ads, Damo!
Thursday, March 08, 2007
possibly the best i've seen
Dear Channel 7,
I, like most dickheads, am a big fan of Lotto. The highlight of my sad, pathetic life is watching those little balls fly around the machine, and seeing them fall into the slots at the bottom. The people who host the show are very entertaining, and I love ‘meeting’ the panel of judges who are there to make sure there’s nothing untoward going on. I also quite enjoy seeing the “highlights package,” as I call it, during television shows. The bar across the screen with its rainbow of coloured balls fills my miserable heart with an emotion I can only assume is glee.
I was especially pleased last night to see that the “highlights package” appeared across the screen during a television show called ‘Heroes’. The scene in which it appeared was during an important exchange between two Japanese characters, who do not speak English, so sub-titles were a necessity. To have their dialogue completely hidden by the all-important Lotto results was almost too much for me to bear, and I had to change my underpants and do another Scotch-Guard of the couch. The Lotto results are the BEST! I don’t even buy tickets, I am just impressed by colour and movement.
It’s also great that I love Jamster commercials, who charge you hundreds of dollars to get the ‘latest’ pop song ringtone on your mobile phone. Sometimes you just can’t have enough Gwen Stefani and Justin Timberlake. I am glad that the Lotto results don’t interrupt these commercials, even if they are on three times in a single ad break.
Perhaps next week, you can run the Lotto results being drawn for an hour instead of showing ‘Heroes’. I am pretty sure no-one watches it anyway.
Sincerely,
Spanknuts McSpazwank, Tasmania
Dear Channel 7 fucktards,
I don’t speak Japanese. Sorry. But thanks for putting the fucking Lotto results over the subtitles in Heroes last night. It has urged me to learn the language, cause I know you fuckers are going to do it again.
Burn, you bitches.
Mick (via email)
I, like most dickheads, am a big fan of Lotto. The highlight of my sad, pathetic life is watching those little balls fly around the machine, and seeing them fall into the slots at the bottom. The people who host the show are very entertaining, and I love ‘meeting’ the panel of judges who are there to make sure there’s nothing untoward going on. I also quite enjoy seeing the “highlights package,” as I call it, during television shows. The bar across the screen with its rainbow of coloured balls fills my miserable heart with an emotion I can only assume is glee.
I was especially pleased last night to see that the “highlights package” appeared across the screen during a television show called ‘Heroes’. The scene in which it appeared was during an important exchange between two Japanese characters, who do not speak English, so sub-titles were a necessity. To have their dialogue completely hidden by the all-important Lotto results was almost too much for me to bear, and I had to change my underpants and do another Scotch-Guard of the couch. The Lotto results are the BEST! I don’t even buy tickets, I am just impressed by colour and movement.
It’s also great that I love Jamster commercials, who charge you hundreds of dollars to get the ‘latest’ pop song ringtone on your mobile phone. Sometimes you just can’t have enough Gwen Stefani and Justin Timberlake. I am glad that the Lotto results don’t interrupt these commercials, even if they are on three times in a single ad break.
Perhaps next week, you can run the Lotto results being drawn for an hour instead of showing ‘Heroes’. I am pretty sure no-one watches it anyway.
Sincerely,
Spanknuts McSpazwank, Tasmania
Dear Channel 7 fucktards,
I don’t speak Japanese. Sorry. But thanks for putting the fucking Lotto results over the subtitles in Heroes last night. It has urged me to learn the language, cause I know you fuckers are going to do it again.
Burn, you bitches.
Mick (via email)
Thursday, March 01, 2007
Mr Whiskas Breakfast
Geelong, the Cats
Geelong is the last one-team-one-town club. Now before there is an influx on the blog about Sydney and Brisbane being one-team-one-town clubs a few things need to be taken into account, i.e. the AFL in their wisdom are trying like buggery to exploit the western suburbs of Sydney and Brisbane. That is why every near bankrupt Victorian side are playing games in these cities, e.g. Kangaroos, Demons, Blues and Dogs. So really Brisbane and Sydney are not one-team cities any more. Catfish?*
Back to Geelong. In 06 they won NAB Cup. I happened to be sitting on a plane from Adelaide to Melbourne that was filled with a tribe of drunk players, AFL cronies and general hanger-oners the morning after Geelong won the cup. These tossers were ecstatic; they thought that Geelong FC had risen to its former glory circa 1930. With a thought process like this, it is no wonder they fucked up the rest of the season.
The NAB Cup is a sham. It is called the pre-season because the season has not started yet. There is no glory in winning a game outside of the season. However, when you are a pathetic rabble like Geelong, you don't understand this. As a point of interest, Carlton won it the year before Geelong - they celebrated their success by collecting two wooden spoons.
A football team's list is a paradox. Let me explain. Geelong have a good list, the reason being that they were shit for so long. The AFL, which has less honour than the Mufti of Sydney, rewards incompetence and punishes competence. It is a flawed concept and that is why the best clubs i.e. Adelaide, WCE and Essendon are never down for long and shit clubs like Geelong, Melbourne, St Kilda, Fremantle and the Bulldogs have not won a single premiership between them since Australia changed from pounds and shillings to dollars and cents even though the AFL keeps loading them up with draft picks and cash.
Geelong players are spoilt and selfish; this attitude is bred by a club that has no vision. When teams fail to be able to move on after losing a Grand Final, they fall in a heap real fast. Geelong played in the GF in 89, 92, 94 and 95. It is now 07 but they are still harping on about how they were so unlucky - the truth is that they were not good enough. For three of those GF's they had The Messiah at the helm (albeit he was yet to become the Messiah). They also had God and Buddha playing for them (these nick names are all real).
Geelong will improve marginally from last year, but they still don't have the respect of Mr Football. Prediction 8th.
*gratuitous Simpsons reference.
Geelong is the last one-team-one-town club. Now before there is an influx on the blog about Sydney and Brisbane being one-team-one-town clubs a few things need to be taken into account, i.e. the AFL in their wisdom are trying like buggery to exploit the western suburbs of Sydney and Brisbane. That is why every near bankrupt Victorian side are playing games in these cities, e.g. Kangaroos, Demons, Blues and Dogs. So really Brisbane and Sydney are not one-team cities any more. Catfish?*
Back to Geelong. In 06 they won NAB Cup. I happened to be sitting on a plane from Adelaide to Melbourne that was filled with a tribe of drunk players, AFL cronies and general hanger-oners the morning after Geelong won the cup. These tossers were ecstatic; they thought that Geelong FC had risen to its former glory circa 1930. With a thought process like this, it is no wonder they fucked up the rest of the season.
The NAB Cup is a sham. It is called the pre-season because the season has not started yet. There is no glory in winning a game outside of the season. However, when you are a pathetic rabble like Geelong, you don't understand this. As a point of interest, Carlton won it the year before Geelong - they celebrated their success by collecting two wooden spoons.
A football team's list is a paradox. Let me explain. Geelong have a good list, the reason being that they were shit for so long. The AFL, which has less honour than the Mufti of Sydney, rewards incompetence and punishes competence. It is a flawed concept and that is why the best clubs i.e. Adelaide, WCE and Essendon are never down for long and shit clubs like Geelong, Melbourne, St Kilda, Fremantle and the Bulldogs have not won a single premiership between them since Australia changed from pounds and shillings to dollars and cents even though the AFL keeps loading them up with draft picks and cash.
Geelong players are spoilt and selfish; this attitude is bred by a club that has no vision. When teams fail to be able to move on after losing a Grand Final, they fall in a heap real fast. Geelong played in the GF in 89, 92, 94 and 95. It is now 07 but they are still harping on about how they were so unlucky - the truth is that they were not good enough. For three of those GF's they had The Messiah at the helm (albeit he was yet to become the Messiah). They also had God and Buddha playing for them (these nick names are all real).
Geelong will improve marginally from last year, but they still don't have the respect of Mr Football. Prediction 8th.
*gratuitous Simpsons reference.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
best show ever
Hey, Dad…! was a brilliant piece of Australian television history… for the first two seasons, then “Nudge” (Christopher Truswell) left the show, and things went downhill pretty quickly. Sure, we had all the staple elements of a classic sitcom; the straight character (Martin Kelly, or “Dad”) and the loveable, goofy off-sider (Betty), the three kids, Simon, Deb and Jenny, all nice looking people without a hint of personality, so they really all could have been put into the one character, and the afore-mentioned Nudge, the “next-door-neighbour” character with the one-liners and vacant expression. As the show’s writers ran out of ideas shortly after the pilot, they picked up on the fact that everybody loved Nudge (which is the name of my new sitcom) and decided to base every show around his mad-capped antics.
Enough’s enough, thought Nudge, and he pissed off to do… something. Last I saw of him, he was playing the guitar with Lucky “Bargearse” Grills on The Late Show. So they brought in Matthew Krok, “Arthur Macarthur”, who would soon become known as “The Little Fat Kid from Hey, Dad…!” In a nod to the future, this tubby little shit became every kid; smart-arsed, fat and annoying. He had two expressions, one was the “I’m fat, so laugh at me” face, and the other was “I’m fat, give me sympathy”.
Somewhere along the line, Deb left the show, and was replaced by cousin Rachel; then Simon left and his best friend Ben moved in. I can’t for the life of me imagine why anyone would live with their best mate’s parents, when the best mate was no longer living there, spoken of or thought about by the other family members. Jenny’s character remained, although the actress changed. For the life of me, I have no idea why they didn’t just throw her into one of the giant plot holes that were rife at the time. Oh look, they did. In what is now apparently a common theme in an Australian series, the most useless character in a show is sent off to boarding school. See you later Jen, thanks for coming. See you in a few episodes when you come back as a goth, having had some trouble fitting in, learn a lesson about ‘being yourself’ and then piss off again. So with the original kids all gone, some randoms and some more randoms moving in, it was hardly the ideal setting for a show called “Hey, Dad…!” What else to do but fill up one of those plot holes with some clever writing? Mr Kelly is sick of being called “Uncle Martin” or “Mr Kelly” or “Fagchops” and would prefer if all these people in the house would call him “Dad”. Twisted much, Mr Kelly?
And so Hey, Dad…! began its decline into becoming a parody of itself. “Dad” left the show, and everyone thought, “Well, that’s it. We can’t have a show called Hey, Dad…! without the dad. That would be like having a show called Full House that was about a house that wasn’t full. Speaking of Full House, did anyone else find it weird that no-one really cared that Uncle Joey and Uncle Jesse still lived with the family, even though they were mid-30s? And then Jesse gets married, has kids, and still refuses to move out? Becky must have been pretty patient or super stoned to allow that to happen. How the hell did they find the time and privacy to have sex with 72 other people in the house?
Anyway, Mr Kelly moves out, but the producers decide not to let this dead horse go. There’s still a race to be won here. They bring out the bigger whips and start flogging like no one has ever flogged before (except for Uncle Joey on Full House; that guy never seemed to be getting laid), and replaced Dad with… Uncle Greg. The marketing geniuses realised that a show called “Hey, Uncle Greg…!” didn’t have the same ring to it, and so they went back to that oft-used well, which was by now a dirty, boggy puddle of algae-infested scum that people would normally pay $1 per day to stop some poor starving African from drinking, and Uncle Greg asked the leftover cast to call him ‘Dad’, even though (a) the only thing Uncy Greg and Mr Kelly had in common was that they were architects. Who worked from home. I guess those guys are hard to find, so maybe it was THAT kind of “brotherhood”, and (b) he had other kids that he left behind in his home city, who would probably have preferred to call him Dad, rather than this troupe of fucktards and bogans that now sat around the couch, calling anyone and everything “Dad.” I don’t really think I needed an (a) and (b) scenario there, but I wanted one anyway.
In honour of this magnificent tv show, I am going to ask my mousepad to call me ‘Dad’. And I will in turn call my left shoe ‘Dad’. And then when I change shoes, my other shoe will be ‘Dad’ and no-one will mind.
I salute you, Kelly family, as large and obscure and non-related as you all are, for filling the Wednesday night void from 1989 to whenever it was that someone put you all out of your misery. The best part about Hey, Dad…! was that the sets for the house were also used for Alf and Ailsa’s house on Home and Away. I wish I could say that they saved money on sets and spent it on scripts, but I can safely assume that that didn’t happen.
Enough’s enough, thought Nudge, and he pissed off to do… something. Last I saw of him, he was playing the guitar with Lucky “Bargearse” Grills on The Late Show. So they brought in Matthew Krok, “Arthur Macarthur”, who would soon become known as “The Little Fat Kid from Hey, Dad…!” In a nod to the future, this tubby little shit became every kid; smart-arsed, fat and annoying. He had two expressions, one was the “I’m fat, so laugh at me” face, and the other was “I’m fat, give me sympathy”.
Somewhere along the line, Deb left the show, and was replaced by cousin Rachel; then Simon left and his best friend Ben moved in. I can’t for the life of me imagine why anyone would live with their best mate’s parents, when the best mate was no longer living there, spoken of or thought about by the other family members. Jenny’s character remained, although the actress changed. For the life of me, I have no idea why they didn’t just throw her into one of the giant plot holes that were rife at the time. Oh look, they did. In what is now apparently a common theme in an Australian series, the most useless character in a show is sent off to boarding school. See you later Jen, thanks for coming. See you in a few episodes when you come back as a goth, having had some trouble fitting in, learn a lesson about ‘being yourself’ and then piss off again. So with the original kids all gone, some randoms and some more randoms moving in, it was hardly the ideal setting for a show called “Hey, Dad…!” What else to do but fill up one of those plot holes with some clever writing? Mr Kelly is sick of being called “Uncle Martin” or “Mr Kelly” or “Fagchops” and would prefer if all these people in the house would call him “Dad”. Twisted much, Mr Kelly?
And so Hey, Dad…! began its decline into becoming a parody of itself. “Dad” left the show, and everyone thought, “Well, that’s it. We can’t have a show called Hey, Dad…! without the dad. That would be like having a show called Full House that was about a house that wasn’t full. Speaking of Full House, did anyone else find it weird that no-one really cared that Uncle Joey and Uncle Jesse still lived with the family, even though they were mid-30s? And then Jesse gets married, has kids, and still refuses to move out? Becky must have been pretty patient or super stoned to allow that to happen. How the hell did they find the time and privacy to have sex with 72 other people in the house?
Anyway, Mr Kelly moves out, but the producers decide not to let this dead horse go. There’s still a race to be won here. They bring out the bigger whips and start flogging like no one has ever flogged before (except for Uncle Joey on Full House; that guy never seemed to be getting laid), and replaced Dad with… Uncle Greg. The marketing geniuses realised that a show called “Hey, Uncle Greg…!” didn’t have the same ring to it, and so they went back to that oft-used well, which was by now a dirty, boggy puddle of algae-infested scum that people would normally pay $1 per day to stop some poor starving African from drinking, and Uncle Greg asked the leftover cast to call him ‘Dad’, even though (a) the only thing Uncy Greg and Mr Kelly had in common was that they were architects. Who worked from home. I guess those guys are hard to find, so maybe it was THAT kind of “brotherhood”, and (b) he had other kids that he left behind in his home city, who would probably have preferred to call him Dad, rather than this troupe of fucktards and bogans that now sat around the couch, calling anyone and everything “Dad.” I don’t really think I needed an (a) and (b) scenario there, but I wanted one anyway.
In honour of this magnificent tv show, I am going to ask my mousepad to call me ‘Dad’. And I will in turn call my left shoe ‘Dad’. And then when I change shoes, my other shoe will be ‘Dad’ and no-one will mind.
I salute you, Kelly family, as large and obscure and non-related as you all are, for filling the Wednesday night void from 1989 to whenever it was that someone put you all out of your misery. The best part about Hey, Dad…! was that the sets for the house were also used for Alf and Ailsa’s house on Home and Away. I wish I could say that they saved money on sets and spent it on scripts, but I can safely assume that that didn’t happen.
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
i do not like green eggs and ham
So I walked into someone today. That in itself is an awesome story, and should be made into a movie. I would be played by Tom from Home and Away (remember Tom, he was Pippa’s first husband who had a heart attack while driving and died), and as we are basically identical twins, and I figure he needs some acting work, it makes perfect sense. The guy I walked into would have been played by Jonathon Brandis, except I learnt recently that he died last year. So in respect to the dead, that guy will now be played by Michael Hutchence.
I was meandering along the footpath, thinking worldly things (for instance: Last night, I saw an ad for nappies that had some kind of slow-release wet patch mechanism on them, so the toddler knows when they’ve just pissed themselves. I didn’t have this when I was toilet training, and I rarely wet myself these days. What the fuck is wrong with kids today that they need special help to let them know that they’ve got a plastic bag full of urine and baby shit around their waist? And how will letting them know they’re wet help anyone? Surely they’d think, “Well… fuck. I’m wet,” take off their pants and run around the house naked, pissing and shitting on anything and everything they can. I know I would.) and then I bumped shoulders with this guy coming the other way. When I say ‘bumped’ I mean ‘brushed’, and by ‘brushed’ I mean my sleeve may have lightly touched his sleeve. It was quite a hit, it almost made the cotton of my shirt move. Almost.
“Sorry mate,” says I, all apologies and sincerity.
“Fucking watch where you’re going.”
“Yeah. Sorry.” And I turned to walk away, and muse on other things, such as what all the little black bits on the concrete are – some friends I have say it’s chewing gum, but really, do that many people eat chewing gum and spit it out right on the footpath? I mean, there are heaps of those little black blobs, and if it was chewing gum, wouldn’t it be more easily removed? Those blobs are pretty impossible to lift up, if you’ve ever tried (like me), and they sure as hell don’t taste like chewing gum… and then when my back is turned, I hear, “Fuck you, fucking faggot.”
Alliteration aside, it wasn’t the greatest use of English I’d ever heard. “Fuck you.” Is that the best we can do here? Some of the greatest literature known to man hath been borne of the English language. Shakespeare, Coleridge, Yeats and Suess would be rolling around quite discontentedly in their graves, I should think. And I’d know, I’ve been digging around all afternoon, swearing at corpses to see if it had any effect. (note: not yet, but keep trying)
Fuck you. Poor form, English. Take heed on your Spanish cousin:
Mecagum les cinc llagues de Crist, "I shit on the five wounds of Christ," in Catalan. Even better is Mecagum Deu, en la creu, en el fuster que la feu i en el fill de puta que va plantar el pi, "I shit on God, on the cross, on the carpenter who made it and on the son of a whore who planted the pine."
Are you a Swahili mother with a kid in need of Super Nanny’s obvious advice? I am. So I say, Matumbo yangu huzaa maradhi, "My womb has born a disease."
Slightly less harsh, but a shitload easier to say comes from our stoned friends, the Dutch. Krijg de mazelen, "May you get the measles.”
I have been known to dabble in Dinga, a language spoken in Zaire, Mabial agpi-agpi ke mabial nganswang, "[You have] very short breasts like the breasts of a porcupine.” I usually say this to my pet porcupine, just so no-one gets hurt by it. And my porcupine doesn’t speak Dinga.
And thankfully, we have a new “mama” joke. So all you little wiggas out there, read this (or: reed dis, mang!) Melewe silom we ie maragus, "Your mother has yaws," Ulithian (Ulithi is a coral atoll in the Pacific.) Or try Falfulul silom, "Your mother's pubic tattooing!" Gold, baby.
Bi damaghi babat rydam, "I shit on your father's nose," which you can say next time you're hanging around in Iran and looking for a fight. Or you could try Guz bi rishit, which means "May a fart be on your beard."
So Captain Cranky Pants, FUCK YOU. You arse clown.
I was meandering along the footpath, thinking worldly things (for instance: Last night, I saw an ad for nappies that had some kind of slow-release wet patch mechanism on them, so the toddler knows when they’ve just pissed themselves. I didn’t have this when I was toilet training, and I rarely wet myself these days. What the fuck is wrong with kids today that they need special help to let them know that they’ve got a plastic bag full of urine and baby shit around their waist? And how will letting them know they’re wet help anyone? Surely they’d think, “Well… fuck. I’m wet,” take off their pants and run around the house naked, pissing and shitting on anything and everything they can. I know I would.) and then I bumped shoulders with this guy coming the other way. When I say ‘bumped’ I mean ‘brushed’, and by ‘brushed’ I mean my sleeve may have lightly touched his sleeve. It was quite a hit, it almost made the cotton of my shirt move. Almost.
“Sorry mate,” says I, all apologies and sincerity.
“Fucking watch where you’re going.”
“Yeah. Sorry.” And I turned to walk away, and muse on other things, such as what all the little black bits on the concrete are – some friends I have say it’s chewing gum, but really, do that many people eat chewing gum and spit it out right on the footpath? I mean, there are heaps of those little black blobs, and if it was chewing gum, wouldn’t it be more easily removed? Those blobs are pretty impossible to lift up, if you’ve ever tried (like me), and they sure as hell don’t taste like chewing gum… and then when my back is turned, I hear, “Fuck you, fucking faggot.”
Alliteration aside, it wasn’t the greatest use of English I’d ever heard. “Fuck you.” Is that the best we can do here? Some of the greatest literature known to man hath been borne of the English language. Shakespeare, Coleridge, Yeats and Suess would be rolling around quite discontentedly in their graves, I should think. And I’d know, I’ve been digging around all afternoon, swearing at corpses to see if it had any effect. (note: not yet, but keep trying)
Fuck you. Poor form, English. Take heed on your Spanish cousin:
Mecagum les cinc llagues de Crist, "I shit on the five wounds of Christ," in Catalan. Even better is Mecagum Deu, en la creu, en el fuster que la feu i en el fill de puta que va plantar el pi, "I shit on God, on the cross, on the carpenter who made it and on the son of a whore who planted the pine."
Are you a Swahili mother with a kid in need of Super Nanny’s obvious advice? I am. So I say, Matumbo yangu huzaa maradhi, "My womb has born a disease."
Slightly less harsh, but a shitload easier to say comes from our stoned friends, the Dutch. Krijg de mazelen, "May you get the measles.”
I have been known to dabble in Dinga, a language spoken in Zaire, Mabial agpi-agpi ke mabial nganswang, "[You have] very short breasts like the breasts of a porcupine.” I usually say this to my pet porcupine, just so no-one gets hurt by it. And my porcupine doesn’t speak Dinga.
And thankfully, we have a new “mama” joke. So all you little wiggas out there, read this (or: reed dis, mang!) Melewe silom we ie maragus, "Your mother has yaws," Ulithian (Ulithi is a coral atoll in the Pacific.) Or try Falfulul silom, "Your mother's pubic tattooing!" Gold, baby.
Bi damaghi babat rydam, "I shit on your father's nose," which you can say next time you're hanging around in Iran and looking for a fight. Or you could try Guz bi rishit, which means "May a fart be on your beard."
So Captain Cranky Pants, FUCK YOU. You arse clown.
50 metre Breakfast
With utmost thanks again to Mr Football...
Essendon, the Bombers, the Dons.
Essendon is one of the great AFL clubs*. They are the only Victorian club that has been able to understand what a NATIONAL competition means. 12 other AFL clubs envy the Dons, only the Eagles, Crows and Magpies are in a stronger financial position** Accordingly, Essendon won AFL premierships throughout two different eras, 93 and 00 (An AFL era lasts 3-4 years) The West Coast Eagles are the only other club to have done this.
In 06 the Dons had a disgraceful year, just managing to avoid the wooden spoon. In most years they would have ended up with the spoon, but Carlton were particularly bad. The Dons had 30 goals kicked against them by the Crows, without exaggeration this happens about once every 1000 games, obviously the fans were pissed off.
There was logic behind their terrible form, mainly they suffered a horrendous injury count. Lloydy, their Full Forward and skipper ripped his hamstring off the bone half way through the first game of the season. He'd already kicked 8 goals for the game, he didn't play again for the year. The Dons struggled to kick 8 goals a game for the next 21 rounds. If Lloydy plays a full season he'll kick a ton this year and the Dons will win many more games.
Hirdy plays for the Dons, he is a champion. He looks like a pretty boy, but he is hard as nails. His best is past him, but when he is in the right mood he will rip a team apart. Watch out for him this year, he'll have a couple of blinders. Maybe even ANZAC day.
Kevin Sheedy is the coach, he has been coaching them for 27 years. Much like a heroin junkie, he is never down for very long. He'll be back again this year. The Bombers wont be premiership contenders and it is unlikely they will even make the eight but they'll ruffle a few feathers in 07 as they build for a big 08.
Prediction 9th
*Mr Football does not support Essendon Football Club.
**Any cunt that wants to make smart ass comment about the Eagles, Crows and Magpies all having the name of bird can get fucked. The AFL encouraged the two newest teams to come up with original names because a few jackass were complaining. Now we have the Dockers and the Power. These are the two most fucked up names in Australian sport with the exception being the A-League's 'we are to good to have a nick-name' Sydney FC.
Essendon, the Bombers, the Dons.
Essendon is one of the great AFL clubs*. They are the only Victorian club that has been able to understand what a NATIONAL competition means. 12 other AFL clubs envy the Dons, only the Eagles, Crows and Magpies are in a stronger financial position** Accordingly, Essendon won AFL premierships throughout two different eras, 93 and 00 (An AFL era lasts 3-4 years) The West Coast Eagles are the only other club to have done this.
In 06 the Dons had a disgraceful year, just managing to avoid the wooden spoon. In most years they would have ended up with the spoon, but Carlton were particularly bad. The Dons had 30 goals kicked against them by the Crows, without exaggeration this happens about once every 1000 games, obviously the fans were pissed off.
There was logic behind their terrible form, mainly they suffered a horrendous injury count. Lloydy, their Full Forward and skipper ripped his hamstring off the bone half way through the first game of the season. He'd already kicked 8 goals for the game, he didn't play again for the year. The Dons struggled to kick 8 goals a game for the next 21 rounds. If Lloydy plays a full season he'll kick a ton this year and the Dons will win many more games.
Hirdy plays for the Dons, he is a champion. He looks like a pretty boy, but he is hard as nails. His best is past him, but when he is in the right mood he will rip a team apart. Watch out for him this year, he'll have a couple of blinders. Maybe even ANZAC day.
Kevin Sheedy is the coach, he has been coaching them for 27 years. Much like a heroin junkie, he is never down for very long. He'll be back again this year. The Bombers wont be premiership contenders and it is unlikely they will even make the eight but they'll ruffle a few feathers in 07 as they build for a big 08.
Prediction 9th
*Mr Football does not support Essendon Football Club.
**Any cunt that wants to make smart ass comment about the Eagles, Crows and Magpies all having the name of bird can get fucked. The AFL encouraged the two newest teams to come up with original names because a few jackass were complaining. Now we have the Dockers and the Power. These are the two most fucked up names in Australian sport with the exception being the A-League's 'we are to good to have a nick-name' Sydney FC.
Monday, February 26, 2007
Mr Evil Capper
Thank God for Mr Football.
I'll update again soon, but really, there's not much point, as this guy is pretty damn good.
Collingwood.
Collingwood are lead off the field by Eddie McGuire, also known as the Eddie the wanker.
They are lead on the field by Nathan Buckley also known as Bucks. He likes to call himself Fig Jam, and in fact his number plate his FIG JAM.
For those who are by some degree retarded, FIGJAM means Fuck I'm Good Just Ask Me.
Bucks could have been one of the greatest on-ballers and captains of all time, but unfortunately he will just be remembered as another hack who played 300 games but never won a flag. As 'the Messiah' Malcolm Blight says, "you can be good but you are never great until you win a premiership." When Brisbane began building their all-conquering 3 time premiership, 4 time Grand Final, 6 times in row preliminary final side 15 years ago, Bucks was the first one chosen. With Bucks in the side those three premierships could have been four or five and maybe six and he would have been the captain, not Vossy. However, since Bucks is tosser, he threw in the towel after one year with Brisbane and decided he wanted to go to the spiritual home of tossers. That is Collingwood FC. His reason: he wanted to play in finals. Nice one Bucks, you GOAT. Sure he captained the Pies to a couple of GF losses, but who cares? As 'The Messiah' says, "losing a GF is like dancing with your sister, you are a long way from you know where."
Bucks watched on year after year as Brisbane players won premierships and Brownlow medals; they could have all gone to Bucks. Alas, Vossy will be remembered as the great one, not Bucks.
Collingwood will struggle this year. They have a lack of talent, misplaced arrogance and a game plan that belongs in the 90's. They may sneak into the eight, this is only because the AFL is as corrupt as a Palestinian bank and allows Collingwood to play more games at home then any of the 15 other teams.
Have a look out for Joffa, he is the knob that sits behind the Collingwood goals and puts on a golden jacket when he thinks Collingwood have the game in the bag. He'll wear that jacket 13 times this year.
Prediction 7th
I'll update again soon, but really, there's not much point, as this guy is pretty damn good.
Collingwood.
Collingwood are lead off the field by Eddie McGuire, also known as the Eddie the wanker.
They are lead on the field by Nathan Buckley also known as Bucks. He likes to call himself Fig Jam, and in fact his number plate his FIG JAM.
For those who are by some degree retarded, FIGJAM means Fuck I'm Good Just Ask Me.
Bucks could have been one of the greatest on-ballers and captains of all time, but unfortunately he will just be remembered as another hack who played 300 games but never won a flag. As 'the Messiah' Malcolm Blight says, "you can be good but you are never great until you win a premiership." When Brisbane began building their all-conquering 3 time premiership, 4 time Grand Final, 6 times in row preliminary final side 15 years ago, Bucks was the first one chosen. With Bucks in the side those three premierships could have been four or five and maybe six and he would have been the captain, not Vossy. However, since Bucks is tosser, he threw in the towel after one year with Brisbane and decided he wanted to go to the spiritual home of tossers. That is Collingwood FC. His reason: he wanted to play in finals. Nice one Bucks, you GOAT. Sure he captained the Pies to a couple of GF losses, but who cares? As 'The Messiah' says, "losing a GF is like dancing with your sister, you are a long way from you know where."
Bucks watched on year after year as Brisbane players won premierships and Brownlow medals; they could have all gone to Bucks. Alas, Vossy will be remembered as the great one, not Bucks.
Collingwood will struggle this year. They have a lack of talent, misplaced arrogance and a game plan that belongs in the 90's. They may sneak into the eight, this is only because the AFL is as corrupt as a Palestinian bank and allows Collingwood to play more games at home then any of the 15 other teams.
Have a look out for Joffa, he is the knob that sits behind the Collingwood goals and puts on a golden jacket when he thinks Collingwood have the game in the bag. He'll wear that jacket 13 times this year.
Prediction 7th
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