My TV is spying on me... and it's really, really bored.

Idiots all over Australia are pissing their pants in anger over their Samsung Smart TV’s ability to recordprivate conversations and send the information to a “third party.”  I’m actually surprised that anyone who had a voice-activated television would be bothered to complain about anything, to be honest. 

It all sounds a bit scary, and even people who have never read George Orwell’s 1984 will be complaining about Big Brother (and how Lawson should never have cheated with Kat, and like, what’s going on with Leo?).  But what they’re not really getting is the fact that “Big Brother” has been recording their conversations for years so they can advertise straight to you.  You think Google doesn’t collect, use and sell your search history?  The advertising on the sidebar of Gmail literally changes within keystrokes depending on what you’re emailing someone about.  Those “recommended for you” items that appear on your Facebook wall aren’t coincidental either – funnily enough, they’re linked into your social media accounts.  If you change your status to “just got back from walking the dog! LOL!!!!111” you will most likely see ads trying to sell you shit for your dog, ads trying to sell you shit for walking, and a massive crowbar across the face from me.  People really don’t give a fuck about you shuffling around the block for 10 minutes while texting your friend and carrying a bag full of dog poo at the same time.  And if they do, then they are probably already being advertised to about that.  "HALF PRICE DOG POO FOR NEXT 48 HOURS!" 

When you record an episode of I’m a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here, the information it gathers might be that you’re a fan of reality shows, celebrity shows and are slightly retarded, and recommend whichever version of the Kardashians is on.  The Smart TV is the next inevitable step – it’s just being more obvious about it.  While it will analyse your viewing habits, it will also pick up on some topics of conversation, so when you’re on the couch discussing your upcoming holiday, which sports team you like, the fact that you’re out of milk or how you need a new crowbar, your telly is paying just enough attention to pick out the important words so the next time you use social media, you’ll have ads and recommendations for flight details, the official Twitter feed of @sports_team_official, some bonus Fly Buy points for buying Coles brand moo juice and a link to my blog. 

Just click the link, I need thehits.

If you’re seriously worried about all of your private information being collected, I’m afraid you’re probably too late.  But just for your own safety, you should burn your computer and phone; deactivate your Facebook, Twitter and Instagram; lose your throne as king of Four Square; let go of your Flappy Bird record; sell your Farmville farm; and for fuck’s sake, stop talking to your television, you creepy, lazy fuck.  Use your remote like the athletes among us.

Haters gonna hate shake n bake...

The Triple J Hottest 100 controversially left out the Taylor Swift hit pop song "Shake It Off" from their countdown, despite Tay-Tay fans flooding the polls with thousands of votes.

Some have called it "an abuse of a democratic exercise."  Others have taken to Twitter to describe it as "totes unfair like t swizzle deserves to be no 1 who'se jet fakir anyway? #dumbass #haterz", with a host of people declaring their stance by posting "this is why I don't listen to JJJ in the first place."

For those who are pissed off by Triple J's stance not to play Taylor Swift in the first place, and then not include her votes in the second (by way of being ineligible for the first reason), it has become quite apparent that you've missed the whole point of her song.  T-Swiz would be disappointed.  And you know that means that she's writing a shithouse new song about you for her next album... which also won't be played on Triple J.

Shave your moth.

The only certainties in life are death, taxes and a crowbar

I don’t normally like to air my political views on this blog, unless politics have changed in a way that now recognises Neighbours, drinking games and dinosaurs as points of conjecture. I’ve just been informed that this isn't the case, which is a pity. I would totally vote for a stegosaurus for PM.

This week, actress Cate Blanchett has chucked her two cents into a scheme in which the Aussie Government proposes to charge dinkie di Aussie battlers a few bucks to offset some kind of carbon emissions. I’ll be honest, I probably do exceed my emissions quota following my Thursday burrito ritual, but I usually contain my “carbon” within my doona that night, so I reckon I am fairly neutral in that regard.

Cate reckons we should just pay up and shut the fuck up about it. This is quite easy for Ms Blanchett to say and do, seeing as she’s massively rich. If I earned $30 million from appearing in movies so underground that they never get released, I’d be feeling quite generous myself and would probably feel ok about telling other people to shell out some more taxes. She has defended her position by pointing out the solar panels on the roof of her mansion and declaring that carbon emissions are close to her heart and she’d do anything to get the word out there. By the way, Cate Blanchett and her rich thespian family live in a mansion that they bought for $10.2 million.

Three years later, they renovated it.

If I bought a house for $10 mill, it’d want to be the most fucking perfect house I’d ever seen, with a bat-pole connecting the lounge room to the kitchen and a room dedicated to practicing handstands. Here’s an idea, Blanchey – you pay for everyone else’s shit and carry on being a great actor. Your work in Lord of the Rings was brilliant – you shared the screen with Hollywood legends like the kid from The Goonies, the bloke from Lost and Steve Tyler’s daughter.

I am not a rich man – hell, I’m barely even a man (but I’m going into surgery again next week, so that should be rectified pronto), but I am also not living below the poverty line; I can still keep myself fed with Corn Flake sandwiches and jars of pickles. I wear cardigans that I didn’t rack from someone’s clothesline (I fucking love cardigans) and don’t have to whore myself out to pay the rent (I do it for the love of it). If I choose to spend my whole salary on beef jerky (and don't think I haven't thought about it), then that's up to me. I don’t particularly enjoy copping instructions from a motherfucking actor about paying a tax for something I'm not entirely sure I contribute a whole lot to. The Chinese produce about 22% of the world's carbon emissions (compared to Australia's 1.3%) - put your super-stardom to work in China if you're that passionate. I'm sure they care as much about your solar panels as I do.

Fuck off Cate, before I tax the shit spelling of your name. It’s hurting my spell-check.

Say it's not true!

Leading the newsfeed on my monitor as I checked my email instead of doing work last week was the devastating news that Ryan Phillippe had announced his retirement from acting. I will let you insert your own line about whether or not he actually ever began acting in the first place; personally I can’t remember him being in a movie since he did that one where Buffy and Selma Blair make out.

I am not sure what ‘retiring from acting’ actually means; I understand all of the words in that phrase, but together it just doesn’t quite make sense. Retirement conjures up the image of an old bloke pottering around in his garden before putting on his long socks and sensible shoes and heading down to the RSL for a midi of light beer and a sneaky slap on the pokies every Tuesday afternoon. At age 36, I have a suspicion that Ryan Phillippe would look out of place having a chat with Old Barry, who tries to pack his pipe with shaking hands while telling you about the time he saw Don Bradman bat.

Let’s be honest, an actor is traditionally not an essential cog in anyone’s machine (“Oh no, Two and a Half Men isn’t on!” “Oh no, there’s no more episodes of Sea Patrol!” “The Logies are way more interesting this year,”) so I am somewhat bewildered by Phillippe’s announcement. It’s not like he’s integral to any particular field - he is not a pioneer of medical science, nor is he a forward-thinking world leader. He’s not risking his life for others, and he’s not digging wells in Pakistan. To be perfectly Francis, he’s not even much of an actor.

The impact of Phillippe’s announcement is yet to be fully appreciated. While it means that there is one less smarmy actor with dimples, good hair and nice teeth gracing our screens, I doubt even the most hardened studio executives will be crying into their cocaine for the loss. “We’ll just get that guy from The Social Network instead,” they’ll say. “Or the guy who played Darth Vader in the Star Wars prequels,” they’ll say. “Maybe we could call Jake Gyllenhall,” they’ll say. “Can we coax Phillippe out of retirement?” they will not say.

What does it really mean to retire from acting, rather than ‘couldn’t be arsed going for an audition’ anyway? I think the term he meant was 'quitting acting.' That way, he can try and land himself a regular job to keep the rent paid, the bills off the fridge and the hair gel plentiful. I would like to imagine Ryan Phillippe plonking himself down in an interview for a desk job that pays $45,000 a year and explaining the gaps in his work history.

“You don’t seem to have any office experience in your resume, Mr Phillippe.”
“I was in that movie where I hooked up with Reese Witherspoon.”
“Yes…”
“I was also in 54.”
“…”
“…”
“Nobody saw that.”
“My mum did.”
“No she didn’t.”
“I could act like an office worker.”
“…”
“…”
“No you couldn’t.”

Sometime in the future, there’ll be a 3D superhero spin-off movie that yearns for Ryan Phillippe to come out of retirement, just once (and once more for the sequel). Good luck filling that void.

I swear a lot in this blog

Please put a shirt on

A lot has been written about rugby league this week, from assault to drunken assault and offender to repeat offender. Apparently there were a few games that were played as well - “Dragons win in boring match” and “Raiders still suck and are happy to have their shithouse performances overshadowed by a couple of fuckwits” all got minor write-ups in the media.

And that’s the problem with rugby league in Australia at the moment – there are too many fuckwits playing.

Let’s ignore the main concerns with the game - no one seems sure about how to pack, feed or negotiate a scrum; there’s debate about how to pronounce Isaac de Gois’ name; and teams are swapping coaches, players and tattoo artists mid-season – and let’s concentrate on fuckwits.

The latest fuckwit to have one shandy too-many and beat seven shades of shit out of a woman is Anthony Watts, a bloke I hadn’t actually heard much about before the weekend, when he announced himself as a genuine fuckwit contender by punching a woman. I don’t think we’ll be hearing too much more from him actually, so I won’t waste too much brain space that could be better served remembering characters from Saved by the Bell.

The other fuckwit – probably my current favourite fuckwit - is Todd Carney.

The Raiders kicked him out of their club a few years ago for being a fuckwit, so he spent a year perfecting his drinking and fuckwittery in North Queensland before signing with the Roosters under the tagline of “fallen angel”. He did a round of press where he announced that he had given up the plonk and the pills and was concentrating on nursing orphaned orang-utans back to life and curing cancer in his spare time. That was a year ago.

Now he’s mumbling his way through 2011, squinting at the world, licking windows, dribbling on himself and spending the weekend at the Coogee Pub after telling his team that he was visiting his mum in Goulburn. Not only did Carney not visit his mum to piss it up at the pub, he wouldn’t have been able to if he tried, seeing as he is actually banned from entering Goulburn. While there’s not a lot to do there (the Big Merino is pretty impressive though), being banned from your home town is a pretty good sign that you’re a massive fuckwit, kind of like being denied a UK visa. It’s a special accolade for such a special brand of fuckwit.

In keeping with the rules of league, the NRL gave Carney six chances to get his fuckwittery in order. By my count, he’s up to nine tackles and he’s still a long way downfield. But knowing this fuckwit, he’ll make a break, chip over the top and recollect it to score under the sticks, giving himself the lead and earn himself another six chances.

Carney has not broken any laws in his latest fuckwit escapades ("I haven't done nuffin wronk, but!" Todd grunted). He hasn’t beaten anyone up, pissed on them or been involved in a high-speed car chase while drunk; he was just out on the turps.

His club has told him several times in the past: “Todd, please stop getting on the turps.”
Todd said: “Ok," and went back to staring at the fridge.

Todd got back on the turps in a big way. He is one of Sydney’s most recognisable fuckwits and it’s common knowledge that he isn’t allowed to be on the turps.

If my boss told me to stop thieving stationery from work, I would. I wouldn’t go into Officeworks and load myself up with Sharpies and Post-it notes while their CCTV caught me rubbing myself with those spongey wrist protector things for your keyboard. I wouldn’t try and excuse myself by saying that I suffer from a disorder or an illness that requires constant highlighter stealing.

Todd Carney isn’t sick. He is just a fuckwit. He is a fuckwit who piffs a ball around a field once a week. I’m sure the NRL can find someone else to piff it around instead of Toddy (I'm available for about $30 000; I am shit at footy, but I am a good bloke).

Get well soon, TC. Say hi to Matthew Newton for me in pretend rehab.

my dad picks the fruit

Sorry it has been so long since my last post, but I was deciding where to sit and it took me longer than I thought.

My crowbar has been gathering dust lately, and there are too many people wandering around without gaping wounds in their head, so it’s time to brush off the cobwebs (I got the old lady who lives in the apartment downstairs to do that actually, just in case there were still spiders hanging around) and get cracking on some deserving skulls. Today, I'm focusing on the fuckwit on the Cottees ad.

There has always been something about this guy that never quite sat well with me. I mean, I get the joke, don’t get me wrong. His name is Elizabeth. He’s a man. He likes ravioli. Funny stuff.

After a few times watching this ad, it dawned on me - he’s a fuckwit. He approaches this poor old duck working doing merchandising at Woolies spruiking cordial and starts laying into her. She’s just doing her job and minding her own business when Captain Fuckwit comes along and starts taunting her for giving away free samples of a refreshing beverage.

"You can make twice as much cordial by using half as much?" asks Fuckwit.

"Yep," replies the old duck.

"Bull-fucking-shit," says he, mocking her openly and loudly.

Why would the guy pick on her about his disbelief for cordial concentrate? It’s not like she invented the stuff - fuck it, she’s not even selling it; she’s giving it away. How much does this guy’s life suck that he needs to pick on people who work at the supermarket to make himself feel better? How does this guy react to mormons coming to his door, or people collecting money for the Salvos? I think it’s safe to assume that he beats them to death with their own bibles, cuts off their ears to make necklaces and hides their bodies in barrels of battery acid that he keeps in his garage. I also think he needs to reprioritise his life if he’s this passionate about cordial, and should stop spending his weekends hanging out at Cottees stands, slugging away at free cordial and giving shit to the old duck who really doesn’t deserve his fuckwit rants. She could be so affected by his verbal assault that suddenly she isn’t having such a good day - she feels old and unattractive, like her job is useless, like she has no worth. She doesn’t care for the fruity, sweet flavour of Cottees cordial, and instead prefers the sour bite of drinking straight meth and begging for cigarettes at the bus interchange.

This guy just needs to do what everyone else in the world has done and accept the fact that there’s been a change in the Cottees formula that allows for better concentration and you can make more Fruit Punch than you could before.

And there’s really no need to look so fucking happy about being called Elizabeth.

Zap!

Moviefone recently ran a contest asking for “America’s Biggest Harry Potter fan.” I was going to enter, but (a) I didn’t know that the contest was being run, (b) don’t know what Moviefone actually is, (c) am not American, and (d) am not really that much of a Harry Potter fan, despite owning one of the books and a pirated copy of the first movie. I figure that if I did enter the comp, that with this much dedication I would have at least been in the top three.




I don’t know what annoys me more about this guy – the fact that his voice shits me to tears or that it’s almost impossible to stop watching. I think my favourite part is around the 2:14 mark when his mum (who’s holding the camera for him) almost axes him and forces him to break character, which would have required him to start all over again. I’m assuming he got his mum to do the filming, because I think it would be rare for someone like this to have other friends who were actually real and able to operate a video camera.

I also like when he name drops Harry Potter author J.K Rowling as “Jo”, kind of the same way I name drop U2 guitarist The Edge as “The” in conversation.

While I do appreciate the lengths that being an obsessed fan will go to, I can’t help but worry that the next time I see this guy, he’ll be found dead in a castle, wearing a suit made out of Daniel Radcliffe’s skin.

Fucking Ponting

“I’ll take the blame,” says Ricky Ponting, regarding the Australian cricket team’s loss against India. That’s fucking handy, dickhead, because we’re all blaming you.

Captain Ponting insisted that “spin” bowler Nathan Hauritz be part of the team to tour India; Hauritz had been fairly impressive (especially by his standards) in the last series against Pakistan, a team who had all been paid by book-keepers to lose the games they played. Strangely, when the Australian team played against India, a team who were being paid to win games, they found the competition a bit different.

When the Indians were asked to chase 200-odd runs on the final day of the test match, the Aussie captain decided to take all of the fielders out of catching positions and asked Nathan Hauritz to roll his arm over. With the field set back against the slow bowler, it became a little bit too easy for the Indian batsmen to adopt the age-old backyard cricket tradition of “tip and run.” Since Hauritz couldn’t turn a car on a Nascar track, this made the task of defeating the Indians a bit harder. Ponting has kept faith in his team-mate and suggests he pisses off back to NSW and fucks up their team for a bit.

Australia lost the Indian series 2-0, with Ponting claiming that the result was “a bit harsh.” In a two-game series, I would say that the result was “fair” and Australia were “lucky” that it didn't stretch out to three games.

The condition that could affect 50% of the world

Australian quasi-celebrity Matthew Newton made news this week by allegedly beaten seven shades of shenanigans out of his model girlfriend Rachael Taylor whilst holidaying in Rome – ‘holidaying’ is an Italian word for “being an unemployed actor and nailing a hot chick in a foreign country.” This has turned Australian audiences against the son of TV legend and long-time death-knell for Australian television productions, Bert Newton, and forced Bert, most of Bert's head and handbag wife Patti, back onto our television screens to defend their - sorry, his - good name. Just think what life would be like without the Newtons on TV – some other head on a stick would have to host the all-too entertaining clip show ‘20 to 1’ - maybe the bloke who was the puppeteer for Agro; I reckon if he’s not in jail for molesting every chick he’s ever met, he’d be pretty good at it. I’m not putting any money on that, though.

As Bert and Patti revealed on their very touching, sincere and carefully scripted interview on A Current Affair, Matt has “a mental illness” and needs “treatment” for his “condition.” I believe that Matt has in fact been diagnosed with a massive case of the “fuckwits,” which he inherited from his parents. While it isn’t entirely curable, it can be controlled through not taking copious amounts of meth while sucking on a bottle of vodka.

Being a fuckwit can be hard, especially for a fuckwit of Matt Newton’s proportions. As mum Patti offered to the cameras earlier this week, “Matt has never been one to take anti-depressants or behaviour-modifying drugs. He is too creative to allow his mind to be dulled.” Well, we wouldn’t want to put a curb on Matt’s creativity as he expresses himself by reciting lines that someone else has written while someone else tells him how to say them. Least of all should we worry about the career of Matt’s now ex-girlfriend and unwilling sparring partner, Rachael Taylor, whose job consists of looking pretty. Looking pretty isn’t the most challenging of all jobs, but is made slightly harder after you’ve been punched in the face and had your head smashed against a marble floor.

Being a fuckwit can be hard

Matty’s career has gone from strength to strength since appearing as “Fuckwit Kid” in the Aussie movie Looking for Alibrandi and a string of roles in failed TV shows such as ‘Fuckwit Surgeon’ on The Surgeon and ‘Fuckwit Guy’ on Right Here, Right Now followed, before playing himself (‘Fuckwit’) on Stupid, Stupid Man. His latest role was in the “stirring” Channel 9 blockbuster series Underbelly where he played a naked buttock who liked to paint. For his performance as New Zealand drug lord Terry Clarke’s arse, Matt Newton received Logie awards for “Most Incorrect Accents Used For One Character” and “Actor Most Overshadowed by Sally from Home and Away.”

Incidentally, I have nominated Bert and Patti for next year’s Logies in the ‘Best Dramatic Role’ category after performing quite well as ‘Concerned Parents’ in their ACA interview.

Bert and Patti Newton prepared for their role by meeting real-life Concerned Parents

“Matt has always had a violent temper, even as a young kid,” said Bert and Patti as they wandered down memory lane in an effort to work out the exact moment that Matt graduated from being a dickhead to being a fuckwit. Strangely, Matt’s violent temper has never shown itself to giant Maori bouncers at Sydney nightclubs, football players, or for that matter, anyone with a set of testicles and traces of testosterone flowing through their body.

Currently, Matt is sitting somewhere nice and warm in a drug and alcohol rehabilitation centre, waiting for the media storm to die down and the out-of-court settlement cheque to Rachael Taylor to clear before he graces our television screens once more and somehow gets away with beating the shit out of a woman.

Get well soon, fuckwit.

how talking can be an extreme sport

It’s time to dust off the crowbar and start cracking skulls again. This week, I’m smashing the shit out of five phrases that really piss me off.

1. “Literally.”

A lot of the people who say “literally” to emphasise a point use it in such a way that they make it obvious that they literally don’t know the literal meaning of the word “literally.”

“He ate so much he literally exploded.”

Did he really fucking literally explode? I’m pretty sure he didn’t. If you drop a ‘literally’ within my earshot, I will literally beat your face with my crowbar. Literally.

2. “My bad.”

My bad? MY BAD?

“Oooh, sorry, didn’t mean to drop that piano on your grandmother. My bad.”

“What?”

“My bad.”

“…”

“…”

“Your bad what?”

“…”

“…”

“What?”

*SMACK*

“Oh, was that your head meeting my crowbar? My bad.”

3. “Ain’t.”

What the fuck is this word short for?

“That ain’t my crowbar!”

No, it’s mine and it’s heading towards your face.

4. “Think outside the square.”

People who say that they think “outside the square” are dicks. There’s no square, there’s no box. There’s just thinking… and there’s a crowbar.

5. “That’s impossible – they proved that on Mythbusters.”

Just because two fat fucking idiots on a TV show can’t hack through a pig’s head with an axe with one swing doesn’t mean that I can't cut through eighteen vikings with a blunt razor. The Mythbusters guys can’t get laid either, but other people are doing that. The only thing those guys can do is wear stupid hats and grow shitty facial hair. That myth has been busted, and so have their faces. By my crowbar.

Dojos all over the world are popping up to teach self-defence against crowbar wielding psychopaths like me

another day, another crowbar

I am not, at time of writing, a celebrity. And I will tell you why – it has nothing to do with talent or looks or marketing. It is because I am not a whore.

Celebrities go on chat shows with Oprah and Ellen and Letterman and talk about what’s going on in their life. I have no problem with rich people doing rich person things, but it’s when they expect applause for every fucking little thing they do, that I get pissed off.

“So what did you do for your holidays?”
“After filming ‘Another Shit Movie 4’, I felt like I needed a break, so I headed to the unspoilt tropical paradise of the Caribbean with my family for a few months. It was just what we needed, you know, swimming with dolphins and relaxing for eighteen hours a day on the beach.”
“Well you thoroughly deserved it; your role ‘Another Shit Movie 4’ is being touted as one of the hardest characters you’ve ever played.”
“That’s right, it was very difficult. I had to do a lot of research, you know, reading and such, to really understand the character. I even met with people who had been through similar experiences to my character and spoke to them about it. Yeah, it was a really tough time.”
*audience applauds*
“Well, you were paid over $10 million to do this film, but it sounds like you really earned your money.”
“Oh definitely. I mean, filming took a couple of weeks, like, five or six weeks. And it was intense. Some of the scenes were really late at night, others were very early in the morning, plus I had to have my make-up and hair done every day – sometimes more than once a day – which was really hard as well.”
“I understand you were injured while filming?”
“Yeah, that’s correct – it’s a really intense scene on a boat where I fall into the water. And the water was really cold. When I fell in, the cold water shocked me so much that I thrashed around a bit too much - I went into shock - and scratched my arm on the protective harness I was wearing. But you know, these things happen and after a bit of time back on land, I was like, 'You know what? Let’s just film this scene.'”
*audience applauds*
“You also had a baby recently, am I right?”
“That’s right as well – my wife and I recently welcomed our baby Arizona D’Artagnan Makynzie.”
*audience applauds*
“Thanks, thanks a lot. It was a really special time.”
“And how is Arizona going with the family?”
“Just great. She is sleeping a few hours a night – “
“Just like you, am I right?”
“—haha yeah, exactly. I mean it’s hard, passing her onto our live-in nanny, but with a yoga-lates class early the next morning, I really do need my eight hours. It's true what they say, being a parent is very hard work. But you know what? I wouldn't change a damn thing.”
*audience applauds*
“You’re preaching to the converted, my friend! Ladies and gentleman, please thank special guest Over Paid Actor!”
*audience applauds*

Brrrring bring

This instalment of angry ranting is for one particular group who walk among us like regular people. They eat the same food, shop at the same Two-Dollar Shops and rent the same DVDs that we do. They’re in our workplaces, at our schools and universities and in our bars.

They are the people who yell “Yuppie!” whenever someone’s mobile phone rings.

To those dickheads, I welcome them to the year 2010; a place in history where you can buy mobile phones for $20 from Woolworths with your groceries.

This is not the 1980s anymore, Yuppie Yellers; everyone from 10-year old kids to 90-year old pensioners have mobile phones and they don't even have an income. The worst part about the Yuppie Yeller is that the only time they stop Googling their own balls on their iPhone is to shriek “Yuppie!” when someone else’s mobile goes off. I wonder if there’s a crowbar protection application they can download? If there is, they’d better do it soon.

The Crowbar Club

It has been a while since I’ve added anyone to my “Crowbar List,” so I figure it’s about time I updated it. After all, there are plenty of people who are pissing me off who are without crowbar scars, and I’m sure as hell not getting any prettier, so it’s time to level the playing field.

Today I'm going to piss and moan and crowbar the television show The Mentalist. I have watched about six minutes of this crapfest show and in that time saw a woman hypnotise a cop and persuade him to throw Simon Baker off a rather tall building. Simon Baker then used his own powers of hypnosis to snap the cop out of his trance instead of physically struggling against him while he floundered around like a retarded child zombie. Meanwhile, the hypnotist chick who started this who shitfarm had a gun trained on Simon Baker throughout the whole ordeal. Call me old fashioned, but wouldn't it have been quicker and easier to shoot him rather than try to hypnotise someone to make them think that they were 8-years old and at “the lake”, skimming stones across the water and make them think that Simon Baker was a small, flat stone? (yes, that is how the episode went, I am not making this up. I'm not that clever).

The Mentalist is fucked and I hate everyone involved with it, and a special crowbarring goes to Simon Baker for being the leading 'actor' in it. Another bashing should also go to the guy who does the voice over for the promos for it: “Australia’s Simon Baker is… The Mentalist.” (a) As an Australian, I would prefer it if me, my land and my countrymen were never associated with this bucket of dick television show, and (b) just because there’s an Australian actor (putting on an American accent) in a strangely successful television series, it doesn’t really increase my desire to switch it on. Besides, with Dieter Brummer rocking the world in Underbelly, I have successfully fulfilled my "must watch shitty soap actors from the early 90s" urge.

As if you don't want to crack this fucker with a crowbar.

On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me...

Twelve groups a-crowbarred


People who ride those horizontal bike things, and especially when they ride them on the road. These tools are always in my blind spot when I’m driving, and due to the stupid shape of their bike things, are about as high as the gutter. Don’t blame me when I run you over. Get a real fucking bike, you idiots.

People who hawk gym memberships at shopping centres. I know it’s your job, but you can surely get a better one. I’ve got a good one, and I’m a fucking numpty. If I’m wandering around killing time for my lunch break, I don’t want to be harassed by some idiot trying to get me to sign up to a gym, or I’ll be doing more than killing time, if you get my drift. I’ll be killing them. Did I over explain that?

People who use television as a personality should be put into a horizontal bike and run over. Congratulations on memorising entire seasons of sitcoms, and thanks everso for repeating them back to me. I will allow a “Did you hear what Chandler said on Friends last night?” but I will not allow a “that reminds me of an episode of Will and Grace, where Will was worried about his job, and he said to Grace, who was worried about her boyfriend, that if you cut a starfish into many pieces, each piece will grow to become another starfish.” This is especially not welcomed when the topic of conversation was Voltron vs Power Rangers, and the entire convo is then worked not to starfish, but to motherfucking Will and Grace.

Busking children come out at Christmas as surely as Christmas beetles will hang on my flyscreen window when it gets hot at night. Note to busking children – a recorder is not an instrument, stop pretending it is one. You could be playing Mozart’s Unfinished Symphony in G, and it would still sound like a shit version of ‘Mary had a little lamb.’ The best kid busker I saw was this little dude who had a boom box (that’s right, a motherfucking boom box) and some awesome 80s music blaring out of it. The kid danced to the music like a key-tar player in an electronica band and didn’t let up for about an hour. He earned my twenty cents, I’ll tell you.

Spammers have been flooding my email box of late. Apparently I’ve won myself quite a handsome amount from the UK lottery, I’ve got some goat-herding millionaire in Namibia who wants me to look after a couple of mill for him while he sorts out his taxes, I’ve been selected to buy some cock expanding pills and some spanner I’ve never heard of wants me to buy some medicines from Canada. The best thing about spammers is their email address. I’m fairly sure that the UK lottery has a better email address than uklottery@hotmail.com. I can’t wait to get that money though.

I hate advertising campaigns that use models that look a little bit like celebrities. It’s not the model’s fault, but it annoys me when I have to do a double take because I think the guy posing for a Just Jeans ad is the guy that used to be on Buffy.

Motherfucking voice recognition phone line system things are shit. Vodafone are arseholes purely because of this. Useless pricks, keeping me on hold for a fucking month before I get put through to someone in Bangladesh who informs me that the customer service line is closed. A customer service line that’s always closed doesn’t help me pay a bill, tigers. It's also fairly impossible to order a pizza these days as well. I'm glad their new high-tech bullshit thing is saving them from paying a 15 year-old kid to answer the phone, but it's also costing them a trillion dollars in pizza orders. And they never remember the fucking chicken wings anyway.

Banks are shit as well. I understand that they don’t want me to use another bank’s ATM so they ping me with some exorbitant fee (they should really put a St George ATM outside every pub in the world; I’d be a freakin millionaire), but they also find it ok to charge me to use their ATMs, their internet banking site, their tellers and their accounts. Sorry bank, but you’ve kind of put a fee on everything, and you’re closed whenever anyone needs you. And none of your pens work. I should fucking charge you a fee for making me use my own pen. Excuse me for hating you.

I don’t understand why celebrities feel the need to give their kids shit names. Nicole Kidman and Keith Kidman-Cruise squeezed out their puppy and named it Sunday Rose. Yes, we understand there’s a story about an artist and a prostitute in there somewhere, but it’s still a stupid name (and the story isn’t flattering, just quietly). The Beckham astronauts keep fucking up names (Romeo, Cruz and Mr Sheen), which inspired Lleyton Hewitt and Bec Cartwright to name their latest Cruz as well – when did Cruz become a fashionable name anyway? But the winner of the Mister Evil Breakfast Award For Retarded Celebrity Couple Of The Year (Even Though I’ve Never Heard Of One Of Them) (MEBAFRCCOTY[ETINHOOOT]) goes to Ashlee Simpson (surprise) and Pete Wentz, who had some secks and named their cabbage patch doll Bronz Mawgli. I’m assuming they were playing Scrabble and started throwing tiles at each other to come up with that sucker. People with more money than brain cells should be forced to get a licence to procreate. I just googled Pete Wentz and found out he’s in Fall Out Boy. Ride that emo wave, Pete.

Bums in the city who will beg for $2 for a sandwich or a bus ride. Seriously, piss off. I need my $2 for my own sandwiches and bus rides. If you tell me what it’s really for, I might help you out. Ask me for a few coins to buy some cheap booze or some Horizon Filter cigarettes and you may just find a couple of silvers coming your way. Honesty is the best policy, underage drinkers, smokers and junkies of Canberra.

This one’s a bit generic – I hate idiot drivers. I got stuck behind a fucking stupid Renault the other day. I’ve never been in a Renault before, but I’m assuming that it has, you know, pedals at your feet to control speed, a big wheel thing that you turn to change direction, some dials on the dash to tell you all kinds of interesting things... why then, did the one I was driving behind suddenly stop in the middle of the road? Was it because the driver was a pelican? (yes) If only there was some kind of test that people had to pass before they were allowed to take control of a motor vehicle, huh? Life would be sweet.

People who complain too much about everything – people, places, TV, movies, some fucking football team that never fucking wins and then write a shitty blog about it... seriously, just get over it. It’s Christmas for fuck’s sake. Cheer up. Also, people who move to Canberra and then bitch about it because they go to a pub and can get to the bar within the hour, can hear what their friends are saying and live a maximum of 30 minutes by car from home to work... sorry, go back to Sydmelbelaide if you’d rather spend your life in queues.



PS. Merry Christmas.




Twelve groups a-crowbarred, eleven words of awesome, ten ads-a-crapping, nine nerds a-rofling, eight cancelled shows, seven bumper stickers, six Ponting problems, five drinking games, four random reviews, three ways to get rich, too many beers and a bright shiny new crowbar.

Talking bout my motivation

If you've been on the email system during the past three minutes, chances are you have received a "De-motivational poster" as a joke attachment. You know the ones that have the kitten hanging from a tree branch with the caption, "Hang in there", or a picture of a mountain with the words "Perseverance is everything" or some such bullshit? Well, the de-motivationals would have a picture of a cat in a tree with the caption "I hate cats" and a mountain with the words "this is a fucking tall mountain lol!!"

Anyway, I thought I'd give it a crack of my own (I got bored over the weekend). This series is dedicated to the person I despise the most right now... Mr Ricky Chipmunk Ponting.

Enjoy. LOL ROFL

I have no idea how these are going to turn out, so if you can't read them properly, either get your eyes checked, call the Reading/Writing Hotline (1300 06 555 06), or click on the pics and they should go bigger. I don't know, I'm not a computer genius.

Chef's surprise

Due to a recent outbreak of violent attacks involving crowbars (thank you, anonymous comment-leaver), I've decided to become a bit more circumspect in my rantings and put the crowie away for the week. However, I feel I need to get something off my chest, and instead of adding them to my infamous Crowbar List TM, I will add them to the reservation list at the Coogee Bay Hotel.

So who's munching on a shit sandwich today?

- Aussie cricket team (but mostly Ricky Ponting)

Even after the bashing I gave them last week, they still didn't improve too much. I'm pointing a big, fat finger at Ricky Ponting as the main poo-eater here. The other boys picked up their games somewhat (even Shane Watson got wickets, for fuck's sake), but Ponts didn't want a bar of it. Or maybe he wanted to go back to the bar. In any case, he wasn't too keen on playing cricket. One double-scoop cone of your finest for the captain, please!

While we're on the subject of cricket, I'm sending a slice of choc-shit-mint slice to all the journalists who use the term 'reverse swing'. There's outswing (the ball moves away from the right hander) and inswing (moves into the right hander). Reverse swing? Which fucking way is it going?


- Barack Obama

Nothing against the guy, I'm just a bit over him. For a country that everybody hates, the media sure gave the US election a lot of attention. And being a bit honest here - it means dick all to Australia. As long as there are Oreos being processed and delivered to my local shops, I'm a happy camper. Besides, Morgan Freeman was the first black president anyway. Doesn't anyone remember "Deep Impact"? Meanwhile, Kevin Rudd's going to streak at the footy just so he can get on tv again. One 'chocolate' mousse for the new President, thanks.


- People everywhere

"Wah wah wah, the stock market crashed! The world is over!" The world is not over, stop being such a wanker and eat your Coogee Shit Pie. Has anyone noticed it, really? My groceries cost me an extra 13 cents, but I'm not about to sell my good kidney for it, because I'm pretty sure I bought 13 cents worth of extra grapes. Until Woolies is paying people to shop there, everyone will complain about the price of something. Can't buy a new car? Don't get one. Can't afford Foxtel? Then watch free-to-air; they're mostly the same shows anyway. Can't afford internet? Don't get it then - I'm sure your Facebook friends will be disappointed beyond all belief (they might even say "DBAB man! LOL!" on your 'wall') that they won't know that you're either "listening to Duran Duran LOL!!" or "feeling a bit sweaty gross LOL!!".


- Baz Lurhhhman and Nicole Kidman

Baz gets the award for the most unimaginative film title ever for "Australia". Nice work, Barry. Have a poo-covered lamington, tiger. I'm also offering an eclair de shit to Nicole Kidman, just so I can see if that will get her to change her facial expression. Nom nom nom.


- Good News Week

Channel 10 took off 90210 for another serve of this torrid dirge of lameness? Seriously, this show had its run back in 1923, and it was mildly entertaining then, but now it's a sad parody of itself that doesn't even try to convince the viewers that the script is improvised. If I have to wait for Mikey Robins to stutter and stammer and rush his way through another explanation of a "crazy" news story about a cat who can count, followed by a predictable and not-entirely-clever punchline, I'm going to hide a crowbar in the Shit Pizza I'm delivering to the GNW set. Hey Paul, sing that fucking song you always do. That'll be a surprise. And get more politicians on as guests, they're a laugh riot.


Bon appetit!

anger... rising...

Mister Evil Breakfast's List Of People I Want To Punch In The Head Or Hit With A Crowbar Because They Piss Me Off (MEBLOPIWTPITHOHWACBTPMO)

No intro required, I think the heading says it all. Let's polish up our knuckles and get into the grand old tradition of cracking skulls.


People who say "Taxi" when someone drops a glass

You've probably heard it in a pub, restaurant, at a party... but strangely, not at a taxi rank... the sound of a dropped glass followed by some champion shouting, "Taxi!" It's supposed to be a humorous quip to let everybody within earshot know that (a) someone has just dropped a glass, and (b) they're obviously too drunk to be able to stand, walk, or hold another glass and should be taken home.

The "Taxi!" thing was funny when you were 17. Now you're 53, it's lost a bit of its charm. Get a new line, or shut the hell up when I throw my glasses around. The next time I hear someone shout "Taxi!" in a pub, I'm going to yell "Duck!" and "Crowbar!" If you get hit, it's your own fault. I did give you warning.


People who say "I could make this myself" when they're looking at things in a shop


Usually applies to old biddy ducks at the markets when they pick up a hand-crafted photo frame, beaded jewellery or amateur painting. "I could do this myself," they piff. Then fucking do it yourself; show some initiative and open your own fucking shop if it's so damn easy. You could also make your own bread and milk your own cows, but I'm pretty sure you're happy enough to lob a couple of bucks over to Mr Woolworths every week for a few groceries, aren't you? "I could make this myself!" You know what else you could do? Shut up.


The Melbourne Storm

If there was ever a bigger bunch of spastics to play in an NRL Grand Final, I'd like to meet them. It was nice of them to turn up for the rest of the year, but apparently they were all out at Billy Slater's 15th birthday party the night before and slept in. Israel Falou woke up at midday and said, "Hey boys, we've got the grand final on today." And everyone else said, "Nah, not in the mood," rolled over and went back to sleep.

And if any smart-arse from Melbourne wants to 'defend' them by saying, "LOL mister evil breafast, their not into rubgy league were a AFL state here LOL ROFL!" then get your fucking team out of the competition and play your AFL. Also, learn how to catch.


Office Journalists

The latest case to make sensational headlines (other than some bullshit about some kind of sock market crash and how it's going to ruin the economy of the world - I had no idea that socks were that important, honestly) is Aussie backpacker Britt Lapthorne.

I have been involved in three conversations this week about what "really" happened to her in Croatia, and how her decomposed corpse turned up a little bit worse-for-wear. Not for a second am I making fun of what happened to her, what I am making fun of are the people who think they know more from reading an article in the Sydney Morning Herald than the police who are investigating the case. People have justified their "she was drunk and was murdered" statement by saying, "I've been to the cliff that overlooks that beach, it's quite dodgy." Well, fuck. Case closed; how could any dispute that evidence? "Bodies don't decompose that quickly in the water!" Based on what, genius? Your degree in medicine? Your post-grad in forensic science? Your PhD thesis entitled 'The Human Body and Decomposition: The effects of a cliff, sea water and 19 days in Croatia"?

We may never know what happened to her, and judging by the shape of her 'body', we're probably a bit lucky for that.


Little fucking homie kids

I honestly thought these guys were extinct. Apparently they're not, as they have again flourished within the city centres of the world. We've all been fashion victims at one stage in our lives, whether it was the 'too much denim' phase, the 'happy pants' phase, the 'Guns n Roses t-shirt with the home-made cut off jeans' phase, but seriously, what is with this shit where people are wearing their pants around their knees and accessorized by homo belts. Rule: If you wear a belt as an accessory, you're a woman. In my opinion (and it's my opinion that counts), there are too many ugly little people showing off their undies. The best thing about these kids is that they can't run away from me when I decide to kick their ass. I do love it when they trip over their own crotch while I’m chasing them and they start to cry. I’m a man of simple pleasures sometimes.


The Australian Cricket Team

After Australia's 'domination' in the first game of the 2008 series against India (which they still didn't win), they again showed a gritty determination to lie down and give up in the second game.

Losses will happen, fine fine fine, but during this game, they showed a lack of penetration that would have embarrassed Clara Meadmore. The Australian bowlers blame the fact that they couldn't get the Indian brand ball to swing, seam or spin. The Aussie batmen claimed that the ball swung, seamed and spun too much. Here's a solution, Australian Cricket Team: head into Rebel Sport with a couple of bucks and hey, presto. There's a fucking ball. It's red and shiny and round, kind of similar to the red, shiny, round balls that you should have been playing with for a while. It seems that the only balls they've been playing with have been their own, and even then I'm pretty sure they weren't having much fun.

Forget about asking Warney to come back - the guy's retired, get over it. Forget about asking Andrew fucking Symonds to come back; since his 'gone fishing' shenanigans, his scorebook reads like binary code. According to reports, the team is taking a 'mini-break' to forget about cricket and relax before the start of the third game. Well excuse me, but since you're so SHIT at the sport, perhaps it would be better to actually practice it. I'm useless at playing the guitar, but if I was in a guitar-playing contest, I'd probably put my holiday on hold for a bit and pick up the axe.

So much punching and only two fists. I wish I was this guy (and not just because of his beard):

sonny days, chasing the rain away

So... Sonny Bill Williams has decided to turn his back on the National Rugby League (NRL), duck off to France and become a Ruby-Union-playing-cheese-eating-surrender-monkey eh?

Well... I can't say that I have ever been a fan of ol' SBW, but I'm probably less of one right now. And yes, I've been reading stories about him and his contracts and rumours and hearsay and blah blah fucking blah, and all these fucking idiots saying, "LOL SBW did a good thing what if you where offerred three times as much as u where geting at ur job at a nother job down the road LOL off course you wood take it LOL." Good point, illiterate blogger, and yeah, I'd probably take it. But I'd probably also let someone know about it. You know, my friends, workmates, my boss. Just in case, you know, it didn't quite work out. I like to call it "being a decent bloke." Also, if I told people, I might get a farewell afternoon tea, and I quite like cake.

"But MrBerakfast the nrl cant pay him as much LOL he should b fine to sing another contract LOL"

No mate. A contract is an agreement. You’re supposed to honour such agreements. Especially considering that he was earning $400,000 a year, it shouldn’t be too hard to struggle through this one. . He's 22. What the fuck does this kid do with his money that suddenly $400,000 a year (that's over $7,500 a week, excluding endorsements and sponsorship) just isn't quite enough? How much did you earn when you were 22? And you know what he does for a living? He plays football. So far this year, he's played 11 games (and we'd have to assume he's not going to add to that tally), which is around $36,000 a game. The poor lamb, he'd better fuck off out of the country that made him a superstar athlete and earn more money. I fucking hate people sometimes.

Best of luck, Sonny Bill, you fucking hack. Bien venue de la club de crowbar.

it's my party

This guy is a knob










In case you've been living somewhere other than Narre South Warren, Victoria for the past week, you might not have attended the world's greatest party. I was there (not really, but prove me wrong, naysayers. Prove me wrong). Some little punk-ass kid was supposed to crash with his friend while his folks headed to Queensland for a holiday. Said punk-ass kid decided to hit MyFace or SpaceBook or BeboTube or GoogleEarth or whatever it is that you crazy teenagers are using these days, and invited the world over to his house for a party.

You know that scene in The Lion King where the wildebeest stampede and Simba is caught in the gorge? (Spoiler alert: Mufasa dies) Think of that, but instead of hundreds of crazed animals, think of hundreds of pissed teenagers. And instead of Mufasa dying, think of letterboxes being smashed. And instead of Simba, think of Gizmo from Gremlins. Just cause. Also in The Lion King, you know how Timon and Pumbaa dress in drag and do the hula? That kind of happened as well, but instead of a meerkat and a warthog dancing, there were policemen with dogs and a helicopter.
I love Disney films.

In any case, the drunken wildebeest teenage riot cost $20,000 in damages and the cost of the hula-dancing policemen. What does the punk ass kid do? Hides at his friend's place, ignores the calls from his family and whores himself out to any media that will put his ugly little pose on the box. Fair enough, tiger, have yourself a party, wear your Paris Hilton sunglasses, wear a furry parka but no shirt, be as much of a tool as you like, but own up to it. Accept a bit of responsibility that you, Corey McFucktard, organised a bunch of strangers to come to your house, drink turps and paint-stripper and maybe, just maaaaaybe, the 500 or so idiots there 'disrupted the peace'. You're the kind of guy who spreads mayo over tables in McDonalds pisses in shoes while the guy in the shop isn't looking. I'm sure the 15 year old kid who has to clean that up thinks you're hilarious for $7 an hour.

You're a knob, and if I see you in the street, you're getting a crowbar across the back of your head.

However... the worst part is that people are apparently offering him $20,000 to organise another party. $20K is a lot, especially to a retarded 16 year old like Corey. Think of all the Coolabah wine and soda bulbs he could buy with that. Listen here, peeps, the guy didn't organise anything the first time. He put a message on the internet, which is quite, quite free, not entirely time consuming, and available to the world. You could quite possibly do it yourself, and save yourself... ooh, let's say $20,000.

If anyone actually pays this kid to do anything other than flip burgers or stack supermarket shelves, they'll be getting a crowbarring as well.

And just for the record, here's my crowbar list as it stands:

- Anthony Mundine
- Jennifer Lopez
- Kevin Federline
- Wendell Sailor
- Lleyton Hewitt
- Russell Crowe
- Shane Watson
- All of Jet
- Freddie Prinze, Jr
- Justin Timberlake
- Corey

Welcome to the club.