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

Five drinking games

Some people have a habit of drinking too much over the festive season, so in the interest of promoting binge drinking, I’m adding to the cause.

These posts are getting really long. Can't wait for the twelfth day of Christmas, huh?

Drinking for Athletes
This one’s a classic and is guaranteed to get you all kinds of messy, pretty much regardless of which sport you choose. The idea is to get a group of friends around to watch a sporting event – football, soccer, Aussie Rules, cricket, lawn bowls, whatever. Everyone is assigned a player participating in the match to keep their eye on, and they must drink every time that player is mentioned by the commentators or handles the ball. I would advise against enforcing both rules, as there’s only so much alcohol a person is meant to consume, and if your sporting choice is rugby league, union or cricket, try and avoid picking the hooker, scrum half or wicket-keeper. Some players in a team touch the ball way too much. If the commentators mention the team name (i.e. Raiders, Australia), then everyone who is drinking for a player on that team (Alan Tongue, Ricky Ponting) must drink as well.

You might also want to grab a pie or something before the kick-off, because you’ll need some kind of stomach lining. Maybe two pies; sometimes one pie just leaves you with a need for more pie.

“Marshall (drink) kicks ahead, Billy Slater (drink) collects the ball, looks to go the short side, runs into the shoulder of Adam Blair (drink), Slater’s (drink) in trouble now as New Zealand (group drink) drag him towards the sideline… OH! Billy Slater (drink) has thrown the ball away, and Benji Marshall (drink) has picked the ball up as easy as you like and scored the simplest of tries. Billy Slater (drink) has had a brain explosion! Australia (group drink) are gone, this game belongs to the New Zealanders (group drink) tonight!”

Beer Jenga
Beer Jenga was invented sometime in the 4th Century. In the mid 1900s, it was reinvented using wooden blocks. Most of the fun was lost.

What you will need is a lot of bottled beer and some ground on a slight slope. Arrange your beers lying on the ground (stacking them is asking for a lot of lost beer and a sober night) so that they are not rolling anywhere downhill, but precariously balanced to do so. Each player takes a turn to remove a beer from the ‘tower’, slot an empty bottle somewhere in the tower, and try not to cause an avalanche of bottles. Note: If an avalanche does occur, players are free to grab as many beers from the tower as they can, including any from the person who caused the jenga to fall.

CSI
Thankfully, with the current popularity of forensic science on television, you can’t really escape CSI in any of its variations. I’m not exactly positive how different all of the location shows are (seriously, a murder in New York is surely a bit similar to a murder in Miami, right?) One good thing about CSI though, is that it’s not Bones. Why is Bones on so much? I’d rather watch Gordon Ramsay. No I wouldn’t. I’d rather force a live scorpion into my eye.

Anyway, this game requires a television, some alcohol (your choice), and a little TV show called CSI. Let’s roll.

• 1 drink whenever anyone uses the term “DNA.”
• 1 drink whenever anyone is swabbed for DNA.
• 2 drinks whenever the forensic investigator finds a microscopic piece of evidence in a large, dark and cluttered room by instantly honing their torch beam onto it.
• 1 drink when a computer is used to perform complete bullshit data analysis.
• 2 drinks when a photograph segment is blown up beyond all proportion without blurring or loss of detail. Bonus drink if that photo comes from a mobile phone.
• One drink whenever “The Lab” is shown – Jesus, can someone please turn on some fucking lights in there? If you’ve ever been in a real forensics lab checking semen samples (I have pretty quiet weekends), then you know that they’re actually fluorescent lit, horribly uncomfortable places. Not the CSI labs; hell no. Their headquarters was designed by robot versions of the guys from Queer Eye.
• 1 drink whenever one of the investigators offers way too much information on a particular subject, as if they’ve been studying it their entire lives (eg. mating rituals of bees, car prototypes from the 1960s), so what sounds like a forensics lecture gets incorporated into what's supposed to be casual conversation. A bonus drink if they give a reason as to why they know so much. (“I spent a lot of time with my uncle, who had a beehive.” “My ex-boyfriend was a car nut.”)
• 2 drinks when anyone gets a DNA result done in the time it takes another character to get a coffee.
• 1 drink whenever a CSI member leads the SWAT team into a building.
• 2 drinks when a CSI chick beats up a way bigger guy with CSI-brand ninjitsu. Bonus drink if the beating is preceded by a smug remark regarding the fact that she has a vagina.
• 1 drink whenever sunglasses are put on or removed (danger: this could get messy, as apparently Miami fluctuates between being the brightest and darkest place on earth every fifteen seconds).
• 1 drink whenever someone suddenly becomes overwhelmed by the spirit of Mr Miyagi and spouts some bullshit philosophy about “feeling empty when you’re at your most full.” Bonus drink if it’s NOT Horatio, Gary Sinise or the guy with the beard.
• 1 drink if you’re either still awake or still have alcohol left.
  

Action Drinks
This is a generic drinking game for those nights in when you’ve got some mates around and you’re watching a rubbishly good action flick on TV or DVD. The dodgier the action movie, the better. I would recommend anything from the 80s or 90s.

• 1 drink when the main character displays a fatal flaw. 2 drinks if this flaw is alcoholism.
• 1 drink when the main character is seen smoking a cigarette.
• 1 drink whenever the main character draws his gun.
• 1 drink when the main character drops his gun.
• 1 drink when the main character gets shot. Bonus drink if he limps for the rest of the scene but is fine thereafter.
• 1 drink whenever the romantic interest chick shows disdain towards the main character.
• 1 drink when he shares a touching personal story about his past with romantic interest chick. Bonus drink if this leads to them having the sex. Two bonus drinks if you see boob.
• 1 drink if the main character is a cop. 1 drink whenever he gets his arse chewed by his boss. 2 drinks when he is inevitably “taken off the case.”
• 1 drink whenever the geeky sidekick comes in handy for hacking computers. A bonus drink if his hacking ability is shown by him typing “download secret file” or something equally stupid.
• 1 drink whenever shots are fired from moving vehicles.
• 1 drink when two bad guys’ cars crash into each other.
• 1 drink if there’s a conveniently placed ramp that allows a car to become airborne and flip over.
• 1 drink every time a car becomes airborne. Bonus drink if it creates sparks when it lands.
• 1 drink if a car is driven the wrong way down the street. Seriously, this would not be as easy as they make it seem.
• 1 drink if the main character knows how to ride a motorbike. Bonus drink if he ever takes control of a helicopter or plane.
• 1 drink for an over-the-top explosion.
• 1 drink if a bad guy comes back from the dead. Bonus drink if they come back to shoot one bullet into the sidekick. Another bonus drink for the soliloquy that the sidekick then gives before dying.
• 1 drink every time the bad guys shoot at the main character, only to have the bullets deflect off a thin metal rail in front of him.
• 1 drink if the bad guys have the main character backed in a confined space (alley, hallway) and yet still can’t shoot straight.
• 1 drink whenever the main character outruns machine gun fire.
  1 drink for any sequence of slow-motion action (caution: avoid movies directed by John Woo).
• 1 drink for a decapitation. Bonus drink for a bad one-liner following the death of a bad guy.
• 1 drink if there’s a bomb with a generous timer involved.
• 1 drink if the main guy runs after a car or other vehicle and manages to catch it.
• 1 drink for a catchphrase.

Christmas Drinks
It’s beginning to look a smidge like Christmas – so grab a can/bottle/glass of whatever is being dished out at Christmas this year and deck the halls with holly and shit and stuff.

This is a covert game that should be played by yourself or with a single partner. It’s always fun to get loaded in front of your parents and pretend that you’re not retarded.

• 1 drink when you arrive at your parent’s house. You should have a beer in hand before you kiss your mum.
• 1 drink if you sit down under the tree to find out if you have more presents than your siblings do. Have a bonus drink if you do. Have two bonuses if you don’t. Count again if you’re all even – don’t trust your parents when they say they love all of you equally.
• 1 drink at each sign of a fight between your parents. You should also continue to offer drinks to your parents; it will either calm them or infuriate them further.
• 1 drink for it being ridiculously hot at Christmas time in Australia (except for last year; that was ridiculous in a whole new way).
• 1 drink for each relative/neighbour who pops around for a “Christmas drink” or “to say hello.”
• 1 drink each time you see or hear the neighbourhood kids riding brand new bikes in the street or playing with remote control cars. Bonus drink if you hear them stack it. Two bonus drinks if they cry. Three bonuses if you caused it.
• 1 drink each time your mum sings along to the Christmas carol CD she insists on playing every year. Where do people get these CDs anyway?
• 1 drink per present you get (two drinks per present if you don’t get that many).
• 1 drink for each price-tag that’s left on your gifts. That’ll teach mum for wrapping presents after a few wines.
• 1 drink when your parents aren’t sure what to do with the present you got them. Bonus drink if it requires more than one explanation as to how it works/what to do with it.
• Another drink if it dawns on you at that moment that it’s really not such a good gift after all.
• 1 drink if your mum buys you a pair of pants and then insists that you try them on. 1 bonus drink if they fit; 2 bonus drinks if she decides they need to be “taken up”. 3 bonus drinks if she does it within the day.
• 1 drink if you suspect your dad of joining in your drinking game.
• 1 drink per Christmas cracker that has shit toys in it. To save time, just have twelve drinks now.
• 1 drink when your dad offers the inevitable, “Well, that’s Christmas for another year.”
• 1 drink for when your parents nod off in armchairs.
• 1 drink if your parents are trying to make you grow up by giving you bedsheets and saucepans instead of video games, CDs and action figures.
• 1 drink because it’s Christmas.
• 1 drink every time someone has to head down to the shop for more ice, more beer, or some bizarre sauce that only ever gets used at Christmas.
• 1 drink for each Christmas special that you watch on TV. Bonus drink if it involves snow. Two bonus drinks if it’s Australian and involves snow. Three bonus drinks if you watched that same special last year.
• 1 drink if you make it through more than 20 minutes of a religious special on TV before tuning in to ‘A Very Smurfy Christmas’ or ‘Alf’s Christmas.’
• 1 drink per generic “Merry Christmas” text message you receive.
• 1 drink for each take-away container of leftover food your parents try to send you home with.
  

Merry Christmas and don’t drink and drive – it’s double demerits, stupid.

Five drinking games, four random reviews, three ways to get rich, too many beers and a bright shiny new crowbar.

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

Four random reviews

Wall*E was my favourite movie of the year. This little gem from the masters of all things awesome, Pixar, is a story about a horribly polluted future where the Earth is unsuitable for human habitation. Everyone on Earth is piled into a spaceship to live, while thousand of little robots to clear up the mess back home. 500 years later, there's only one robot still trucking away to clean up all the shit that's been left behind.

This flick is unbelievably gorgeous to look at, is smart, funny and moving. If you don't choke up with emotion at one point during this film, you should head into the nearest crowbar store (or even a crowbar museum, if one is available) and beat yourself up a bit. The fact that the first hour or so of this film has dialogue that could quite easily be written onto an ant's left testicle in the middle of winter and still have room for the shopping list (bread, milk, cereal, dim sims) doesn't detract from the story, the characters, the atmosphere or the humour one iota. This movie should win every Academy Award ever; it's just that good ("and the 1926 Oscar for best costuming in a period drama, musical or comedy goes to... Wall*E!"). If I had to pick a flaw in the film, I'd say that it doesn't have any dinosaurs in it.

I'm gonna fucking marry Wall*E one day

Hungry Jack's Angry Whopper promises so much. So damn much. And it delivers little. I'm sorry, HJs, but you're never going to be at the top of the "Mister Evil Breakfast's Awesome Fast Food Places To Have A Snack At" (MEBAFFPTHASA) list, and this burger isn't helping your cause. Let's get into the nitty gritty of it - they've taken a Whopper and added spicy sauce, deep-fried onions and jalapenos to create what should amount to something that will burn your face off and evaporate your blood the second you unwrap it. The guys who make it in the kitchen should be handling the ingredients with giant tongs and welding masks. In reality, what they've done is create a "fiery" Whopper burger that is somehow less spicy than a regular Whopper, despite the addition of chilli. Congrats, Jacks.

The flames on the bag are printed. The ice in my Coke was mild compared to the spice of the Angry Whopper

Kath n Kim: American Version. I'm not going to lie to you - I'm not really much of a fan of the Aussie Kath n Kim. How they ever managed to stretch out three jokes for eight years (or however long the show's been going) is beyond me. Oh look, she's got bum-crack sticking out. Hilarious. She can't pronounce 'chardonnay'. Brilliant. That guy has shit hair. Classic. The US version of our "foxy morons" (side-splitting) has taken our show and ignored everything about it that made it popular. Aussie Kath n Kim is a parody of middle-to-low socio-economic life. US Kath n Kim seems to be a parody of a television show. Not only did the writers (and I use that term loosely) omit the three jokes that made the original series funny, they decided to remove absolutely every element of humour altogether. I watched one episode, and had to set fire to my television afterwards, for fear of having the urge to watch it again next week. The storyline (another loose term) consisted of Kath trying to book a horse-drawn carriage for her wedding, while her fiancé created a new sandwich in his shop for her - wait for it, it's TUNA and SAUSAGE. LOL ROFL those foods don't go together! In other parts of the show, Kim wasn't sure whether to break up with her boyfriend, until he tells her that he's going to breed his dog and receive seventeen shit-tins of money for it. So she doesn't break up with him after all. LMAO she is such a scammer! I feel sorry for everyone involved with this show, including the viewers - perhaps the loosest term in this review.

The one thing less funny than Kath n Kim is Kath n Kim: America

I recently went to Hoyts cinema. The movie that I saw was James Bond Quantum of Solace – but this review is not about that. I went with my dad, but this review is not about him (he’s tops, though). This is a review of my cinema experience at the Woden complex.

I was greeted by a trillion people in line to buy tickets, and only one person (who looked to be celebrating the onset of puberty) serving at the ticket booth and candy bar. I can’t really remember when the two booths became one, but if you’re not after popcorn, drinks, ice-creams or choccies, it’s annoying while the twelve thousand people in front of you debate whether to get M&Ms or Maltesers, and what size Coke to get. Just get a fucking large, and step aside - I’ve got some James Bond to see here, and all I want is a fucking ticket. The 14-year old ticket kid advises that the movie has already started, and I should make my way straight inside. Thanks, genius. Although I wouldn’t have been late if you didn’t ask me if I wanted each individually item this place has to offer. “You want these M&Ms?” “No.” “These ones?” “No.” “These ones?” “No. Wait. No.” “This popcorn?” “No.” “This popcorn?” “Yes.” “Really?” “No.” I don’t want your fucking popcorn - I’m here with my dad, and he doesn’t appreciate it when I spill popcorn down his shirt or stick it in his ears. Actually, no-one I’ve gone to the movies with appreciates that, but I think I can get away with it more.

So there’s a flunky who rips my ticket (secretly, I want his job) and sends me to Cinema 3. “Second door on the left,” he tells me. AKA the door with the big “3” above it. The kid at the ticket desk said the movie had already started. It hadn’t. I could have actually watched six other films before James Bond really started. Previews, previews, ads, previews, ads, ads, ads (it seems to be a rule that you can’t create a decent commercial for the cinema audience), preview, preview, preview, ad, ad for Hoyts (which is always handy in case you thought you were at Dendy or something), ad, preview, ad, and fucking finally the movie starts. I don’t want to sound old here, but there were too many previews (and I love previews). And none of them were for good movies. So James Bond comes on and it’s all well and good until my eardrums literally exploded and everyone around me was covered in ear-blood. I tried to call for help, but no-one could hear me. It really was quite a loud movie.

If a movie has to rely on having “awesome sound” to be good, the chances are that it was a shitbox of a film to start with. I’m not putting Quantum of Salsa in that category, but it kind of made me hate it more than I should have. The stupid thing was that despite the volume, the dialogue was still hard to understand; possibly because of some feedback, possibly because of my melted eardrums and possibly because there was none worth listening to.

And then they turned on the air-conditioning, despite the fact that it was about 5 degrees outside. They should have handed out promotional beanies or given everyone a hip flask with whiskey in it. Or they could have left the air-con off for a bit. I dunno, maybe I’m just being radical.

Hoyts Woden Cinema 3: You get one gold star, and I’m going to steal something from you next time I’m there.

The "If it's hot, it's Hoyts" campaign was wrong in so many ways

Four random reviews, three ways to get rich, too many beers and a bright shiny new crowbar.

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

Three ways to get rich

There’s been a disturbing amount of money being won on TV game shows for doing absolutely fuck all lately. I’m talking about The Rich List, Deal or No Deal and Are You Smarter Than A Fifth Grader? The average punter walks about with about $30,000 that they didn’t fully deserve. If you’re struggling a smidge with Christmas expenses, here’s a way to fill some stockings:

The Rich List (which I’ve reviewed before) is a piece of piss. You name groups of things and earn money. Countries with a ‘Y’ in their name. Movies starring Harrison Ford. Songs by the Beatles. Things found on an Eight-Meats Pizza. Fucking easy. Anyone who doesn’t walk away from this show with a billion dollars should be taken to Steve Irwin’s animal park and fed to a giant squid. Also, Steve Irwin’s animal park should get a giant squid.

Deal or No Deal (also discussed on here at some point) apparently has an allergic reaction to not giving money away. The game is pure luck, but hey; play it halfway smart and you should walk away with a veritable goatload of cash. When did receiving $15,000 from a half-hour show become commonplace? I’d fucking love $15,000 right about now. I’d buy a ninja with it.

Are You Smarter Than A Fifth Grader? is possibly the worst one on this list. Is the world getting stupider? When a grown man who presumably holds down a $50,000+ a year job can’t identify the verbs in a sentence, there is something seriously wrong with humanity. The worst part of this game show is that you don’t actually have to do anything for the first three questions due to the generous “lifelines” that are given to each contestant. Let your fifth-grade partner answer for you, and bingo – you’ve just won somewhere near $20,000. If I ever get on this show, I am going to play Nintendo while the kids answer those three questions for me. Then I’d take my cheque, thank everyone for their time and buy a shitload of cheese. I fucking love cheese.

Three ways to get rich, too many beers and a bright shiny new crowbar.

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

Too many beers

T’is the silly season once again; the time of year where drinking will take a higher priority than usual and meeting friends for a Christmas beer is the order of the day.

It all starts with a call from your mate on Monday; “Let’s grab a brew after work,” they say. Sounds harmless, you think, and when the final whistle is blown in the office, you rush out the door and find yourself with a frosty beverage in hand and a friend or two at your table within ten minutes. Mmm tastes good yes. Your phone rings in your pocket – it’s another invite for a “quick Chrissy drink.” Before you know it, you’ve got a fresh drink in front of you and more people at your table. Halfway through your new schooner, you’ve received another call, two text messages and bumped into at least one more of your mates. Since Christmas is about giving, your friends will present you with more beers, to which you should return the favour. Soon enough, you’ll be so full of Christmas cheer that you won’t mind the fact that it’s now officially Thursday, nor the fact that your sentences will go a little bit like this: Nah nah nah nah nah just shhhh for a sec, shhhh shh shhhhh ok? Yeah, nah, it's like you know how it's like when you're like ah I dunno like umm... nah nah shhhhh I'm getting there ok shh. Yeah, so ummm. Yeah nah, shh hang on. Ah fuck it, I don't know. Whatever man. Let's just keep drinking. Shhh. Drink. I love you. No, shut up. I love you. Shut up, fuckhead. I – LOVE – YOU. Fuck. Just shut up.

Too many beers and a bright shiny new crowbar.

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

A bright, shiny new crowbar.

With all the shenanigans that have occurred during the year (dodgy Australian cricketers, little spastics having parties, rugby league players who don't play rugby league, shit ads, spiders and Big Brother just to name a few), my crowbar is looking a bit worse-for-wear, and blood is not an easy stain to remove.

*Note: Recent addition to the Crowbar List is a partridge, especially if it's in a pear tree. I don't know what a partridge looks like, but if I look into a pear tree and see something other than pears in it, that particular something will christen my new crowie.

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.

Thursday bloody Thursday

Things that shit me:

Crap TV shows

Crap celebrities

Crap Australian cricketers



Things that shit me today:

Crap TV shows

Crap celebrities

Crap Australian cricketers



Let's wipe the dust off our crowbars and start whacking...



Crap TV Shows

You know who needs to see a movie called Australia? Australians, apparently. You know who would rather not be badgered by horrible marketing campaigns about a movie called Australia, set in Australia, starring Australians and made by Australians? Australians. You know who's way more excited about this film than she should be? Oprah Winfrey. I watched fourteen seconds of some crap called 'Oprah Winfrey yells at Hugh Jackman and Nicole Kidman for an Hour' and saw (i) Oprah Winfrey yell at Hugh Jackman and Nicole Kidman; (ii) Oprah mentally undress Hugh Jackman, dip him in chocolate and eat him; and (iii) Nicole Kidman struggle to look human.


I couldn't stand it anymore, so I flicked over to Getaway... which had a story on Australia the movie. Dermot Brereton (I think, all AFL players look alike to me) made casual conversation with a real-life drover seem as painful as watching an actual game of AFL. The best edit they came up with for that particular story was the following gripping exchange:

Dermot Bererereton: "Nice sunsets you're got around here."

Drover: "Yep."

Dermott Beneton: "Beautiful. Absolutely perfect."

Drover: "Yep."

Kermit Bertnewton: "Sensational, mate."

Drover: "...yep."



Trust me on this one, Dermie - he didn't fucking make the sunset. He just lives in a magical place where the sun occasionally sets.

By the way, next time you make a mahoosive deal about how fucking spectacular a sunset is, don't do it in the middle of the day. Wait until, oooh I dunno... sunset.



The next story on Getaway involved some pelican wandering around Sydney drinking coffee at a bunch of different cafes. Some people have hard jobs, I reckon.



This brings me to...



Crap celebrities

Exhibit A: Ms Katriona Rowntree. I have seen her in person, and although I was well on my way to being past my best in terms of table manners at the time, I can say without a shadow of a lie that she is REALLY short, and a bit of a bitch. This was again proven in Getaway (not that she's short, that's just a fact you'll have to trust me on), but during her "job", she managed to endure a trip to Samoa and patronise everyone she met. She was as surprised as fourteen goats in a limousine to find that these people had mobile phones and(gasp) television, and that she could talk to them about general things like family and careers.


Holy shit Kaortina, it's as if these people are... human!



Which then brings me back to...


Crap TV shows


The Amazing Race. Actually, it's an enjoyable TV show, but the contestants are all pretty much idiots... if I was going on a reality game show where it entailed me to travel to foreign countries in hurried and high-pressure situations, I'd probably (i) pick up a map at some stage of my life and look at places other than my own neighbourhood; and (ii) take someone along with me who I know I'll be able to talk to and rely on.


If I had married and then divorced someone, I probably wouldn't take them. If I couldn't live with them in a house, sharing an airplane seat for the next few weeks with them probably wouldn't bode well.


I also wouldn't take someone I'd just started dating either. Nothing gets a relationship off to a strong start like yelling at your new girlfriend for spray-painting a car in India too slowly.



Then there's Bones. Fuck you, Bones. This show shits me. One-dimensional characters doing one-dimensional things who know everything about everything ("...that pollen comes from a particular typeof Japanese cherry blossom" was one of the great lines that allowed Bones and Buffyguy to catch their killer) makes the hour before Heroes feel like I've just watched another fucking documentary on Australia.

Also, I hate TV shows where they use computers that beep every time something on the monitor moves (including the cursor). That would piss me off something chronic. You know how it is when someone's mobile phone keeps beeping? Imagine that, but every single second of the day. There wouldn't be enough crowbars in the world, my friend.


Right now, I need eleven crowbars for...


The Australian Cricket Team


You guys suck. Well, I'll let Huss off, because I love him like Oprah loves a chocolate-covered Hugh Jackman, and Pup gets a reprieve for this game as well because he knuckled out 98 runs (be honest, Clarkey, you didn't deserve the ton; you edged 83% of the deliveries you faced), but everyone else gets a special delivery from the Crowbar Fairy (who is actually a pirate). Watson gets a double serving, because he's tits useless.





Wow. This is a long post. Here's a picture of a robot. If I made a robot, it sure as hell wouldn't be playing the violin. Unless, of course, playing the violin made people catch on fire.

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):

things that go bump in the night

I really do need to update this blog thing more often; I keep saving these links in the hope that I'll actually get to writing something hilarious about it one day.

This one must have been a slow news day, even for the Adelaide papers: http://www.news.com.au/adelaidenow/story/0,22606,24245098-5005962,00.html

AN Indian filmgoer rented out an entire cinema to disprove a director's claim that his latest horror movie is so scary no one can watch it alone.
Pavin Ponanna, 30, booked all 227 seats at a Bangalore multiplex for an evening screening of Phoonk, the Pioneer newspaper reported.
He asked cinema staff to have a doctor on call, but emerged declaring: "I never felt scared, not even for a moment. I took just 10 minutes to settle down."
Bollywood producer-director Ram Gopal Verma had challenged any fan to watch Phoonk - the story of a happy family suddenly beset by the evil forces of black magic - on their own.
Mr Ponanna, an advertising professional, visited a temple to prepare for the experience, the Pioneer said.
The tickets cost him 47,000 rupees ($1160).

I was going to do the same thing for Beverly Hills Chiauahua, but realised that at Hoyts' prices, it would have cost me $3,518.50 for 227 seats, plus at least double that for a tub of popcorn and a Coke. Personally, I don't have that much cash, nor do I have the inclination to take advertising tag-lines and marketing guff as truth. If people took the tagline for Jaws ("Don't go in the water") seriously, no one would swim, and the swimming races at the Olympics would suck big time, although the diving could be way cooler. Plus, everyone would smell and I'm pretty sure Bondi Beach would have been closed down. People who hadn't seen Jaws would be asking, "Hey man, why aren't you swimming?" And you'd be saying, "Fuck man, haven't you seen Jaws? Don't go in the water," and the other people would laugh at you and go and swim in the beach and you'd be sitting on the sand, ruing the day you ever watched Jaws.

The Blair Witch Project had the line "everything you've heard is true". Really, EVERYTHING. Like, what about the story about the old man who lives down the end of the street who has a big mean dog and all the kids say that if you lose a ball in his back yard, the man will trap you and feed you to his dog and keep your ball? Is that true? IS IT?! HUH?!

And let's be honest, this is a line that the DIRECTOR OF THE MOVIE uttered. Last time I checked, movie directors will rarely say, "This movie is a piece of shit, I wouldn't see it." (We'll leave that up to George Clooney when talking about Batman and Robin - by the way, Georgie boy, you still owe me money).

I'm glad Mr Ponanna-the-spanner is such a hardcore film-goer that to "prepare for the experience", he had to visit a temple. This guy would be a pain in the arse to hang out with.
"Hey Ponanna, do you want to go and see a movie? Wall E starts in 20 minutes."
"Shit no, there's no time to go to a temple."
"But it's not a horror film. It's a family movie about a robot..."
"I am not prepared to see that movie."
"It's really good though, it's funny and cute and..."
"I AM NOT PREPARED!"
"Oh. Ok... well, wanna grab a DVD? I think Iron Man is out."
"My suit of armour isn't finished yet."
"You don't need it, we're just watching a movie..."
"MY SUIT OF ARMOUR ISN'T READY YET!"

What if you wanted to have a hit of golf with him one day? Would he need to join the PGA tour to prepare? What if you were going to meet him at the pub for a beer? Would he need to become a brewer? It's all too much.

I also had a doctor on call when I went to see Beverly Hills Chiauahua, but just so I'd have someone who I could punch in the face afterwards, and I'm in a doctor-punching mood.

people with games and stories to tell

Regular readers of this blog might have come to the conclusion that I enjoy heading to the pub for a cold beer every now and again. Some of you out there might agree with me. Some of you out there might even drink with me, so cheers (your shout) if that's the case.

There are a few games that you can play whilst you're drinking at the pub - and I'm not talking about darts or pool, because I'm useless at both of those. Same with Big Game Hunter and those golf video games where you have to roll your hand over the magic button ball thing. If they had Street Fighter, Mortal Kombat or Golden Axe at pubs, I'd probably never leave. But the games I'm talking about are the ones you play at your table while you chat and drink with your friends.

Game 1: Beer-ringed octopus

Simply take your frosty schooner of beer and leave it on the table (no coaster) for a few seconds. Lift it up and take a drink. Put it down again, in a slightly different spot on the table. Lift it up again and look at the beginning of your masterpiece. Keep sipping and using the condensation from your glass to make a pretty picture. The rules here are simple: You must drink before placing your glass back down to add a new circle or stroke. You will also need to act quickly, because those beer-rings won't stay around forever.
* points are awarded by the other members of the table for artistic merit


Game 2: The Missing Drink

When one of your drinking buddies is distracted by a hot bartender, another attractive bar patron or a television screen, take their drink and exchange it for yours. This is an especially fun game if they have a lot more in their glass than you do, and don't realise until one of you has finished your drink. Bonus points are awarded if they are drinking something different to you.
* 1 bonus point if it's a different brand/flavour beer
* 2 bonus points if they are drinking a mixed spirit and you exchange it for beer/a different spirit
* 3 bonus points if you don't exchange your drink at all and finish both
- 2 points for getting caught in the swapping act
- 1 point if they pick it after their initial sip
- 4 points if you exchange it for a drink with less in it than your own


Game 3: (Hair of the) Shaggy Dog

This one should be kept for later in the drinking session when everyone's had a few, and tongues have been loosened by a substantial amount of alcohol. It's that point in the night where everything is funny and everyone has something to add.

The object of the game is to tell a story or a joke off the cuff, derailing all other conversations through the anticipation that your story will be entertaining, funny or promote further conversation. The idea is to keep your audience spellbound and hanging on every word, despite your story not having a clear beginning, middle or end. A great way to frustrate your companions is to complicate every detail of your story. Instead of saying "a few days ago at work..." try this: "a few days ago, like, last Wednesday... or Tuesday... no, it wasn't Tuesday, that was the day I had training, so it must have been Wednesday, because I had to go to the shop to get my lunch because I left it on the bench at home, and I went to Subway and ran into a guy from school who was coming out of the bookshop... anyway, so on Wednesday, my friend... well, not really my friend, it's my friend's ex-boyfriend, who used to go out with Kate from uni... not the Kate you know, a different Kate who was in one of my tutes in first year..." by this stage, you should have confused people as to whether this story is about you, the guy from school, Kate, your friend's ex-boyfriend, Subway or your own work.
* 1 point if you can keep everyone's attention for 2 minutes.
* 2 points if you actually make it to a discernable "ending". 2 bonus points if you can then create a sequel.
* 3 points if someone then prompts you with a genuine, "Then what happened?"
-1 if you get interrupted within the first 30 seconds.
-1 if you lose more than half your audience after your first 'complication'.


Game 4: Drink to forget

It's your round at the bar, you need to get four beers and a bourbon. Come back to the table with the drinks with three beers and two bourbons, and convince someone that they ordered a bourbon.
* 1 point if he takes the drink but is a bit miffed.
* 2 points if you succeed in convincing him.
* 3 points if he apologises for disbelieving you.
- 2 points if you are forced to go back to the bar to get the right drink.


Game 5: Tower of Beerbell

The Tower of Beerbell is a race to build a tower of empty beer glasses on your table. By the sixth glass, the tower starts to lean quite precariously, so more care needs to be taken when stacking. It is a contest against another person or team that is sitting on your table, as well as a challenge against the bar staff who are collecting the empties. Once the first tower is collected, simply begin again and try to beat your previous mark.
* 1 point if you stack more glasses than your opponent
* 3 points if you stack more glasses in round 2 than you did in round 1
-2 points if the bar staff collect before your tower has reached its third tier
-3 points if you get asked not to build any more towers by the bar staff
-5 points if your tower collapses


Game 6: Pub Idol

The idea of this game is to hum or sing a line from a well-known song, and continue it for as long as it takes for someone else to pick it up.
* 1 point if you get the whole table singing with you.
* 2 points if it only needed one line.
* 4 points if it spreads to strangers at another table.
* 100 points if it involves the whole bar.
-2 points if no-one picks it up after 5 repetitions
-5 points if someone succeeds in the same song that you failed in.

Game on!

M-O-O-N, that spells beer!

http://www.news.com.au/story/0,23599,24413990-1243,00.html

This is news? A chick is blind for 3 days? Isn't that the usual way of the typical Aussie battler? Luckily for you, me and the lawyers, I keep a very strict diary. I have transcribed a typical week for you below. Behold the story of the man who is blind for 7 days…

Monday:

Ow. My head hurts. Stupid Sunday beers may have caught up with me while I was sleeping; I should probably take the beer IV drip out. I tried to roll over to turn off my alarm, but the sharp corners of my pillow poked me in the face and made me cry - well, I would have cried, but my body has sucked my tear ducts dry for their precious moisture.

I go to work and spend most of the day staring at a single piece of paper, cradling my head in my hands and trying to look like I'm concentrating, which wasn't easy considering that I was also trying to sleep. I'm not sure how I made it, but I managed to slide out of work at 5:00pm without having spoken to a single person. This could be because I smell like sixteen dirty pubs (the other four I visited were clean) and spent most of the day emitting a single, droning groan of pain.

I figure I deserve a bit of a celebration for having made it through another bleary Monday, so I head to the pub for my rewarding ale.

Things get hazy from here on in, and pretty much the only thing that I can remember is me singing the Happy Days theme song, but changing a few words:

Monday, Monday - Happy Days!
Monday, Monday - Happy Days!
Monday, Monday - Happy Days!

At this point in my diary, there are several pictures of a giant grasshopper attacking a small village, and a few haiku poems about tanks, so it can only be assumed that it was a good night.


Tuesday:

I have no idea what happened last night, although I have the feeling that it's my shout. This could be because I have a new tattoo on my bum that reads "my shout". No time for breakfast today, which is handy, because I also have no food in my house and I head to work.

I am halfway to work when I realise that I should have driven, and it's a shit walk to the office. I turn around and walk back home to pick up my car. It's also a shit walk home, I discover.

The glare from my computer screen was too much to bear for the morning session of work, so I avoided turning on my computer at all. To keep up the illusion that I was working, I moved my mouse around and randomly clicked, and made comments like, "Ah come on you stupid thing!" and "has anyone else's computer gone down?" I enjoyed today at work - who wouldn't love a few hours spent drinking coffee and watching a blank screen?

No more drinking, I told myself. I went to the pub and told them not to serve me any beer that night. They appreciated what I was doing, and agreed. I had been cut-off.

Handy for me that there's another pub next door, as I started getting the withdrawal shakes and sweats by the time I'd reached the door. Phew. I think it was a nice pub as well, but I can't be sure, as my memory isn't what it once was. I think the floor kept moving and someone who looked like me kept spilling beer all over my shirt. They had great pool tables though - or at least they had tables and I had a stick - or maybe it was a fire extinguisher. In any case, I'm pretty sure I won pool, or whatever game I invented using the bar, bottles of alcohol and a fire extinguisher.

The staff there were very good as well - they knew I'd had too many to drive home, and stopped me from trying to get into a car. Very handy, since it wasn't even my car. In retrospect, I should have realised this, as I don't drive a white car with "Police" written on the side. I guess someone's a massive Sting fan. La de dah.


Wednesday:

I promised my boss I was going to be early into work today. I have no idea why she believed me, because I called her house at 5am to let her know. Anyway, I rolled in just before lunchtime, still a bit worse-for-wear. No more drinking, I told myself. Actually, I emailed it to myself. Partly as a reminder to stop drinking, and partly so I could type something and pretend that I was doing work. Somehow, that email chain got me through to the end of the day. I am quite an interesting person to converse with apparently, especially if your conversational preferences revolve around dinosaurs and MC Hammer. I discovered a new species of dinosaur anyway: the "Twolegitasaurus", which had a briefly successful domination during the Triassic period. Some scientists say it evolved, others say it is completely extinct. I'd like to think it's lying dormant somewhere, and will come back with a vengeance.

After a hard day at work, there's nothing better than heading to the pub for a few cold ones. "Too cold!" I thought, so I levelled things out with some flaming shots. "Too hot!"

Needless to say, it took a while to regain the equilibrium. During the course of the evening, fire was introduced to beer, which was introduced to ice, to ice-cream and to a microwave. Equilibrium is a horrible tasting liquid, it seems.


Thursday:

So bright this morning, and that was with my head under three pillows and a doona. Bright bright bright. Either my curtains were on fire (they were, actually; it's lucky I woke up), or the sun was shining like a motherfucker. It also was. I concluded that "today could be a bright day," so I grabbed my sunglasses from the washing machine (long story) and went to work.

I knew I'd normally never be able to get away with wearing sunglasses in the office all day, so I thought up a fairly plausible story ("I gave my eyeballs in a transplant yesterday and am awaiting some replacements, which should arrive this afternoon") and made my way to my desk. It wasn't easy, as the "seeing eye dog" (a stray cat) I had pinched on the way in was pretty angry with me, and was making my blindness act pretty hard to keep up. All was well until lunchtime when I was caught "not being blind" by my boss as I was watching YouTube videos. I was asked to return the cat and do some work. This threw me a bit, cause kitty had wandered off during my 11am nap, and I hadn't seen it since.

Thursday also just happens to be pay-day, and what better way to celebrate being able to eradicate bills and rent and shit and stuff by going to the pub? There is no better way, trust me. I've tried drinking by myself, drinking at someone's house, drinking at a park, drinking in a movie theatre, drinking at a nightclub, drinking at a sporting event... nothing matches the wonderment of drinking at the pub.

Imagine my surprise when the bartender calls 'last drinks'. Ridiculous. "It's still lunchtime!" I tell the bartender. "Maybe it's lunchtime in Russia, champ," he replies. Using my mathematical brain, I figure I've been at the pub for about 15 hours (that's 14 hours more than I usually spend on a lunch break) and spent 18 days worth of pay. I also figure it's too late to go back to work, so I grabbed 'one for the road' and headed on home. Lucky that one was for the road, because that's where it ended up. Damn those glasses; they're really hard to hold, especially when you're also carrying a hot-dog (for the road) and two bar stools (also for the road... and my house).


Friday:

Someone at work asked me if I had been bathing in beer, cause they could smell it soaking out of my pores. I laughed that comment off and said it was a new aftershave. Apparently rum is not a strong concealer of beer-sweat. That's unfortunate; what am I going to do with a bathtub full of rum?

Note to self: Buy some Coke on the way home tonight.


Saturday:

My diary fell away last night. I remember coming home with a 2-litre bottle of Coke and a straw, and hopping into the bath for a relaxing soak. How I woke up with a sombrero and Jose Gonzales' passport is totally beyond me.

I'd better stop these drinking shenanigans, I think. It would be a shame to waste such a glorious weekend in a drunken stupor. However, it would also be a shame to waste such a glorious weekend sitting at home reading a book. I think I should combine the two and read a book in a drunken stupor.

Well... reading when drunk is hard. The words all run into one another and I can't tell if Harry Potter's casting an expelliaramus spell or an adava cadavra charm. Then it was pointed out to me that I wasn't reading Harry Potter at all, and I decided to put the book down (or the 'wine list', as the bartender called it - the movie was better, anyway), and concentrated on the sport that was showing on TV instead. Sport on TV is great; guys are lucky that they can watch pretty much any sporting event and be happy, although I must admit I did get a bit bored by the monotony of the raceI was watching, as no-one was getting into a position to overtake anyone. That smart-arse bartender then advised me that I had fallen off my chair and was watching the ceiling fan instead. I would have punched him in the head, but Schumacher was just about to get into position to make his move and I didn't want to miss that.


Sunday:

Sunday is always a hard day - the weekend is almost over and there's so many empty bottles to throw out. It's depressing, really. However, by the time I'm sober enough to stand up, it's late afternoon, and therefore too late to think about starting anything. I put the empties into the rubbish chute (I don't have a rubbish chute per se, but next door always leaves his mailbox open) and headed out for some fresh air. The air was fresh all the way to the pub, where it then became wetter and more beer-like, therefore slightly more palatable.

It was quite beautiful, really, watching the sun set over the horizon, spreading its golden pink rays over the wispy cloud formations in the sky... it makes you feel small and humble. (On the other hand, do you know what makes you feel huge? Midis. But don't order midi-sized beers, they're a waste of time. Honestly).

So the night began and the world opened itself to me; a wonderful dome of stars circling above... then the sun began to rise, and it was kind of pretty the way that the streams of sunlight made the stars dissolve into the sky... and then it got really bright and my hangover kicked in, I realised I had to go to work in like 20 minutes, I still haven't called Jose Gonzales back about his passport, and the bar staff had been poking me with a broom for four hours and I was getting angry and tired.

It's weeks like this that I'm glad I keep this diary, to remember the good times. Another Monday dawns...

couple of ducks, 22...

The weather's getting warmer, it's time to crack out your favourite beverage, leave work early so you're on the couch by 5:30pm and tune the telly to Channel 7. It's Deal or No Deal time.

Deal or No Deal is otherwise known as "The Suitcase Game" is played thusly: some lucky punter picks a suitcase out of a group of 26. Each case has an amount of cash inside it, from 50 cents to $200 000. You open each of the other cases in random order, hoping to reveal the smaller cash amounts. At the end of each round, the "banker" will offer you some money, the amount of which depends on the cases that you have already opened. If you're happy with the amount of cash offered from the bank, you can accept that money ("deal") and forego whatever actual amount was in the original suitcase you picked. If you're not happy with that amount, you keep picking suitcases ("no deal") either until you are happy with the bank offer, or you have run out of suitcases to eliminate.

Easy eh?

If you're confused, don't worry - this is a game of pure luck. There isn't a way to be 'good' or 'bad' at it - if you knock out all the big numbers in the beginning, you're fucked. But it's not your fault. It's a gamble, plain and simple. There's a 1 in 26 chance that you've got $200,000. There's a 25 in 26 chance that you don't. If you find yourself fucked after one round, don't worry, you're not a shit person, you've just had a shit time on national television.

So, charge your glasses and let's kick your afternoon off nicely:

Deal or No Deal: The Drinking Game

– one drink each time the contestant says, "I came with nothing, I'll leave with nothing!"
– one drink when the contestant's friend says to take the deal and the contestant doesn't listen to them
– two drinks if the contestant then fucks up badly
– one drink whenever the contestant's friend says, "It's up to you." Thanks for your help.
– one drink whenever it looks like a friendship/marriage could be torn apart by this game
– one drink when the contestant's wife is in the crowd and shows the country who wears the pants in the relationship
– one drink when the contestant looks like they're ready to bail after the first bank offer
– three drinks if they do
– four drinks if Andrew O'Keefe manages to pad out the rest of the show
– two drinks when one of the suitcase holders picks the right amount
– one drink when you reckon they have to edit out the contestant saying, "Fuck!" or if the contestant literally wets themselves when they knock out $200 000
– one drink when anyone has a spot of trouble opening up a suitcase
– one drink if the contestant gives a reason for picking a particular number
– two drinks per reason if this continues past the first ad break
– three drinks if it goes past the second ad
– one drink when Andrew O'Keefe says, "Now we have to go for broke!" when all help seems lost – one drink when the contestant does a really stupid version of "No deal!"
– one drink if the contestant plans to "take the family to [random foreign country]"
– one drink every time Andrew O'Keefe makes a reference to that country
– one drink whenever that trip becomes a bit cheaper (i.e. the whole family travelling around the world becomes contestant and partner travelling around the world, which becomes them on a tour of Australia, which becomes a drive to Queensland, which becomes a bus trip to Sydney, which becomes a free tram ride to the shops to grab a newspaper, which becomes thieving the newspaper from your neighbour). (I think you get the idea...)
– one drink when the news headlines come on (just in case you're not drinking enough)
– two drinks when the decision to deal or not deal is so tough that Andrew O'Keefe calls for an audience vote
– one drink when the contestant takes into serious account a random stranger's opinion regarding how much money they think is in their suitcase
– three drinks if the contestant wins less than the people who picked the right amount in their suitcase

Imagine how many shots you could do for $200,000.

That’d be awesome. I’ll drink to that!

Welcome to television

http://www.news.com.au/entertainment/story/0,26278,24280513-10229,00.html

This one's a few weeks old now, but I saved the link for some reason and never got around to writing an entry on it. I've been busy again, so shut up and deal with hearing about "news" a bit late. Or pay me to write a blog, that'd help.

The story, for those who couldn't be arsed clicking the link, is about a new TV chat show, hosted by Georgie Parker, who has been dubbed as "sexy" in the headline. Ahem. I don't think Georgie Parker and "sexy" have been used together since about 1921, unless the headline was "Georgie Parker is NOT sexy". Yeah.

Anyway, it's going to be a Channel 9 ratings bonanza, apparently. Especially since they're going to pit it up against Deal or No Deal, which is the world's greatest game show ever. A chat show? Seriously? Fuck.

This is NOT news. It would be news if a new TV show was given to a new person to take charge of. Aussie TV has returned to the murky well of celebrities to try and launch a new TV show. If there's a new show coming out, an old celebrity will be involved. Got a spiffy new concept? Quick, get Bert Newton on it. Sure, he's killed every single show he's been on since The Graham Kennedy Show (which ended in 1975), including Family Feud (Moon Face couldn't compete with Rob Brough's permed mullet). Got a show we've stolen from another country? Shit, get Rove McManus on the line. I can imagine some young exec offering the idea, "Maybe we could give the hosting job to someone else?" followed by raucous laughter and the quick response, "Fuck off. What's Daryl Somers up to these days?"

What's Daryl Somers up to these days indeed - http://www.news.com.au/dailytelegraph/story/0,22049,24308524-5007132,00.html. He's coming back, people. He's. Coming. Back. After Hey Hey It's Saturday was thankfully euthanised, Dags disappeared for a while, then popped up on a few commercials, a couple of "Best Bits of Hey Hey It's Saturday" specials, a "Red Faces: Where Are They Now?" gig, before popping up on Dancing With The Stars. I don't understand this show. I couldn't give a flying fuck if Steven Jacobs can waltz. I don't care if Gary Sweet missed a step in his cha-cha. If I want to watch dancing, I'll watch people who can dance. I don't need to see some overpaid spastic who has been relegated to appearing on celebrity shows mince around and pretend they're not embarrassed by the fact that their acting/singing/personality has been proven to suck enough not to be able to remain on Australian television. Apparently Dancing With The Stars is rating badly. The "experts" say it's because they've changed the host to Daniel MacPherson (another albatross on our screens) - I say it's because people realise that the show sucks dog's balls.

Seriously. If you can't keep a gig on Aussie TV, you're fucked. The formula for an Aussie celebrity's death is plain:



Toni Pearon, watch out.

with great power comes great responsibility

Thwip!

Common question: If you could be an animal, which animal would you be?

I want to be a fly.

I watched Spiderman the other night. I love Spiderman, he's probably my favourite superhero ever. I dare say he'd even be able to take down a tyrannosaur if he needed to.

So I was watching Spiderman and loving it as usual and jumping around the lounge room as usual, while Spidey is getting his arse handed to him by the Green Goblin, and I’m wondering, "Holy moley, how's he gonna get out of this one?" and then Gobby mentions how he's gonna kill MJ, and Spidey gets a rush of blood and starts being all bad-ass and suddenly remembers how to fight. Seriously - bad guys of the world, listen to my advice: If you've got the only person who can defeat you on the ropes, don't mention his girlfriend, because he'll feel "the power of love" and come back and beat you.

Anyway, the final scene comes on where Pete Parker walks away from MJ to protect her (aaaw) and the credits roll. Normally by this stage I have actually become Spiderman simply through enthusiasm and I would have attempted to climb the curtains and crawl across the ceiling. But this time, I was a bit less enthused. Something wasn't right...

And then it hit me.

Peter Parker was bitten by a spider. He absorbed the spider's powers - strength and speed and jumping and webs and wall-climbing finger bits and stuff. Nice work, Pete.

What would have happened if that spider had caught a fly and bitten that, as spiders are want to do? Would that fly have wrapped that spider up in web and then crashed through a wall to freedom?

If I had the choice of coming back as something in the next life, I would like to be that fly.

hottest postcode ever

Ah television. Ah 90210. Sweet dreams are made of these.

So 90210 is back with a brand new adventure, new kids, new teachers, same old shit, right? Right. Except this 90210 is as cheesy as a cheese sandwich, and the bread on that sandwich is made out of cheese and has cheese spread instead of butter.

Here's a quick recap of the first two episodes which aired last night. Apologies if I fuck anything up; to be honest I really wasn't paying too much attention and will no doubt have missed some kind of plot twist.

First and foremost, everything is the same as the old Beverly Hills 90210, except the names. We are introduced to the new Walshes... I can't remember their surname (see, I told you I'd fuck stuff up). There's the dad, who is the new principal at West Beverly High; Lori Loughlin plays the mum (and still looks smokin hot) and is some kind of photographer; and the obligatory kids - Annie and Dixon. Dix is also the token black kid who was adopted a few years back. No doubt he will spend the entire run of the show feeling "not quite part of the family". He is also an awesome Lacrosse player, which incidentally, is the new hot sport in Beverly Hills. There are no football, soccer, baseball or basketball teams to be found. Everyone's got a mask and a stick with a net thing on it. Awesome. There's nothing like trying to boost the profile of a relatively obscure sport by including it in a TV show. Party of Five should have had Bailey doing pole vault or curling or bocce.

Anyway, Day 1 at the new school sees Annie running into Ethan, an old flame from a few summers ago. He's getting a quick blow job before school. Nice start to the day for everyone. Then Annie meets Ethan's girlfriend, who was not the one giving him head earlier. Shock horror. I wonder what's going to happen there?

Girlfriend is otherwise known as Naomi, a rich chick who looks at least 43. Apparently it's her 'sweet 16' on Friday (bullshit), and Annie is invited (obviously). Naomi is also in trouble in English, because she hasn't handed in her paper on "The Tale of Two Cities". Annie has one that she did at her old school (handy) which she 'lends' to Naomi for 'inspiration'. I wonder what's going to happen there?

Dixon gets into a fight at Lacrosse training and is kicked off the team. I think it's because he's black. The coach of Lacrosse is also the English teacher, who is so far, the only teacher we've met. I hope there are more teachers out there somewhere, because there seems to be a lot of kids. He also looks about the same age as them, although we know that he's meant to be older because he has stubble.

So there's the first day of school. Mine was less exciting, but then, I don't live in Beverly Hills.

Day 2:

Dixon is back in the Lacrosse team, after some guy tells the coach that it wasn't Dixon's fault that he got into a fight. Phew. Glad that's settled. I'm sure Dixon will now fly straight after that minor Lacrosse-related scare.

Annie is pissed cause Naomi cheated by handing in Annie's old essay. Eh. What did you think would happen? Annie's old man, el Principal, finds out (of course, he's surely not too busy that he can't read every single essay written by every single student and compare it to his children's work) and possibly grounds her. I can't remember. Naomi's mum and Annie's dad used to date in high school. She's still mad that he broke up with her. Twenty years ago. Right. I wonder what's going to happen there?

Dixon sends Naomi a text message telling her that Ethan is cheating on her. I have no idea how he got her number so quickly, so I'll just step over that plot-hole and keep on trucking. For being her bestie, Naomi buys Annie an $800 dress for her party. Eh, I'd cheat on essays if I could get those kinds of rewards as well. Seriously though, kids now have the internet with its wikipedia and googles and all kinds of awesomeness, so there's really no need to cheat off another student. That's just lazy, Naomi. Anyway, she gets another chance to prove herself by writing the essay again. Seriously, I'm sure even Charles Dickens doesn't care if she doesn't understand the book or not. It's not worth writing another fucking essay over. Let's move on, people.

Annie meets hot guy Ty, the richest kid at West Beverly. They're both trying out for the school musical. Sparks are flying, and we know this because they both look awkward and smile a lot.

It's party night (finally - I was kind of sick hearing Naomi say, "I am so stressed about my party") and Naomi and Ethan break up (sad) because she gets the text from Dixo about how Ethan's cheating on her. It wasn't even really emotional for the characters, so even less so for the viewers. The party is at "The Pit", which is "The Peach Pit" that the old 90210ers used to hang out at, only, you know, without the "Peach", and instead of serving hamburgers and chips, it's now a bar that willingly serves 15-year olds martinis and wine, which I'm sure is a government-sponsored move to cut down on obese children and turn them into hornbag alcoholics.

Annie and co leave the party, and wind up meeting Ethan at the beach. He's just come in from surfing. Apparently he brought his wetsuit and surfboard to the Pit, you know, just in case. I'm sure Dixon had his Lacrosse stick handy, too. Ethan and Annie hang out for a bit at her place and reminisce about the time they spent together. It's fairly obvious that he's a smidge in love with her. Aw. And then I remember that yesterday he was bagging Naomi and getting chops from every other slut at West Beverly, and realise that I don't care.

Some other Lacrosse team from rival school breaks into West Bev and trashes the place. They did a good job too; I guess security at this school is fairly slack. Somehow it is decided that the Lacrosse team has to clean it all up, and then Principal Dad warns the team, "Don't retaliate."
The Lacrosse team immediately set out to devise a plan on how to retaliate.
Dixon steals some pigs from the set of a porn film (seriously) and lets them loose in the other school. Principal Dad is not happy. He cuts the whole team until someone owns up. Dixon owns up. Everyone's back in the team except him now. Principal Dad says, "Ah fuck it, I got up to some shit at school too. You're back on the team." Phew. I was worried that he wouldn't be allowed to play for another 13 seconds there.

Day 3: Annie is in the school play. The school play is to be directed by Shannon Doherty, who is wearing her best, "Fuck, am I seriously back on this show as a parody of myself?" grin through the whole thing. After school, Ty flies Annie to San Francisco for dinner. It's a pretty good first date, apparently. I would have taken her to the movies or something, you know, because that's what 15-year olds do. It seems I was doing it all wrong.

Annie is obviously in trouble for going to another city for a date with a guy she met the day before, and was also somehow responsible for her alcoholic, oversexed grandmother to be involved in a car accident. By-the-by, I hated the granny character, but was also glad that they didn't cast the old duck from The Wedding Singer, because she's kind of been typecast as "awkward old duck". But she sneaks out anyway and has a snog with Ty - Annie, not the granny, or the woman from The Wedding Singer. Ethan has a present for her - a stuffed octopus that they won at a fair when they met three years ago - but he catches them in the snogging act and seems a bit upset. Aw. Wait, he was getting a lot of sex just two days ago. Not interested in your problems, Efan. Go fuck your octopus.

Principal Dad also got Naomi's mum preggers back in high school. He thought she got an abortion - she didn't, and now she hates him because he never supported the son he didn't know he had that she never told him about. Prick. He tells this to his hot wife, who strangely finds this arousing, and they go about making out and having the sex. I'm pretty sure that kind of come-on line wouldn't normally work, but good luck to anyone who wants to try it.

Quite an introduction to school life at West Beverly, really.

My summary:
This is less 90210 and more OC meets Dawson's Creek. It's not spectacular, and you won't punch yourself in the face with a stapler for missing an episode, but people may not punch you with a stapler for liking it either. My biggest problem is why anyone would care about these people - if you can take a girl you just met to San Francisco for dinner when you're 15, I'm pretty sure I won't give a shit if you fail Maths after studying all night, or if you get hit in the groin by a Lacrosse ball. And yes, I know the whole idea is that "behind their money, they all just want to find love and happiness and a sense of self-accomplishment blah blah blah," but I'm gonna put it out there and say that if you're buying an $800 dress for someone you've known for a day, making that 'special person' feel 'special' won't be too much of an issue.

I give 90210 a goat, two penguins and a stapler.

enjoy your stay!

This bus shelter offers sweeping views of the street

Welcome to Canberra! Come one, come all. But where will you stay while you are in this wonderful land of the nation's capital?

I don't often hire hotel rooms when I could just, you know, go home, but here are a few choices and some made up nonsense:

Waldorf Hotel:
I haven't actually stayed there, but I've had drinks in the hotel. It's pretty nice, and seems to be a bit la-de-dah. If you aren't worried about cost, this place is probably awesome. If you are worried, I'd try my best to escape the next day without paying. Use a false name and don a disguise. The Waldorf is handily located near a bakery which has fantastic sausage rolls.

Backpackers:
Right across the road from the Waldorf. Not sure who was there first, but I can't say that the elite patrons of the Wal would appreciate watching semi-nude drunken Europeans wandering around... but then again, they might. There's a pretty decent bar underneath the Backpackers which changes its name every other week. Also located near the same bakery with fantastic sausage rolls as the Waldorf. I have no idea what the facilities are like, but since it's a backpackers, I'd recommend showering with your thongs on.

My Place:
My place is pretty nice, but you'll have to sleep on the couch (it is a nice couch though) and I can't promise you any kind of food beyond cereal, and my milk is always past its expiration date. Entertainment includes a good range of DVDs and free-to-air television (some stations are a bit fuzzy though). Visitors at My Place are encouraged to bring beer.

Novotel:
I know nothing about the Novotel at all, but it looks quite nice. I think it has a green sign, but it might not... If it’s the one I’m thinking of, it’s near the Jolimont Centre, so is handy if you just hopped off a bus. If it’s not the one I’m thinking of, then it’s probably not relevant as to how close it is to anything, buses or otherwise.

Kambah Inn:
I know of one guy who stayed there for a while when he was posted to Canberra for work. He never really recovered. That said, the Kambah Pub is pretty nice if you ignore the locals, and the Chinese restaurant out the back is also worth a visit.

City Walk Hotel:
I stayed there once after my Year 12 formal. I hope they've cleaned up since then, but I can't promise anything. Standard budget accommodation, and even cheaper if you're sharing a room with about six of your mates. I think I lost a sock that night.

Rydges:
Again, never stayed there, but I've had a few drinks in the hotel bar during Happy Hour. Quite nice, truth be told. That's about all I can offer you. Like all Rydges around Australia (and possibly the world), I think it's pricey. So if you just HAVE to stay somewhere a bit glamorous, this could be your best bet. The rooms look quite nice (even when standing outside and peering through the windows with a pair of binoculars) and the balconies are always full of rich, good looking people. So if you're an ugly, poor person, better think about staying elsewhere.

Parliament House:
I'm pretty sure they don't actually offer any hotel services, like rooms or food, but if you can stay there overnight without being caught by security, I reckon it'd be a pretty good story. If you do get caught, you could always try and convince them that you're Kevin Rudd and you left your phone behind, and you're just going back to find it. If you get let off, that would be an even better story.

Todd Carney's Place:
Located just outside of Canberra, TCs place offers high-speed pick-up services from any bar in Canberra, although strangely, no return service. Visitors will be treated to a golden shower upon arrival, plus may be lucky enough to appear in The Canberra Times in both the "Out and About" section and also in "Legal". Bookings are non-essential, but can be arranged through text messaging if in doubt.

Enjoy your stay!

Canberradvertising

Television is called a medium because it is neither well done nor rare. - some bozo

Obviously the owner of the quote above hasn't ever seen Canberran television. Whether it's the superawesome State Focus show that deals with important stories, like the inspirational stories of a kid from the wrong side of the tracks who came good after battling drug addiction and male prositution or a Canberra-born band who are releasing their first CD (in Sydney). Why they choose to put this magic on at 1:00am on a Tuesday morning is beyond me.

And, like everywhere in the world, us Canberrans have locally made ads. The ones that are made with no budget, one camera, and are devised, shot and edited in one afternoon. The ads that run by the adage, "That'll do!" so the cameraman can hit the pub early on a Friday arvo.

Canberra's most well-known advertising personalities are the kids from the Blumers law firm commercials. The campaign began with a damsel in distress being tied to railway tracks or chased by giant bees or swallowed by a whale - you know, the typical sort of shit that women get in trouble with. Seriously, the amount of times I've been called up by chicks who say, "Hey Mister Evil Breakfast, you know how last week I got swallowed by a whale, and we joked about it and said how random that was, and that it was fairly unlikely that I'd be in that situation again? Well, guess what happened..." Anyway, there's a kid in the ad who puts his undies on the outside (thus becoming a superhero) and saves the chick by beating up the bees, untying the rope or grinding pepper onto the whale to make it sneeze, thus saving the day. Apparently that's what Blumers lawyers do - grind pepper.

But now there are more pieces of advertising awesomity to add to the Blumers walls. Allow me to delve into director mode.

Scene 1: We open on a kid reading a book. The book is entitled "Clumsy Charlie and the Rabid Goat." The kid doesn't move. Nothing moves. After 25 seconds, cue sound effects of a man being attacked by a rabid goat. The kid looks up from his book and says, "Call Blumers."

Brilliant. Brilliant.

Canberrans aren't afraid to recycle their ads either. Like the Local Liquor ones that come around every Olympics with the guy riding his exercise bike, some guy weightlifting (or something) and another guy in a shitty backyard pool. For the record, I know all three of those guys. I'm pretty fucking tops. Anyway, that ad is at least 8 years old.

But the greatest serving Canberran media mogul is Kingsleys Chicken. They have one of the greatest fast-food chains in all the world (fillet burger with gravy AND coleslaw will be my final meal if I'm ever on death row), and they spend exactly zero time and zero money to create their commercials. I think one of their ads had a Thunderbirds kind of submarine floating across the screen, with voices that said, "Come on Brains, we need to stop that nuclear bomb!" "Roger that. Fire depth chargers." BOOM. "A job well done, let's go and get a chicken burger." Their latest efforts have included the introduction of an American accent on the first syllable of the word "awesome" in their catchphrase, 'unbelievable chicken, awesome chips', and skating the copyright line by using Warner Bros. cartoon characters and the Loony Tunes logo. I guess if WB ever decides to sue them, they'll just team up with Blumers and grind some pepper on Daffy Duck. Case closed.