Random Things I Hate

Spiders
Yes, I still fucking hate spiders. I've mentioned them on this blog before. Below is a photo of a spider that was recently in my house. There was a bigger one last week that I wish I got a photo of, but it ate my camera. And it's a big camera.



My favoured method of getting rid of spiders that are large enough to withstand a thong attack (thongs are best for killing things that are crawling on walls) is to employ a multi-pronged offensive. First, you have to drown the fucker in bug spray. If you don't have a can of Mortein handy, improvise with Mr Muscle, Rexona or Airwick. It's all about the same. This will confuse the spider and it will drop to the floor. This is a good time to think about another attempt with the double-pluggers, but personally, I like to rev up the vacuum cleaner. I recently made the mistake of only using the fly spray on the spider and left it on the floor as a warning to all other spiders who enter my abode. I don't know if he was rescued by other spiders, eaten by the mouse who lives under my oven or miraculously recovered in some kind of Spider-Jesus Easter-trick of rising from the dead, but when I came back home, the body was gone. So now I vac the fuckers up and then put some thumb tacks and drawing pins and shards of glass and knives and ninja stars down the tube as well, just in case they survive the initial ride into my trusty Dyson. These stupid spiders aren't even getting rid of the moths and bugs and shit that haunt my house, and I figure there's only room for two useless things in my place - one of them is me, the other is my ironing board.

DVD menu loops
When a DVD ends, and you don't turn it off, it will go back to the original menu screen that has options ("Play movie", "Subtitles", "Special Features", "Select a scene" etc...) and is usually accompanied by a 20 second loop of film dialogue or music. Occasionally, you might find yourself plonked out on your couch with a bucket of popcorn and a DVD, keen for a "quiet night in." With the lights down and the slow realisation that Demolition Man is nowhere near as good as you remember it to be, your eyes may become a bit heavy, and you'll be fighting the urge to yawn every 4 seconds. You close your eyes just for a moment...

The next thing you know, your dreams are being disturbed by goats playing bad guitars. Then the goats' music fades out. Then it comes back. Then it fades out. Then it comes back. Then it fades out. Then it comes back. Then it fades out. Then it comes back. Then it fades out. Then it comes back. Then it fades out. All of a sudden, you're bolt upright, ready to kick the shit out of the goats who keep playing bad music for 20 seconds at a time. There are, of course, no goats; you've just been fucked by the DVD menu loop. Upon realising that it's now 4am, you trundle off to bed, but can't get that fucking music out of your mind, and then you realise that you only made it about halfway through Demolition Man (not even to the bit where you see Sandra Bullock's boobs for about a second) and you'll have to do the whole fucking thing again tomorrow night.

Parking inspectors
There's nothing quite like returning to your car after a day of work, a night at the movies, a drink with mates, a few hours of standing in the bushes outside someone's house or a mad dash into the shops to grab a bag of chips, sherbert and cheese spread (my grocery shopping is fucking awesome), and finding that beautiful yellow envelope stuck underneath your windscreen wiper; its contents revealing that you've been booked for a dodgy park, outstayed your welcome or didn't feed the meter enough coin. The next five minutes or so are spent swearing at yourself inside your car and bashing your head on the steering wheel for being so fucking unlucky.

"Dear Parking Inspector,

You may have noticed that there's nowhere else to park around here. I am normally a law-abiding citizen (other than the usual pillaging that goes with my pirate/viking heritage), and would appreciate you cutting me some slack for parking on the side of the road instead of in a parking bay. I draw your attention to the amount of cars vs the amount of car spaces provided within your car parking facility. If I didn't have to invent a carpark here, I wouldn't; it's as simple as that.

I don't have any money, but feel free to stick $72 worth of my car up your arse at any stage.

Sincerely,

Mister Evil Breakfast"


Chupa Chup wrappers
Chupa Chups are great; there's no denying their awesomeness (especially the strawberry ones, regardless of how girly they are). However, they are fairly impossible to unwrap. I have tried to open them when I'm walking, driving, standing still; when I'm drunk, sober, slightly pissy, shattered, hungover; in the light, in the dark, in artificial light, in a nightclub, in a pub, in a house; with friends, when alone; when I'm happy, when I'm sad, when I'm angry, when I'm thoughtful, when I'm tired and when I wake up. My fingers aren't what they used to be, granted, but there's no need for me to have to fire up the blow-torch and scalpel just to get into my Chupa. What if I was giving this lolly to a child? They'd look up at me with their cute eyes and say, "Unca Bweakfast, can you pwease open my wowwipop?" And I'd try and try and try to unwrap that fucking thing, and would end up breaking the stick off instead... and I'd have to look down at that child and say, "No, Uncle Breakfast can't open it. I have failed you. I have failed you as a provider and kidnapper." And then I'd probably just let the kid out of my van and not even collect ransom money. Fucking Chupa Chups.

The prick at work who keeps stealing my milk
Seriously fuckbag, buy your own. Easy as that. Also, whoever keeps stealing my pens can go get fucked as well. Just so you know, I've been chewing them, so if you chew it as well, it's like we're making out... and I'm not a pretty man.

should be there for one another

Harold Bishop has a large horn

It's been a fairly tumultuous time in Ramsay Street of late. Let's delve into the depths (something that the rescue people failed to do in their attempt to find Zeke) and see what's happening to our favourite people in the whole wide world...

Well, Bridgette is still pregnant; we know this because she mentions it in every sentence of dialogue. "Hey Didge, let's go swimming!" "But Declan, I'm pregnant!" "Anyone up for a movie?" "Declan, I can't just go to the movies, I'm pregnant." "Let's head down the General Store." "Just wait, I have to be careful of walking; I'm pregnant, you know!" She has also adopted the classic 'hands on belly' stance, and invites random people to feel the bub kicking. “You can feel it kicking, because I’m pregnant!”

Declan's been fairly quiet of late. Also, I've missed a lot of episodes, so I don't really know (or particularly care) what he's been doing.

Zeke is still missing; after a rowing competition at school camp (which occurred the day after Christmas, strangely), his boat capsized and all hell broke loose. After the wardrobe department found enough orange vests for everyone, it was classic Neighbours - everyone lending a hand, whether it was walking through the bush or making cups of tea for Carl and Susan. There was no sign of him on the hills surrounding the river; this may be because the traditional venue for rowing races is in a river. Rarely are they held out of bodies of water. It should be noted that it's been about a month since he went missing, and the first time his older sister Katya was informed of his disappearance (and death) was yesterday. She sent her condolences from wherever she was. Sad. So they had a bit of a memorial service for Zeke in the General Store of all places. I would have assumed it would have been in a church, or even at a house or park... but you should never assume when it comes to Neighbours. Whichever set is up when they’re filming, it’ll be used. Everyone at the memorial had their say of what Zeke meant to them; it was really quite touching, but more like how sitting on an unseen TV remote is touching, not like actual real emotion. Rachel tried to sing her song (more on that later) for him, but couldn't quite summon the voice to sing to her dead bro... enter Libby, who also has an amazing singing voice, yet is an awful mime. There's something about those Kennedy's - they're very musical. Even the adopted children.

Anyway, Zeke is not dead; he's still in the opening credits and Lucas and Elle saw his face in a street artist's portrait. If that's not proof enough, then I'm not a chainsaw-juggling pirate. Why Zeke has decided to run away (possibly just to the next street) instead of going home and not pretending that he's dead is an intriguing question. Also intriguing is why he decided to pose for a busking artist instead of, you know, buying food or something. He could have at least got a 6-inch meatball sub for the same price as having his picture done.

Susan, meanwhile, is cleaning out Zeke's room - better not wait for his corpse to go cold before you chuck out every reminder that he ever existed. Remember Stingray? No, neither does anyone else who lived with him. Ringo is still staying with Carl and Susan for some ungodly reason; the Ramsay Street peeps sure do move house a lot; although it's usually just to next door. Anyway, it's kind of creeping ol' Ringers out to be sleeping in the same room that belonged to his dead mate (which is fair enough), so has taken to kipping on the couch. Susan doesn't understand this. Stupid Susan. She also found a bunch of Zeke's photos of Ringo's hot missus, Donna, and shows them to Ringo. Stupid Susan. The photos were all from a distance, so it's fairly plain to see that Zeke had a crush on Donna and perved on her a bit. Stupid Zeke. Ringo fires up at Donna and is all "wah wah wah you had an affair with my little emo buddy!" Donna's all like, "Yeah, for sure. We were hot at it." Donna was being sarcastic, but it probably wasn't the time or place for it, and they broke up. Again. This marked the second time they broke up in a week. Stupid Ringo.

Meanwhile, Donna's estranged mum has moved in next door (of course) and is trying to bone every bloke in the street. She's not as hot as she thinks she is, and comes off as being the world's greatest slut, which has the world's greatest stud, Paul Robinson, fairly interested. It doesn't take much to get his interest though; he once shagged a doughnut. Donna's mum is just after his money, and isn't being too subtle about that. Donna smells a rat. Clever Donna.

Somewhere else, Rachel is busy being a popstar; despite only ever having played at the local bar once. Funnily enough, there was a talent agent in the crowd of six people (the others were Bridgette, Ringo, Declan, Zeke, Carl and Susan), so she did what anyone would do; offer a record deal after hearing her first and only song. Having any kind of talent in the Neighbours universe means immediate success; Declan and Ringo were both drafted by AFL teams after playing in the local comp for one season; Elle became a hot-shot journalist in the space of a week after writing a single story about goats (or something); Lucas is a photographer who did Rachel's publicity shots, despite his actual job being a mechanic/professional motorbike racer guy thing. I can't remember what's happened to our Rach, but I think her singing career is on hiatus following some guy telling her to lose weight but also possibly because of her brother's death. Probably more about the weight thing though.

Simone Buchanan is pregnant with Simone Buchanan’s ex-husband Dan's baby... or is she? She's not. Well, she's pregnant for the same reasons explained above (see Bridgette), but it's not Simone Buchanan’s ex-husband Dan's baby. Terrible floozy, that Simone Buchanan. She turned up out of the blue, preggers as a penguin on the same day of Simone Buchanan’s ex-husband Dan's wedding to Libby. Well excuse me, Mr Simone Buchanan's ex-husband Dan, but what's the go with the sudden switcheroo of wives? Within 6 months, Simone Buchanan's ex-husband Dan has tried to start a family with Simone Buchanan, divorced Simone Buchanan a week later, dated Libby, broke up with Libby, got back together with Libby, proposed to Libby, planned a wedding with Libby, didn't quite marry Libby, proposed to Libby again and planned another wedding with Libby. I don't like to use the words "rushing into things," but I think he's rushing into things. Simone Buchanan's ex-husband Dan is also a terrible actor.

Libby and Steph are fighting. I'm not sure why. It may have something to do with Steph hooking up with a married bloke, whose wife is on the Cancer Council team with her... but that shouldn't really annoy Libby. If anything, it would just be a smidge awkward for Steph and the other chick. Anyway, at one stage, Steph's kid knocked a filing cabinet onto himself and almost died - it took three adults to lift it off him. God only knows the strength of baby Charlie, who can somehow topple buildings in his spare time. I am still a bit lost as to the friendship status of those two... or three... or four. But Libby moved out of Steph's house (to next door, por favor) so you know they were fighting recently. You can always tell the strength of a relationship by how close they live to each other. If someone were to move to another street, they might as well be dead. Anybody who's anybody lives in the Ramsay. I’m sure at some stage Libby and Steph will fall into a plot-hole together and miraculously work out their differences.

There may or may not be some other stuff happening in this street of streets; Carl went through a breakdown over Zeke, Steve and Miranda are doing their best impressions of Steve and Miranda (they're not that good though) and Declan's mum is shagging his principal. Nice work, Mrs Declan's Mum - whatever it takes to get him to pass high school!

It's been a rollercoaster of emotions lately (mostly anger from me). Look out for Ringo hooking up with Donna's slutty mum, Donna's brother and sister moving next door, something else to get in the way of Simone Buchanan’s ex-husband Dan and Libby’s wedding, and a surprise piece of acting from Carl.

Oh yeah, and Harold has cancer. Poor old Harold. Poor old Lou.

glassy eyed and fatigued

There are few things in life better than a good movie, I reckon. I dare say that beating Ricky Ponting with a rusty crowbar that has jagged edges would be as satisfying as a good movie (and would also make a great movie). A bottle of scotch that I can exchange for a case of beer which I could then drink would be on par with a good movie. Owning a rhino would be as enjoyable as a good movie, especially if it assisted me in my crowbar beating escapades (that would be another great movie).

Unfortunately, movies that come out now are usually fairly dicey and not worth the trillion bucks it costs you to catch it at Hoyts. Storylines give way to special effects; actors demand scenes that don't fit; eye-candy is presented where a plot would be better; scripts are worked to include an open ending to allow for sequels and crossovers. And there are some other things that Transformers didn't do as well.

Here's what's coming up in 2009:

Tim Allen vs Predator - When the Predator appears in the sewers of Detroit, there's only one man who can stop it. Ugh ugh ugh. The part of Al will be played by Christian Bale.

High School Musical 9: Yes, We're Still In Fucking High School - Zac Efron brings his character to life once more as a 38 year old high-school kid. Is he too old to make quarterback this year? Hit songs like "Can't Sack the Zac" and "Go long, go deep, go hard" prove that he's still got the magic. Zac also teaches his own children (who are in the same grade as he is) the dangers of drugs.

Monk the Movie - Everyone's favourite neurotic, obsessive-compulsive Jewish detective breaks through stereotypes while solving murder cases in this movie about a TV show that no-one watched.

Jingle all the Way - Arnold Schwarzenneger's classic 1996 Christmas movie has been remade for families of today! The same slapstick humour and good, wholesome family fun from the original remain, plus all new laughs as the hunt for the must-have Christmas gift is on! Stars Rob Schneider and Seth Rogen.

I Now Pronounce You Chunk and Harry - When the Goondocks are in trouble again, it's up to Chunk to save the day! Following another treasure map, Chunk finds himself at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and teams up with the world's most famous wizard, Harry Potter for magic, adventure and romance.

Austin Powers: Quantum of Scotland - The hilarious Mike Myers is back as everyone's favourite hilarious shagadelic spy in this hilarious new instalment of hilarity. As Dr Evil threatens the world with his usual hilarious antics such as "laser" beams and "sharks with frickin laser beams on their heads", Austin must unite a team of hilarious crime-fighters (all played by Myers, and all with hilarious Scottish accents!) before it's too late. Also stars Ewan McGregor as a Canadian.

Two and a Half Men - Charlie Sheen and the other guy and the fat kid learn a bit more about each other and themselves in a full-length feature film based on the hit sitcom. Charlie's constant womanising starts to make the other guy feel uncomfortable as the fat kid starts to ask questions about sex. But when the other guy meets a cocktail waitress (Lori Loughlin), Charlie accuses him of being a hypocrit. Featuring music by U2.

Land Before Time 219,483,904,329,320 - Littlefoot thinks he can see a comet but no one believes him, with hilarious results.

Eating Pasta in a Space Suit - An instructional video on how to eat pasta in a space suit. SPOILER ALERT: It involves removing the space suit then eating the pasta.

Cage Fight - Filmed in one-take on a steadicam, Nicholas Cage gets his ass handed to him by Seth Rogen and Michael Cera in a brutal ambush in an alley next to a fire station. Also stars William Baldwin and Christian Bale.

It's a Movie, Charlie Brown - with every cartoon and comic being adapted to film, it was only a matter of time before the Peanuts characters followed suit. This live-action comedy drama will bring laughter and tears as Charlie Brown (Star Wars' Jake Lloyd) and Linus (Zac Efron) hide out in the pumpkin patch to wait for The Great Pumpkin to appear. Also stars Lindsay Lohan as Peppermint Pattie and Courtney Cox as Lucy.

2 Shawshank 2 Redemption - Five years have passed since Andy and Red left Shawshank prison. But they run into one of their old cellmates (played by Snoop Dogg), who threatens to hand Andy over to the police... unless they help him carry out a series of daring casino heists. Jessical Alba stars as Red's sexy new girlfriend who joins them for explosions, car chases, incredible martial arts action and a tangled web of intruigue.

Rocky 9 -As he approaches his 100th birthday, Rocky Balboa couldn't possibly take on a new breed of genetically enhanced cyborg fighters, could he? The Italian Stallion is back against all odds, out of retirement again and eager to prove himself to the world.

Club Sandwich - In this sequel to Fight Club, Tyler Durden meets himself for lunch, and they both expect the other one to pick up the cheque. Ed Norton and Brad Pitt team up for more anarchy, revolution and an antipasto platter - to share.

Metrosexual problems

there once was a man from nantucket

The English language is a funny old beast; I mean, I don't ROFL when I'm reading the dictionary or anything, and I'd probably laugh more during an episode of Family Guy than I would just talking to myself... actually, the English language isn't that funny at all. In some instances, it's perfectly annoying. Yes, that's more like it. So disregard the first sentence of this post, it's all shit. English isn't funny at all.

One of the annoyances is its lack of rhyming words. Rhyming words can help to make you sound poetic, which is a great way of getting girls to like you. There are probably other ways as well, but I haven't found them just yet. As soon as I do though, you'll be the first people to know.

Anyway, during a recent drinking game, it was observed that there are several words in the English language that don't have rhyming partners. No longer, my friends. Stupidly, most of these words are colours, like purple, orange and silver, which makes it hard to do "Roses are red, violets are purple" kind of poems, unless it goes:

"Roses are red,

violets are purple,

the world is an egg

and nothing rhymes with purple."

See how shit that is? Purple, orange, silver... no fucking rhymes.

"Gary won gold

as his psychic foretold,

Barry took silver...

which was a pretty good effort,

and Larry got bronze,

which he sold to buy some swans."

Actually, bronze doesn't have too many rhymes either.

Other words that don't have a decent rhyme are month, scalp and angst. I can't believe angst doesn't have a rhyme, as surely it is used by emo poets the world over. So to help out emos (because they need it), as well as normal, functioning members of society, I have done everyone a favour by introducing... the next step of languageness:

Lurple - the act of riding in the boot of a car. (The back seat was full, so one person had to lurple for the drive home.)

Borange - to ask for an item that is either impossible or not intended to be returned to the lender. (May I borange a cigarette? Do you have a tissue that I could borange? Would you like to borange a post-it note?)

Grilver - yawning to the point of tears. (It appeared that he was crying during The Notebook, but told his friends that it was just grilver.)

Nonth - to fall upwards. (Kate took a nonth at the bottom of the staircase.)

Chalp - a familiar yet unknown person (I swear I've met this chalp before.)

Frangst - to be given incorrect change. (As I tried to pay for parking, I realised the chick at Subway had frangst me.)

If you can work lurple into a "roses are red" kind of poem, I'll buy you a beer.

oh mr sandman, bring me a dream

summer lovin', having a blast

Even the Death Star was feeling the summer heat. Vader really should have used Dulux Heatshield Weatherproof paint.

Dear Summer,

Thank you for finally arriving, and it appears that you're making up for your late appearance with gusto - kudos to you, and thanks for the temperatures in the high 30s. I had forgotten how it feels to stick to my couch.

If you're sticking around for the next month or so, we should catch up for a beer before you head off overseas again. Let me know when you're free! I can't do Tuesdays though.

Cheers tiger,

Mister Evil Breakfast



That's right, sportsfans; summer is here and has hit us in the butt like a fridge door that you left open as you rummage around in it looking for a jar of pickles. Here's Mister Evil Breakfast's Survival Guide to the Season That's in Everyone's Top Four List, Summer (MEBSGttSTiETFLS). I fucking love acronyms. IFLA.

Food

Food during summer is a piece of piss - dust off your hot plate, fill up your gas bottles and fire up that barbecue. The humble 'q' is a versatile invention, and can be used to knock up a feast of sausages in the same time that it takes the butcher to ask "thick or thin?" The best thing about a bbq (other than the fact that it can be abbreviated quite beautifully, and involves a letter that doesn't actually exist in its original form), is that it doesn't matter if you burn the food you're cooking - in fact, you will become a better host and more accomplished chef if the food you supply up is at least 60% charcoal.

Serving a salad at your barbie is strictly optional, but if there are women-folk around, chances are that you'll have to provide some kind of green stuff for them. However, as women-folk are want to do, they will ask you if you would like them to bring a salad. This is women-folk code for "I don't trust you to have food that isn't meat, so I'll bring some greens." So in preparing your barbecue provisions, do not buy any unnecessary salad items, or they'll just go brown and soggy in your fridge.

If you don't actually own a barbecue, you should head down to Bunnings and pick one up. Also, you could grab 8 litres of paint and a cordless drill for a good price.

Drink

When you either invite or are invited to meet for a drink with friends, don't expect to be sipping on a coffee. The order of the day is beer, my friend. Nothing goes as well on a hot day as a tall glass of liquid gold. Beer, I mean, not really liquid gold - I don't think that would be refreshing at all, and would probably be quite hazardous to your health. If you wake up feeling a bit dodgy after a night of too much beer, I can imagine that after a few pints of melted gold, you'd be feeling a whole lot worse.

Stubbie holders

The stubbie holder is an out-and-out necessity. Carry one at all times, as summer provides ample drinking opportunities and you don't want to be caught without one. A stubbie holder is simple - it keeps your beer cold and your hand at a relatively comfortable temperature. They come in many different designs, from promotions for Jim Beam or Tooheys Extra Dry, or even a message from the Australian Government to "count your drinks" or "dial before you dig," to slogans, places, football teams or events. When given the choice at a friend's house, please pick your stubbie holder responsibly. You don't want to be subconsciously supporting Manly, do you?

Fashion

Put away your winter woollies, crack out your shorts, t-shirts and thongs, baby. Rifle through your drawers and find your swimmers. If you're feeling adventurous, consider buying yourself a few tank tops. Are they still called tank tops? I haven't worn a tank since 19-dickety-two, and don't really intend on doing it again any time soon. I think they're just for girls and guys in hotted up cars with shit hair. Anyway, with all this skin that's been cooped up inside a hoodie for the last nine months suddenly being exposed to the sun, you should take care of yourself and adopt the tried-and-true concept of "Slip, slop, slap (and wrap" - I'm not a fan of the additional line myself; I think sunglasses are important and awesome [particularly since I just got a new pair], but for me, it kind of ruins the jingle. It's like when they introduced Poochie to Itchy and Scratchy). Or you could just lather yourself in baby oil, either one works fine.

Television

I hope you're a fan of cricket and ironman competitions, because that's about all you'll be able to watch until about February. Both sports are great viewing entertainment while you're kicking back on the lounge with a beer and a bag of chips, so you can criticise the guy who's just run 40km on a beach for not paddling his kayak hard enough to catch a wave. I mean come on, the guy's just been paddling for the last 3 hours, surely he knows how to do it properly by now? Also, it's good to see Ponting bat and fail so Mike Hussey can come in and win everyone's heart. I'll drink to that.

Sleep

In Australia, from mid-December through to the end of February, there are suddenly around 20 million extra insomniacs running around the streets. The windows are open, the fan is going, the sheets are off, you've got a damp towel over your face and ice cubes on your body, yet you're still sweating like a paedophile in a Humphrey suit. Add to that the fact that there seems to be a particularly noisy mosquito convention going on in your ear, you'll be happy when the sun finally rises and you can get up and don't need to try to fool yourself that you'll be able to sleep any more.


Dear Mister Evil Breakfast,

Sorry again that I was late in arriving - I really am quite embarrassed! I'm glad you're enjoying the high temperatures and lack of wind. Deodorant sales are up!

Would love to grab a beverage with you - how's next Friday? I'll give you a call during the week and we'll set something up. We should head down the pub and watch the cricket - I heard the other day that Ponting is still shit. Wait, I heard that from you. Never mind.

See you soon!

love Summer

Welcome to the future

Happy new year, pelicans! Hope it's treated you well thus far.

Well, 2008 was a splendid 366 days of non-stop laughs and action. Unless I'm mistaken, we saw the birth of the internet, recreational space flight, the invention of curry-flavoured dim sims, and Chicken Twisties won Australia's Next Top Model. Don Bradman hit a century in an over, Michael Jordan ran the 100 metres in 18 seconds and Fatty Vautin became Australia's Next Top Model. Pirates attacked Coogee, I love Portuguese chicken and Kevin Bloody Wilson won Australia's Next Top Model. It was a big year.

We can't keep living in the past, let's look forward to 2009, where I see the following things happening:

Bold and Beautiful leaving the 6pm time slot. Even though I'm a bit sick of The Simpsons, I'll watch every freaking episode (even the one where they just rehash all the songs they've performed over the years) than sit with this drivel. Days is better anyway, but I'd still watch The Simpsons over that as well.

TV Weathermen to be completely lost. Seriously, I thought we were meant to be having some sort of global warming phenomenon going on here - I had to pull out my beanie the other night it was so cold. And now I'm sweating like six goats in a shed. "And now onto the weather with Phillip Weatherman... Phil, what's in store for us this week?" "Fucked if I know! The whole country has gone to shit." The meteorlogical board must be shitting themselves right about now.

The whole universe to get over Gordon Ramsay. Turn on your TV, pick up a newspaper or switch on your Googlemachine and you're sure to find something relating to everyone's favourite foul-mouthed chef. And yes, I can see the irony in posting something about too much Gordon Ramsay, which adds to the Gordon Ramsay intergoogle traffic. I know what irony is.
I don’t hate Gordo, but I don’t particularly like him either. In case you’re thinking "Who the fuck is Gordon fucking Ramsay?", he’s a fucking chef who says "fuck" a lot. Big fucking deal. I swear when I cook as well, but no-one’s making seventy thousand TV shows about me as I combine baked beans and toast, are they? Ramsay is in such high demand that you can catch one of his fucking cooking shows on three different channels. And when his shows aren’t on (I’m pretty sure someone at Channel 9 got fired for not putting on another episode of Hell’s Kitchen Nightmares Celebrity Cook-Off Challenge for one night of the year), we’re berated by news stories about him having affairs or falling down a mountain while hunting puffins or the day he ran out of toothpaste.
Sorry Gramsay, I know it’s not your fault, but I’m just a bit sick of you right now. I’m sure you have millions of dollars to roll around in to soak up the tears of losing a viewer. I hope that money lasts when the world switches off, tiger.

Justin Timberlake to remain white. Despite his best intentions to try and fool everyone into thinking that he's an "African American" by saying "dog" and "izzle" a lot, JT will remain the whitest guy in the history of white people everywhere. The Beatles' White Album takes pity on Timberlake for being so damn white. Also, because his music is dog's balls and he is a girl.

Fifty-seven remakes of old movies and TV shows that were once good that now aren't will hit our screens in 2009. Michael Bay is following up his Transformers abomination with Transformers 2: More Abysmal, The Karate Kid is getting a face-lift (starring L'il Bow Wow or Will Smith's kid or someone equally as mis-matched to the part), even Friends is being translated into a movie, for fuck's sake! Not to mention every single comic ever drawn has already been given the green light to go ahead to the silver screen. Can't wait for the Wizard of Id movie to be released.

That FreeTV thing with digital channels won't be as good as people think it will be. Enough said. As long as I can still watch Letterman, I'll be happy.

Warney to punch Kevin Rudd in the head. Just because I think it would make him an even greater human being. I reckon Rudd is the kind of bloke who would hate it when you call him "Kev", and has probably never eaten a meat pie in his life. He makes me angry.

People with iPhones to shut up about them. It won't happen; I'm a realist, but it would be nice. We can dream, can't we? Speaking of dreams, I had a weird one the other night where one of my friends was in my car, and he had grey hair and was a woman. And not a particuarly attractive or convincing woman, either. Anyway, mobile phones are becoming disturbingly techy - some of them have a little kickstand on them so you can plonk it on your table to watch TV and movies. Seriously folks, if you have a table, chances are that you have a TV already - turn that on instead; it won't hurt your eyes as much and it won't run down your battery.

Ben Cousins will fuck up and get back on the drugs. Ben's cousin will be disappointed in him, as will his uncles, aunts and anyone who had faith that ol' Benny boy would give up the juice. Some idiots will talk about how bad a role model he is and should be sent to jail. People should pick their role models a bit better if they look to junkies for guidance. Then we'll all get over it and worry about Ricky Ponting's form slump.

McDonalds will continue to release shit burgers, yet remain seriously popular. Fuck it, they should just get rid of everything except cheeseburgers, and they'd still be massively successful. Cheeseburgers are my life. I had a KFC filler thing on the weekend, it was fucked; I would recommend against eating one unless it's for a dare.

Beer to remain awesome. It's been awesome for 2,000 years and if it gets fucked up now, I'm going to be SO pissed off.

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.

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

Eleven words of awesome


The English language is full of shit words and phrases like “at the end of the day”, “tummy”, “bi-curious” and “emoticon”. I have written some new words and phrases that have received the Mister Evil Breakfast Stamp of Approval for Being Awesome (MEBSOAFBA).


Humping the calcium turtle: A way to describe events that you can't really remember due to extreme alcohol consumption. ("I was humping the calcium turtle on the weekend." / "How did you get your fridge up on the roof?" "I was humping the calcium turtle.")

Badger in a wetsuit / whore in church / goat on a pole / ferret in a disco: These are all expressions of heat and give the impression that you are sweating. (“Mate, it’s a bit warm today; I’m sweating like a badger in a wetsuit.” / “I was so nervous, I was sweating like a whore in church.”)

Aussie cricket team: To get the job done, albeit poorly and past the due date. (His report was a bit Aussie cricket team, but he was happy it was over.)

Goat:
1. An extreme measurement. ("I was as sore as a goat." / "It's as hot as a goat out here." / "The stockmarket fell a goatload today.")
2. An undisclosed part of the human body. ("I'll punch you in the goat." / "My goat is as sore as a goat.")

S M Mess: The state of inebriation where you can no longer use text-messaging, but dammit if you aren't going to try.

Twenty bucks: The right price to make a bad story interesting. ("I saw a red car... and then I found twenty bucks.")

Eggs for breakfast: Something that sounds like a tempting idea, but from previous experience, is known to be fairly dicey. (It was that time of the night when the idea of another beer was eggs for breakfast.)

Mahoosive: Extremely large – this is like the word ‘massive’, but bigger.

Alpha sheep: Person who unexpectedly leads people to action. (The buffet table was untouched as the guests waited for the arrival of an Alpha Sheep).

Four day arse: An offensive smell. (After the road-trip, the boys smelt like four-day arse).

Bediddle: A car with one headlight brighter than the other. Is also an alternative for the classic “punchbuggy” game.

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.

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

Ten ads-a-crapping

There’s some shithouse ads on right now – apparently the fact that we have no good TV shows on during summer means we don’t need any decent commercials either.

The shit car ad with the cats. Fucked if I know what car this is for, but it’s shit and I’m not going to buy one ever. Not that I can afford it anyway. The ad starts off with some kind of thieving heist, by people with cat heads. What follows is a Matrix-style kung-fu extravaganza, followed by one of the cats driving away. Get fucked, stupid cat ad.

The GIO ad with the retarded couple annoys the piss out of me. The husband drives his new, bright, shiny sports car into the driveway. Wifey says, “What the motherfuck is this?” He says, “It’s an investment.” She says, “Give us a drive then.” He says, “Nein. What about our insurance? What if you crash? We’ll lose our fucking premiums, bitch!” She fights her way through all the great aspects of their insurance before he finally hands over the keys. This couple would be a hoot to do grocery shopping with. “Let’s get Corn Flakes.” “But Nutri Grain has five vitamins… AND iron!” “I don’t like Nutri Grain.” “It’s 30 cents cheaper.” “I’m allergic to it and it will make my neck explode.” “You also get 12 grams more in Nutri Grain.” “I’ll die if I eat it.” “...” “…” “…” “…” “Fuck it, just buy your fucking Nutri Grain.”

Foxtel ads are apparently saving people money. It still actually costs money to have Foxtel, yet the savings you’ll get are seemingly astounding. I’m not sure how much more affordable it is than, say, free-to-air television, but some people honestly need to save money on free TV by installing a satellite dish with monthly charges.

Those AAMI ads with the ginger ninja kids shit me. What is wrong with AAMI at the moment? I liked the ad with that chick who was trying to get engaged to Todd and go to Paris on a honeymoon for $233, despite my hatred for its flawed mathematics. All of a sudden, we’ve got these evil rangas telling their mum to stop dressing them alike. People who make ads for AAMI need to stop smoking crack. Creepy fucking kids.

Napisan or Omo shit – I can’t remember which cleaning goo it’s for, but there’s a kid who keeps asking “why” to his mum about everything in the world. Eventually, the questions turn to why she uses Omo or Napisan or whatever the fuck it is. “Because it cleans shit.” “Why?” “Because the enzymes work like fucking madmen to get rid of stains.” “Why?” Mum is stumped. Enter Napisan/Omo person. “The enzymes work like fucking madmen to get rid of stains,” she says. The kid seems pleased with that answer, despite the fact that it was the same one his mum just gave! STUPID FUCKING NAPISAN/OMO SHIT. Go to hell.

Most McDonalds ads these days automatically go into the “shit” category. Some of them have a scrap of potential, but they fall flat with poor acting or direction. I know, I’m talking about the direction of McDonalds ads, but seriously, it’s an issue that needs to be sorted. The one that comes to mind is for the new Seared Chicken Burger. Looks as dry as a desert goat, just quietly. Random Cool Guy sits down with his burger and sings, “Chicken!” as he is quite pleased with his lunch. I often sing about my lunch, too. If you ever hear a melodious, “Human entrails!” you’ll know it’s me. Anyway, Random Cool Guy looks to his mate for some back-up. His friend is busy trying to look like he doesn’t know Random Cool Guy, and is intent on staring at his burger. Random Cool Guy keeps staring. Friend keeps avoiding the look. Eventually, before Friend’s hair catches fire through the sheer power of Random Cool Guy’s gaze, he gives him a half-hearted, “Yeah, funny,” kind of smile, even though it wasn’t funny. Still, when one of your mates goes out on a limb and sings to their McDonalds burger, you really should cowboy up and support him.

Tampon ads are always cringeworthy. Yes yes yes I understand that they’re important; I use them all the time, you know, just in case. It could happen. But are women so fucking uptight about it that it robs them of security, confidence and personality? “I can’t go out, I’ve got my period.” Suck it up, princess. If men had periods, we’d be doing even more crazy shit when we had our rags. “Did you see Johnno the other day? Drank fifty-seven beers and juggled three steam rollers!” “That’s amazing!” “And… he was having his period!” See how much cooler that is? Girls, get over it. Seriously, if your confidence and security are hanging by a thread (see what I did there?), you might need more than a Libra maxi.

Advanced Medical Institute commercials appear late at night, like a kebab, but are not half as tasty. The Advanced Medical Institute are apparently more concerned with blokes cracking boners than they are of, say, curing cancer, which would be a more worthwhile pursuit of ADVANCED MEDICINE (in my opinion, of course). The ads are either of two blokes who play a piano with their wangs, a guy who roots his missus in the back of his car for about 12 hours straight (I don’t think that would be good for anyone, just quietly), or more recently, a yellow screen with the words “who wants better sex?” I guess the Advanced Medical Institute ran out of money for advertising… they probably blew it all (see what I did there? I’m on fire) on buying a piano and ruining it with cock-juice. Gross.

Toilet paper ads. Somewhere back in the 80s, Sorbent introduced a cute puppy who played with toilet paper. They haven’t let go of that campaign, and continue to use it to this day. The dog chases around sixty-three rolls of toilet paper per commercial, which is cute and all… but it begs the question – what is that family going to use to wipe their bums with? It is also more economical to buy a pillow rather than fill a sack with toilet paper.

Bunnings ads feature Bunnings employees spouting endless joy about the goods that Bunnings stocks. For those unfamiliar with Bunnings, it’s a motherfucking huge hardware shop that sells everything from bits of timber, hammers, plants, water features and electrical tin openers. If you need something to re-create an episode of Home Improvement, Bunnings is the place to be. Anyway… the people they get to ‘host’ the ads aren’t always what you’d call “TV Pretty.” Some are missing teeth, some haven’t had a haircut since 1934 and some are packing a bong while the cameras are rolling. That’s not my beef – I think it’s good to see regular people doing regular things in their place of business. No-one’s convinced that the hot chicks on McDonalds ads work there, so why even bother to hire a looker when you can just get Stan from the barbecue department to give his two cents? The problem with the ads, dear reader, is that the spiel that Stan gives about his barbies doesn’t have anything to do with the specials that are coming up at the store.
“We’ve got all your barbecue needs here; we’ve got barbies to cook snags, barbies to cook goats, we’ve got barbecue tongs, gas bottles, outdoor seating arrangements and barbecue aprons. Bunnings’ barbecues are fucking tops,” says Stan. Thanks, Stan. Now, voiceover man, tell me more about these barbecues. “Leaf blowers for $200, vanity units from $150, ride-on-mowers from $300.” I might be doing something wrong with my barbecues, cause I have never needed to leaf-blow my snags, or ride a mower to create a salad. Sauce goes in the cupboard, not the vanity unit. This makes no fucking sense. Stupid Bunnings.


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.

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

Nine nerds a-rofling

The sounds of the internet will now be heard loud and clear across the world thanks to a group of chatroom enthusiasts who will literally be LOLing and ROFLing their way through cyberspace.
“It occurred to me one night when I was chatting on MSN,” said James Banks, otherwise known as Agent_Smith932. “My friend Cerebus was pnwing this newb and it was really funny, so I typed LOL to keep him going.” LOL is an internet acronym meaning ‘Laughing Out Loud.’ “All of a sudden, I realised that I wasn’t LOLing at all. I wasn’t making any noise, except for my fingers on the keyboard, and my asthma and my flu. But I wasn’t laughing, at least not on the outside.”
When Mrs Banks went upstairs to say goodnight to her son, she found him in hysterics on the floor. “I was scared out of my mind,” Mrs Banks said. “I thought he’d had a fit. I jumped on top of him to stop him moving and he suddenly came to and told me to get off him.”
“I was trying something out,” James says. “I was seeing how it would go if I could increase the LOL to a ROFL – Rolling On the Floor Laughing. It was going fine until I was attacked by my mum. Everyone on the internet knew about how my mum tried to save me, it was embarrassing.”

While it would be a stretch to say that ‘everyone on the internet’ knew about it, there were four people in the chatroom at the time, and at least one made a quip about it when told of what had just occurred in James’ bedroom.
“Everyone was all like, 'Smith where r u’ and shit,” James explains. “And I was all like, ‘Fck man, ull neva gess wot jus happened I was literally ROFL n my mum comes in n sees me n shes all ova me cuz she thinks im havin a fit or sumthing!!!”

According to his internet logs, a user named Dry_Tears chimed in with “Dude, your mum is hot LOL I’d go there LOLLL!” which almost caused James to stop his literal use of internet phrases. “Nah I’m going to keep going,” he says. “I’ve mastered the LOL and now my mum knows not to freak out if she sees me ROFLing. My friends are all doing it as well – one guy, RigidBoy4U, says he’s going to attempt a LMAO (Laughing My Arse Off), and at least three people I know claimed to have LSHIPMP (Laughing So Hard I Pissed My Pants). They said that it really happened, but who knows? It’s pretty gross. If I'm somewhere where I can't literally LOL or ROFL, and especially not LSHIPMP, I'm going to give LOTI (Laughing On The Inside) a go. I think LOTI could be the next big thing."

All I know is that the future of the internet should have a VBS (Very Big Smile) on its face, as people like Agent_Smith932, Cerebus, Dry_Tears and RigidBoy4U continue to make chatrooms a better place.


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.

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

Eight cancelled shows

Lipstick Jungle – this attempted to cash in on the popularity of the Sex and the City movie. Strangely, the fact that people enjoyed one tv show about 40-year old women who have sex in New York didn’t necessarily mean they’d like another show about 40-year old women who have sex in New York. Perhaps the writers shouldn’t have just changed the characters names, and actually written a show. Odd concept, that.

90210 – it was cancelled until Channel 10 had no choice but to cut their costs and put it back on the air... and then cancel it again. It’s so close to falling into the “so bad it’s good” category, but is hovering around the “it’s just bad” bin at the moment. Again, it shows that TV and Hollywood producers have the imagination of a sock by rehashing ideas that were good... twenty years ago.

Big Brother – I guess it was inevitable. The mighty BB juggernaut came crashing to a halt fairly suddenly. The four people who watched it were devastated. It was probably about time for this one to be put to rest (you’re next, Idol), but I have no doubt that this puppy will come back in a couple of years.

The Starter Wife was promoted fairly heavily at the beginning of the year. It was about a chick who was starting her life over following the break-up of her marriage. It wrapped up fairly quickly as she found a new love in the third episode. There was cheering in the street when that happened, I tell you. Or at least, there would have been, if anyone had bothered watching it.

Taken Out – this show wasn’t half as bad as it should have been. Some bloke from Foxtel hosted thirty singles who voted themselves in or out for a date with another single as pieces of their life were slowly revealed. Trashy, tacky and completely watchable; mainly due to the snide comments from the host and the complete bitchiness of the contestants.

Women’s Murder Club – just what we need; another fucking crime show. This one has a twist though – it’s all about chicks. If you’ve just finished watching an episode of CSI, just pop this program on and you can watch it again as it would be if it was performed by a troupe of all-female amateur actors. Don’t just take my word for it; ask the three people who watched it for more than thirty seconds - they would have told you it was shit too.

Canal Road was doomed from the get-go. For one, it billed itself as a ‘gritty Aussie drama series’, which means that it’s going to die really quickly. This was later confirmed as it went to the ‘gritty’ timeslot of 9:30pm on Thursday, then the ‘even grittier’ 10:30pm Tuesday slot, then it popped up at randomly gritty times when the movie of the week finished early, then it just grittily disappeared. The show itself had about as much grit as a cheese sandwich, but good on ‘em for giving it a bash. One day, Australia will actually produce a decent television show.

Out of the Blue at time of writing hasn’t been cancelled, but it can’t be too long before it is. Holy fuck this show is bad. The most entertaining part is trying to work out which ads the actors have appeared in, rather than try and work out who killed who. It’s poorly written, and seems to have an emphasis on getting people who look like they should be on Neighbours to say ‘shit.’ Another fine example of an Aussie TV show that’s made purely to keep the domestic content on track.

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.

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

Seven bumper stickers

Frangipani stickers are everywhere. I have no idea where they sprung up from all of a sudden, but they’re here, and when they’re stuck to your car, it means they’re there forever. I’m surprised no-one’s started selling other flower bumper stickers to compete with the monopoly created by frangipanis. I’d put a geranium sticker on my back window, but I like driving a car that doesn’t look fucked.

Magic Happens is possibly the best sticker in the history of the world. It says everything that you can’t quite find the words for, especially if those words are “magic” and “happens”. I guess this sticker is really popular with David Blaine and David Copperfield. Possibly other Davids as well – it might not just be a David thing (who knows? It’s all part of the mystery and magic of the sticker). I’ve known people to buy a car simply because it has a “Magic Happens” sticker on it.

Bitch stickers are always helpful as well, just in case you were thinking about trying to pick up the chick next to you at the lights. You look over; she gives you the eye and a suggestive smile. You wind down your window to have a quick chat, and then you see it: “Bitch”, written in gothic font across the back of her car. You wind your window back up and take off quickly; that was close. You almost talked to a bitch, man.

I love cars with a good Jesus fish sticker as well. I think it’s the idea of Jesus protecting that car from other non-Jesus-fish stickered cars that appeals to me. If you have a car with a fish sticker, I’m going to drive really close to you, just in case there’s a meteor shower or an escaped rhinoceros or Godzilla has risen from Lake Burley Griffin. Protect me, Jebus fish!

Some people are proud of their local footy team; I’m all for that, I love my Raiders as much as I’d love an illegitimate red-haired stepchild. Some people are so proud that they fill up their whole car with praise for their heroes. The most fanatical of the sporting team bumper sticker brigade are people from Victoria; in particular, Collingwood Magpies supporters. I don’t really know too much about AFL at all, except that the Adelaide Crows are the kings of the sport, regardless of where they finished on the ladder, and Collingwood fans love bumper stickers. They don’t stop at one “Go Pies!” sticker on their car – they’ve got the whole collection. Everything from “The Magpies give me CollingWOOD!”, “I support the Magpies – deal with it or I’ll headbutt you!”, “The Pies Fly High In 05!” and the inevitable “Don’t follow me; I’m on my way to a Collingwood game!” Don’t worry tiger, I’m not following you; your “God loves Collingwood” bumper sticker is the next best thing to a Jesus fish.

If you can read this, you’re too close! Clever. Very clever. I read the first five words, but I had to get a bit closer to you to see the rest. Now I feel foolish for falling for your elaborate prank.

Political cars are always a treat. I love seeing a car who votes Green, or a “No war in my name” bumper sticker. This way, I know that the driver of that car isn’t Howard the Duck, it’s not Warwick Capper, Dionne Warwick, it’s not Warren Beatty, Shane Warne, or Andy Warhol. I like to know the owner of the car before I start ramming into them.

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.

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

Six Ponting problems

It’s no secret that I don’t like Ricky Ponting, and people often stop me in the street to ask why. Well, they don’t really stop me, and I’m not in the street. Normally I go around to random houses, or ring people up and tell them why.

No, Ricky. I do not have a gun in my pocket, nor am I happy to see you.

Excuses
Whenever Australia has a loss, or Ricky P is out for a low score (which happens quite a lot), there’s always an excuse. In the 2005 Ashes, when Australia lost the urn to the old enemy, Ponts was run out attempting a suicidal single. He immediately started yelling at the umpires and English players because he was run out by a substitute fielder. Girl. His latest excuse is that he has some kind of wrist injury. I’m not going to be crude about that, but I assume that he got it from wanking too much. Well he didn’t fucking get it from batting too long, did he? His other excuse is that he “received a jaffa” (an unplayable delivery). He gets a lot of this kind of delivery – pretty much anything that lands within the same state as him will be too much for Captain Ponting to handle.

No grit
When the pressure’s on, Rick will quite literally poo his pants. Rather than try and nut out an innings of determination rather than flamboyance, he’ll just lamely chop a ball onto his stumps and walk off the field, smash a beer and light his pipe. He can play on a flat pitch against Bangladesh though, make no mistake. His 100 in the game against the Indians was also priceless, especially considering we’d already lost the series.

His name is ROOTING in predictive text
When sending a short sms messaging service text message about my hatred of Ricky Ponting, I’ve noticed that my predictive text flashes up the word ‘rooting’ instead of ‘Ponting’. This has led to me sending a few texts out that say “I hate Rooting”, “Rooting is fucking useless” or “Shane Watson is better than Rooting.” It’s just sending out the wrong message (see what I did there?)

Too much spit
I’ve been through this before, but I’m still struggling with Ponting’s whole hand-spitting thing. It’s just gross. Shaking his hand would be like holding a fish that had been in a fat guy’s arse crack for about eighteen hours while he eats month-old curried cabbage sandwiches, and I don’t think I need to explain why they don’t sell those fish at the Belconnen Markets.

Still can’t play spin
I’m not the only one who’s noticed that for someone who has managed to somehow bash out a career of playing cricket, R.T. Ponting is still incapable of playing spin bowling. It’s like an English teacher being illiterate, or a pool cleaner being allergic to having a moustache. With Matty Hayden still in the team (not for much longer though), teams playing against Australia know that they’ve already got two wickets as soon as the Aussie openers take the field. Ponts might as well stay in the sheds and spit on his hands some more. Off-spinners, leg-spinners, left-arm orthodox, chinamen... spinners the world over must be lining up to have a crack at Ricky when he waddles out to the pitch. I’m surprised he even bothers to bring his bat with him these days.

Has ruined the name Ricky for everyone
The following people named Ricky would be better at cricket, make a better captain, and not look as much like a chipmunk as our current Aussie captain:
Rick Astley had some hits in the early 90s and then faded away. In the last few years, he has become famous again, thanks to YouTube and emails and all kinds of internet-related stuff. Ricky Ponting never had any hits ever, and yet refuses to go away. It’s bad manners.
Ricky Gervais, creator, writer, director and star of The Office is pretty fucking funny. Ponting has yet to do or say anything remotely amusing. Also, Gervais has a goatee like the one that Ponting had when he used to go out drinking and fighting; you know, back when he was almost cool.
Ricky Walford used to play rugby league for St George. He retired without a huge hurrah, and instead of catching up with him for a beer and a chat to find out what he’s been doing, I’d like to be able to flick on the telly and watch him lead Australia in cricket, and know immediately: he’s doing better than Ponts.
Rick James was a popular singer during the 70s and 80s (which already beats Ponting, who can't even spell 'popular'). Even though he’s dead, I think the Aussie cricket team would appreciate the ‘Weekend at Bernie’s’ style of cricket that Rick James’ inclusion would allow.
Ricky Martin would work on bringing style and sex appeal to the game of cricket. I believe the Australian Twenty20 uniforms have actually been lifted from his closet (and probably not the only thing to come out of the closet, either. Eh? Eh? Yeah).
Ricky Bobby is the world’s greatest fictional Nascar racer. He’s even better than whoever Tom Cruise played in Days of Thunder, which is a fair achievement in itself. Hmm. Oh yeah, and Ricky Ponting sucks.
Ricky Stuart was recently fired, sorry, quit, from being the coach of the Australian rugby league side, so I guess he has some free time at the moment. Welcome to being captain of the cricket team, Mr Stuart. For the record, R. Stuart is angrier, swears more, and is slightly pudgier than R. Ponting, hence he would make a better cricketer. Also, he has an awesome kicking game and in my opinion, was a better half-back than Allan Langer.
Ricky May was a regular on Hey Hey It’s Saturday until his death in 1988. He was fucking massive, and could belt out a tune or two. This may not seem to add much to the case of him being better at cricket than our current captain, but since he’s not Ricky Ponting, he already wins that contest.
Ricki-Lee appeared on Idol a few years back, and is now in a tidy little hosting job. Apparently she sings, but that’s neither here nor there, because I think she’s also fairly attractive. I’m pretty sure Ricki-Lee wouldn’t get out to Indian spinner Harbajhan Singh as easily as Ponts does. I think I saw a game between New Zealand and England where Harbajhan was credited with Ponting’s wicket.
I haven’t seen Christina Ricci since the indie film Buffalo ‘66, but I do plan on renting Speed Racer when it comes out. I miss Christina Ricci. I saw Ricky Ponting today (on tv) and realised that I haven’t missed him at all.

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

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.