Wednesday, June 28, 2006

i'm not too proud to admit my poo smells...

A (girl) friend of mine recently asked why it is that men read the newspaper in the toilet.
The answer of course is simple; men read in the toilet because it's quiet, peaceful and there are usually no women in there.
I know this because I used to be a man (before I got married).
Every Sunday morning I'd grab the ‘Good Weekend’ supplement, my cigarettes/lighter and lock myself in the bathroom. The light blue tiles were cool under my feet, green pot-plants were thriving in the steamy atmosphere created by the shower and the little picture window afforded both a gentle breeze and pleasant view. It was a very, very nice place to be; tranquility itself.
I'd park myself on the throne, pants around the ankles, magazine spread out on the floor, and light up a cigarette. Then I’d begin reading the articles, cover to cover, whilst very carefully ashing the cigarette between my legs.
This zen-like ambience would invariably be broken by a pounding on the door, my ex-wife wanting to know what I was doing??
"I'm reading the paper."
"I can smell smoke."
"I'm reading the paper and smoking."
"Why are you doing it in there??”
"Because it's quiet."
"Why is the door locked??”
"To stop you coming in."
"Why, what are you really doing??”
"OK, Columbo, you've caught me. I'm having a party in here. All my mates are in here drinking Absinthe off the nipples of hookers that climbed up a rope and through the 30cm square window three stories above the ground."
"Can I come in??”
"Do you need to go to the toilet??”
"No."
"Then, no. You can't come in."
"Why??”
"Because I want some peace and quiet. Now, go away."
"It's just revolting, you sitting there with that awful smell..."
Now…This is where I believe a lot of the confusion seems to lie??
I suspect that most women believe men who spend say 30 minutes reading in the toilet are actively engaged in doo-dooing for the entire time. That whilst flipping the pages over, we are straining and groaning, all manner of evil gases escaping, and that the toilet is inexorably piling up with poo.
In fact, we read for about 29 of those minutes, then we close the paper, do our business, wipe our bottoms, flush the toilet, put the seat back up just to annoy you, wash our hands and leave.
But back to the story…
"No, it doesn't smell in here. Just some cigarette smoke."
"I don't believe you."
"I don't really care."
"Let me in."
"No. Go away."
She'd eventually skulk off somewhere; I'd light another cigarette and return to my reading. After about 30 minutes and a few more cigarettes, I'd do my business and conclude the session.
As soon as the door opened, my ex-wife would brush past me in the doorway, step into the bathroom, take a big breath and say,
"Oh my god, that smells awful. How can you stand it??”
"I can't. That’s why I'm leaving."
"Oh, gross. It stinks."
"Yes, that's why I do it in here, rather than the lounge room."
"Well mine doesn't smell like that."
"No, of course not, my darling. Yours smells like potpourri; I think we should keep it in a display bowl on the coffee table..."

Thursday, June 22, 2006

nic off you boring bitch...

On the surface Nicole Kidman may seem an impossibly mediocre actress whose success boggles the imagination; however there is another side of ‘Our Nic’.
I doubt whether many of the rabid critics out there know, for instance, of her tireless work in raising public awareness of the suffering caused by a little-known condition called SADS.
You see, while the flashier epidemics such as AIDS and SARS get all the trendy press coverage, this insidious disease remains largely ignored, creeping around in the medical undergrowth, silently ruining many, many lives.
SADS, or ‘Sudden Attention Deficit Syndrome’ is a crippling condition which exclusively affects celebrities; famously chronic victims include Kirsty Alley and Jennifer Aniston.
It occurs when a celebrity has not seen their name in print for at least 24 hours, nor their face splashed on the front of a magazine for over a week. SADS-sufferers slip quickly into a deep, public depression; initially…and amazingly…alternately battling weight gain then anorexia and sometimes both simultaneously, depending on which magazines you’re reading. If this fails to hold the public's gaze for long, a SADS-sufferer will often then gorge themself on harmless over-the-counter headache tablets in an attempt to gain entry into The Betty Ford Clinic.
Or stage a bogus shoplifting spree in a suitably cooperative department store, a bogus trip to an illegal fertility lab, a bogus wedding on a remote island, a bogus divorce with armies of high-priced lawyers, a bogus custody battle over non-existent children, a bogus religious conversion or an affair with a younger partner. The final stage of this embarrassing disease sees the sufferer bare their soul on Oprah, hoping to give we simple trolls an idea of the appalling curse that comes with fame and fortune.
All of which brings me back to the subject of my glamorous neighbour, the Academy-award winning actress and United Nations Ambassador for Something-or-Other…Nicole Kidman.
Apparently…and tragically…following a recent twenty-five-page interview with ‘No Idea’ in which ‘Our Nic’ described a desperate hope for some privacy in the matter of her upcoming wedding to that Country & Western Hippie Dude, the world's tabloid journalists took her at her word, left her alone, and she quickly developed full-blown SADS.
An expert on the disease, also a close friend of Nicole’s who declined to be named, recently stated that of all the SADS patients he has ever seen, Nicole is the SADDEST…

Tuesday, June 13, 2006

wake me when it's over...

I loathe soccer with a passion!!!
I don’t even rate soccer as a sport; it should be set to music; maybe ‘Depeche Mode’??
All of which brings me to the non-subject of the upcoming World Cup and my bottomless disinterest in this appalling orgy of nationalistic fervour.
The World Cup should come with a World Saucer, so that these precious pussies can lap their milk after winning this poxy tournament.
So what if 70% of the world plays soccer; 70% of the world lives near or below the economic/agricultural subsistence-line, but I wouldn’t want to go to the World Cup of Poverty.
Make no mistake; soccer success is a rapid-transit, one-way ticket to national bankruptcy. I mean just have a look at some of the Banana Republics taking part in this tragic spectacle; Brazil, Argentina, Paraguay, Ecuador, Costa Bloody Rica, Ivory Coast, Serbia and Fucking Montenegro, Ukraine, Tunisia, Iran, Angola, Ghana, Togo (is that even a real country??), Poland and Cuntland for all I know.
These are countries that wouldn’t get an invitation to a G500 economic summit…they read like a ‘What’s What’ of crime, civil unrest, internal conflict, corruption and all-round piss-poorness.
In most of these shit-holes, Monopoly sets come with the country’s actual currency inside, as it’s cheaper to use than it is to print fake notes. If you were going to give Europe, Africa or South America an enema, you could stick the nozzle in any of these countries and be anatomically correct in a geographical sense.
The World Cup is a multi-billion dollar operation, yet more than half the countries competing have a GDP equivalent to two pigs and length of copper wire.
If the fans from these economic super-minnows ever turn up to a game in Germany, The Red Cross will have to do a food-drop by helicopter at half-time otherwise they’ll be selling their kidneys to buy hotdogs…

Sunday, June 11, 2006

are you an emperor without clothes...

If you’re the sort of person for whom form will always out over substance, for whom quantity will always trump quality, or for whom the only purchasing consideration is maximising your bang-for-buck and impressing your friends, then you’re going to love the latest edition to the ‘BlogsR’Us’ line-up.
Courtesy of Western Australia (where else??) comes a new blog combining the vacuous grandeur of Rose Porteous with the colossal flash-in-the-pannery of Alan Bond; we give you ‘The Mountjoy’.
Its shiny, tacky exterior concealing a vast nothingness within, this wonder of cyber-economics provides more cubic gigabytes of blogging tedium per dollar than any other DIY template on the market.
From without it appears to be just like any other site, however take a peek inside and the genius of ‘The Mountjoy’s’ design soon becomes self-evident. The secret of ‘The Mountjoy’ lies in its patented construction technique; built almost entirely of inexpensive, easy-to-lay hyperlinks, modern miracles of blog-engineering, which are masterfully spaced between every second or third word of original, vapidly gossamer prose, allowing even the most ineffectual writer to create the illusion of substance.
Why spend wasteful years honing those non-existent skills when you can simply stand on the shoulders of giants, reprint their work, add a few conjunctions and dump it all in your personal internet-silo??
Stretching out to cyber-infinity, you’ll be delighted to find room after room after room of cheap, easy-to-fabricate storage, perfect for abandoning all that unpublished garbage you’ve accumulated over a lifetime’s scribbling. More than just a shrine to habitual, mainstream rejection, the ethereal quality of ‘The Mountjoy’ eventually fools even its proprietor into believing his blog is a distinguished body of work rather than just a barren wasteland of pop-culture dross.
Expansive use of the hyperlinks, combined with some clever exploitation of the surface area/volume paradox allows the owner of ‘The Mountjoy’ to apply a large percentage of his limited resources to maintaining the gaudy fa├žade of the blog without compromising its potential shit-holding capacity.
This is blogging’s equivalent of ‘The McMansion’, with only the most sophisticated of site-seers able to comprehend that whilst there are many rooms in your mansion, most of them will forever remain very sparsely furnished…

Tuesday, June 06, 2006

go with god...you plonker...


OK…check this moron out.
http://www.smh.com.au/news/unusual-tales/man-who-was-testing-god-killed-by-lion/2006/06/05/1149359675280.html
I always get a laugh out of these stories; there are usually three or four of them scattered throughout the world press in any given year; some deranged God-fondler with a Daniel-complex enters the proverbial lion’s den, only to be given a disappointingly-fatal religious re-education and get his head gnawed off.
Inevitably it’s the same sort of knucklehead each time. A middle-aged male, German or South African, wearing robes and sandals, armed with nothing but a copy of The Bible and a strong, personal belief that his God will somehow protect him from the grisly fate otherwise assured by the large signs placed around the wild animal enclosures in all metropolitan zoos. The mortal conclusion, although colourfully entertaining for the kiddies, is often slow and painful for the adventurous believer and invariably comes shortly after his uttering the line ‘Yeah though I walk through the shadow of the Valley of Death, I shall fear no…’
Sometimes the choice of beast varies; lions seem to be the favourite carnivore for the majority of these Messianic nutbags, however I’ve read of incidents involving tigers, leopards, bears, crocodiles, pythons, gorillas and even honey bees.
One constant however seems to be that when the rescuers finally manage to drag the half-eaten/mangled/stung carcass from the arena, the bible found with the remains of the victim is always opened to Revelations, which appears these days to have become The Book of Loons; an all-purpose instruction manual for the suicidal zealot.
My question is: why try and save these idiots at all ??
They should be disqualified from taking any further part in the evolutionary process, according to Darwin’s principles, as surely as the deluded gonzo that severs his own penis in a fit of matrimonial rage…

Thursday, June 01, 2006

BlogsR'Us...


So, you want to become part of the ‘non-information revolution’ and open your own blog but are chronically bereft of ideas or writing talent??
And by that, I mean even more chronically bereft of ideas or writing talent than people out there who DO actually have their own blog.
Why not let our team of professional wafflers here at ‘BlogsR’Us’ custom design and build a site specifically suited to your creative deficiencies??
In the last few weeks alone, ‘BlogsR’Us’ has created nearly a dozen, new, mind-numbing websites, any one of which would sap the will-to-live from even the hardiest optimist.
Take a look around our showroom, talk to one of our blog-consultants and choose the blog that’s right for your feeble capabilities.
For instance, if your stream of expertise as an author runs no deeper than the doodling of stick-men in crayon, you may want to consider an entry-level blog such as the award-winning ‘Mex’?? This DIY blog-kit is the cyber-equivalent of a pup-tent; cheap, nasty, easy to erect, simpler to maintain than a compost bin (although not nearly as entertaining)…and when you’ve finished polluting the internet with your poxy drivel, just roll the whole thing up and throw it away.
This is the perfect vehicle for any blogger whose autobiographical limits are tested by listing the contents of their handbag/wallet or describing the texture of their last vomit. If the creation of matter in the cores of supernovae doesn’t hold your interest but the sight of two flies having sex on the toilet seat keeps you transfixed for an hour, then look no further than the mighty ‘Mex’. It requires no complex punctuation other than the occasional ‘full-stop’, almost no use of the ‘upper case’ and has the highest plagiarism parameters of any blog-template in circulation, willingly gobbling up to 98% of other peoples’ work with its handy cut-and-paste facility.
Yes, the ‘Mex’ is the perfect way to say ‘I’ve got nothing to say, and I’m not ashamed to say it!!!’
Next week, I’ll be reviewing the ‘Mountjoy’…