Honestly, do these look like the faces of car vandals...
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Sunday, November 25, 2007
shit happens...
These two adorable things are my fearless Bengals...Roni and Reji. They're looking for their favourite pot-plant, which appears to have vanished. They loved that pot-plant. Specifically, they loved pushing it over that ledge then watching me clean up the mess...
This is the pot-plant in question...a bonsai which I have lovingly grown from a twig into the thriving mass of leaves you see before you.
In order to ensure the plant's safety, it was moved onto my balcony, where it enjoys full afternoon sun and a wonderful planty sort of life...
This is kind of what my neighbour's car looks like. I'm not sure what sort of car it is, since it always has a protective cover on it. I guess he must really love it though.
Almost as much as I love my Bengals.
Maybe even as much as my Bengals loved their pot-plant...
If only he hadn't insisted on parking under my balcony, which is not really a parking zone anyway...and if only Roni and Reji hadn't gotten onto the balcony, where they're not really allowed to go...and if only they hadn't recognized their favourite pot-plant and pushed it off the balcony...this probably wouldn't have happened...
Sunday, November 18, 2007
australian story...
My dear old Dad turned seventy-five last week !!!
He came out to Australia from Yorkshire in 1952, crammed into the hold of a leaky Greek deathtrap called ‘The Patris’, arriving in Sydney alone with the balance of his starting kitty as a ‘ten pound POM’.
Dad quickly found work as an apprentice carpenter, earning the princely sum of eleven pounds a week, out of which he had to house, clothe, feed and entertain himself…while at the same time save a deposit for a house some day.
He came out to Australia from Yorkshire in 1952, crammed into the hold of a leaky Greek deathtrap called ‘The Patris’, arriving in Sydney alone with the balance of his starting kitty as a ‘ten pound POM’.
Dad quickly found work as an apprentice carpenter, earning the princely sum of eleven pounds a week, out of which he had to house, clothe, feed and entertain himself…while at the same time save a deposit for a house some day.
Over the next 5 years, he scrimped and saved every penny until he had almost 300 pounds, which, combined with a 2500 pound loan from The Commonwealth Bank, enabled him to purchase a tiny hovel in the working-class suburb of Petersham.
He would complete his 12-hour day at work, come home to a dinner of fried kippers and chips, then spend at least 6 hours using his newly-acquired carpentry skills renovating his hovel in the evening. After three years he sold the place for 3700 pounds and with his capital appreciation bought a dump in Newtown.
By now a fully licensed tradesman and earning 18 pounds a week, he continued to work hard, eat his kippers and renovate by candlelight into the wee hours of the night. Over the next 4 years Dad found time to meet my Mom, marry her, have Me…and replace virtually every fixture and fitting in our little dump, eventually selling it for 5000 pounds and a small profit in 1964.
My parents used this money to buy a run-down terrace in Surry Hills, still both working 11 hour days to pay the bills for our soon-to-be-growing family, as well as finance the improvements Dad would again make to our house. He would come home exhausted, Mom would have his kippers and chips ready, then he would retire to some un-renovated part of the house and hammer and saw and sand and scrape and paint away the best years of his life…
The following year my sister was born, further adding to the financial strain, however both my parents continued to work the standard blue-collar day, after which Mom would look after her children while Dad transformed the terrace into a livable home. They had modest plans to sell the terrace and use the money to buy a semi, starting the whole process all over again in what was then unfashionable Bondi…
However in 1966, my Grandfather won the Opera House lottery and gave my parents $50K, so we fucked off the renovating crap, moved to a big house in The Eastern Suburbs with a pool, tennis court, two cars and lived happily ever after…although Dad still eats kippers.
Happy Birthday Dad…
He would complete his 12-hour day at work, come home to a dinner of fried kippers and chips, then spend at least 6 hours using his newly-acquired carpentry skills renovating his hovel in the evening. After three years he sold the place for 3700 pounds and with his capital appreciation bought a dump in Newtown.
By now a fully licensed tradesman and earning 18 pounds a week, he continued to work hard, eat his kippers and renovate by candlelight into the wee hours of the night. Over the next 4 years Dad found time to meet my Mom, marry her, have Me…and replace virtually every fixture and fitting in our little dump, eventually selling it for 5000 pounds and a small profit in 1964.
My parents used this money to buy a run-down terrace in Surry Hills, still both working 11 hour days to pay the bills for our soon-to-be-growing family, as well as finance the improvements Dad would again make to our house. He would come home exhausted, Mom would have his kippers and chips ready, then he would retire to some un-renovated part of the house and hammer and saw and sand and scrape and paint away the best years of his life…
The following year my sister was born, further adding to the financial strain, however both my parents continued to work the standard blue-collar day, after which Mom would look after her children while Dad transformed the terrace into a livable home. They had modest plans to sell the terrace and use the money to buy a semi, starting the whole process all over again in what was then unfashionable Bondi…
However in 1966, my Grandfather won the Opera House lottery and gave my parents $50K, so we fucked off the renovating crap, moved to a big house in The Eastern Suburbs with a pool, tennis court, two cars and lived happily ever after…although Dad still eats kippers.
Happy Birthday Dad…
Wednesday, November 07, 2007
and completely unrelated to sex...although it is fucked...
Amazingly prominent on the front page of yesterday’s SMH (aka…the-rag-formerly-known-as-a-newspaper), mixed in with the hard-hitting stuff on Ben Cousins’ rehab drama, Brittney’s custody drama and some Bollywood cunt’s fan-mail drama…was a not-too-insignificant piece (of public-relations-issued-drivel) concerning our beloved ‘Telstra’ and their hard-working executives.
It seems that a measly 66% of shareholders think the company executives are a little too well-rewarded for their steering of the corporate ship into historically shallow waters.
We know this because they held a vote on the subject.
Sadly for the 2/3 of the voters who told the executives to jam their ginormous bonuses up their collective asses, this was a ‘non-binding’ vote, which is to say it was not really a vote at all.
It was a sham.
‘Telstra chairman Don McGauchie said The Board was very disappointed by the vote…’
However, since it was a non-binding vote, they would get over the disappointment and get back to gouging the shareholders, buying boats and making poor business decisions.
‘He said the board would carefully analyze the figures and give them full consideration in future remuneration planning.’
However since they were non-binding figures, The Board would eventually just do the same thing again next year since there was fuck all anyone could do about it anyway.
‘He said Telstra's board believed the remuneration plan was fair and reasonable and would not have proposed it if it did not.’
Which is also a fair and reasonable assessment of their supreme arrogance and explains why they get the big bucks and you, the shareholders, get falling stock-prices and non-binding voting rights, you silly cunts.
So, basically fuck you all very much for buying our stock, now let us get back to ripping you off and you can get back to the Ben Cousins’ Story…
Tuesday, November 06, 2007
orgasms anonymous...
Continuing with the theme of sex-addiction, I’ve been wondering whether it’s the kind of affliction that actually benefits from a group therapy situation?
With alcoholism, sufferers can gather in a room, stand up and do the ‘Hello, my name’s Wally and I’m a stinking drunk’ thing. The other group-participants all do the ‘Hello Wally, we’re all stinking drunks too’ thing…then they scare each other sober with tales of the various lives they’ve left in ruin through their abuse. Obviously, there is no alcohol available at these meetings…
Drug-addicts can congregate in a circular arrangement to confess the use of various substances they once thought gave ecstatic pleasure and find solace in the knowledge they’re not alone in their ultimate, self-inflicted agony. Obviously, there are no narcotics available at these meetings…
It’s the same at the Gamblers Anonymous support sessions. Penniless losers huddled together, inextricably bound by their mutual bankruptcy, coming to grips with the notion that the money was the least problematic of their losses. Obviously, there are no pokies in the room as far as I’m aware…
But sex-addicts…fuck me…everything they need to give themselves a carnal overdose is right there in the room. There’s a whole group of fellow pecker-fondlers and snatch-fillers just itching to rub themselves up against someone or something in the mindless pursuit of orgasm. Imagine it; a dozen or so sex-mad fruit-loops, all having a whinge about how much they adore getting their rocks off, while not ten feet away sits a like-minded audience of whimpering friction-hounds, moaning with a multitude of unfulfilled desires, ready to tear their clothes off and go for it right there on the floor.
You’d need to have them all wearing oven mitts and stuff tennis balls in their mouths to stop it turning into an orgy…
With alcoholism, sufferers can gather in a room, stand up and do the ‘Hello, my name’s Wally and I’m a stinking drunk’ thing. The other group-participants all do the ‘Hello Wally, we’re all stinking drunks too’ thing…then they scare each other sober with tales of the various lives they’ve left in ruin through their abuse. Obviously, there is no alcohol available at these meetings…
Drug-addicts can congregate in a circular arrangement to confess the use of various substances they once thought gave ecstatic pleasure and find solace in the knowledge they’re not alone in their ultimate, self-inflicted agony. Obviously, there are no narcotics available at these meetings…
It’s the same at the Gamblers Anonymous support sessions. Penniless losers huddled together, inextricably bound by their mutual bankruptcy, coming to grips with the notion that the money was the least problematic of their losses. Obviously, there are no pokies in the room as far as I’m aware…
But sex-addicts…fuck me…everything they need to give themselves a carnal overdose is right there in the room. There’s a whole group of fellow pecker-fondlers and snatch-fillers just itching to rub themselves up against someone or something in the mindless pursuit of orgasm. Imagine it; a dozen or so sex-mad fruit-loops, all having a whinge about how much they adore getting their rocks off, while not ten feet away sits a like-minded audience of whimpering friction-hounds, moaning with a multitude of unfulfilled desires, ready to tear their clothes off and go for it right there on the floor.
You’d need to have them all wearing oven mitts and stuff tennis balls in their mouths to stop it turning into an orgy…
Thursday, November 01, 2007
it's a fucking miracle...
Right…listen up plonkers.
I’m sick to death of needy bloggers holding the rest of the world hostage to their brittle emotions. It’s all about heat and kitchens. Get cooking or get fucked !!!
If you don’t like a comment, DELETE IT !!! That’s what that button is there for.
If you don’t like a specific commenter, BLOCK THE CUNT !!! That’s why you have administerial privileges.
Threats to close your blog, only to re-open it an hour later wear thin after a while, as I hope this little exercise illustrates. Thanks to an ‘Unnamed Angel’, who convinced me that ‘TWG’ was far too important a body of work to sacrifice on the altar of blog-politics, I will now rise from my own ashes, all Jesus-and-Phoenix-like…to resume taking the piss out of stuff.
Because that’s what I enjoy.
And if you don’t like it…FUCK OFF !!!
And if you have a pesky troll who leaves nasty little pieces of troll-poo on your pristine blog, either deal with it, cut your fucking head off…or send them here and I’ll pick their tiny troll-wings off one by one.
And as ‘Rackorf’ would tell you…harden the fuck up !!!
Now, who wants some…
I’m sick to death of needy bloggers holding the rest of the world hostage to their brittle emotions. It’s all about heat and kitchens. Get cooking or get fucked !!!
If you don’t like a comment, DELETE IT !!! That’s what that button is there for.
If you don’t like a specific commenter, BLOCK THE CUNT !!! That’s why you have administerial privileges.
Threats to close your blog, only to re-open it an hour later wear thin after a while, as I hope this little exercise illustrates. Thanks to an ‘Unnamed Angel’, who convinced me that ‘TWG’ was far too important a body of work to sacrifice on the altar of blog-politics, I will now rise from my own ashes, all Jesus-and-Phoenix-like…to resume taking the piss out of stuff.
Because that’s what I enjoy.
And if you don’t like it…FUCK OFF !!!
And if you have a pesky troll who leaves nasty little pieces of troll-poo on your pristine blog, either deal with it, cut your fucking head off…or send them here and I’ll pick their tiny troll-wings off one by one.
And as ‘Rackorf’ would tell you…harden the fuck up !!!
Now, who wants some…
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