ladies and gentlemen of the jury...i ask you...

Honestly, do these look like the faces of car vandals...

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...

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.

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…

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…

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…

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…

look no further...

Right...well...in news just to hand...

Apparently I'm the utter, utter cunt I'm looking for.

I'm not entirely sure what I did...but it must have been terrible, therefore I have cut my own fucking head off and will shortly be taking a dump in my neck...

and it wasn't curiosity that did it...

When I find the utter, utter cunt responsible for doing this to my Kitty Kat, I will come over to your blog, cut your fucking head off and take a large dump in your neck...

bicycle bicycle bicycle...i want to fuck my bicycle...

‘A man who admitted having sex with a bicycle in a Scottish hotel has been placed on the sex offenders' register for breach of the peace. Robert Stewart admitted to the crime Friday in Ayr Sheriff Court and is to be sentenced next month, Britain's Telegraph reported Saturday. Stewart was discovered last October by two maids who entered to clean his room during a stay at the Aberley House Hostel in Ayr, Scotland. "The accused was holding the bike and moving his hips back and forth as if to simulate sex," a sheriff's spokesman told the court.

We live in an age of intolerable double-standards.
A chick on stage, attempting to stuff everything from ping-pong balls to the space-shuttle Columbia into her snatch in full view of a paying audience…she’s an exotic entertainer.
Yet a man showing his bicycle a little affection in the privacy of his hotel room…he’s branded a sex-fiend.

Go figure…

in a perfect world...

A recent post by Angry Betty over at ’48 DDD’ got me thinking about grief.
Not the grief associated with a death in the family; the grief a man gets when he comes home later than promised from a night out with the boys.
What man hasn’t stealthily tried to break into his own home at 4am, get undressed and slide unnoticed into the bed, only to find the handbrake sitting there, arms crossed, waiting for an explanation ??

‘WHERE THE FUCK HAVE YOU BEEN ???’
‘Out with clients.’
‘YOU SAID YOU’D BE HOME BY TEN... IT’S FOUR O’FUCKING CLOCK.’
‘Sorry baby…they wouldn’t let me leave. It was awful.’
‘SO, WHAT HAVE YOU BEEN DOING UNTIL NOW ???’
‘Nothing…just drinking…talking…watching sports on TV.’
‘BULLSHIT !!! WHY CAN’T YOU JUST TELL ME THE TRUTH BEFORE YOU GO OUT…WHY CAN’T YOU TELL ME YOU’RE GOING TO BE LATE…WHY DO I HAVE TO STAY UP TILL ALL HOURS WORRYING…ALL I WANT IS THE TRUTH…WHY, WHY, WHY…’

OK, beeotches…how does this sound ???

We ring as we’re leaving work (you remember work, right ??)…we say we’re going to the pub to get lashed. Then we’re going to leave the pub around 10 (the same time you’re expecting us home) and have a curry coz we’re so drunk no decent restaurant will let us in. At midnight we’ll be thrown out of the curry joint, so we’ll head to the casino and dump a week’s wages on the tables, making that weekend away to The Blue Mountains you were planning a complete financial wash-out. Angry at losing all our money, we’ll head off to the lap-dance emporium to wallow in self-pity, stuff money into strippers’ g-strings and have shaving cream rubbed into our suits. When our credit cards are eventually declined, we will drive home, stopping briefly for a lamb-kebab with extra garlic hummus, after which we will crawl into bed, pester you for sex, then fall asleep and snore for the rest of the evening…

And do you want to know why we don’t tell you all this before we go out; why we say we’ll be home at a reasonable hour in a reasonable state when we have no intention of doing either.
Because you say you can handle the truth…but you can’t.
Because you say you want the truth…but you don’t.
So it’s easier just to go out, have a splendid evening with our mates, come home with eyes like smashed ‘Jaffas’, ignore the grief and deal with it the next day.

That’s what a real man does…

hey santa claus you cunt...

For all you South-Westies looking for the perfect gift to send your kids in prison this XMAS, check this out.

You might have to save the image and blow it up for proper viewing.

As opposed to Sydney's South West, which is NOT worth saving but SHOULD be blown up...

just another month in...

Can anyone tell me which three words complete the following sentences taken from pieces in The SMH over the past month ??

Three men have been sentenced to life in prison and a fourth man to a maximum of 30 years in jail for a double fatal shooting in…

A seven-year-old girl has had surgery after being badly hurt in a hit-and-run in…

Police are investigating an apparent road rage incident which culminated in a shot being fired into a car in…

Police say a 6-year-old boy was inside a home during a fatal shooting in…

Police have charged a second man over an execution-style shooting in…

A man and a woman wanted by police were arrested in Western Australia last week over the shooting double murder of a boxer and his friend in…

Detectives are appealing for help from the public while investigating the shooting murder of a respected Aboriginal man in…

Hands up everyone who said 'Sydney's South West'...

and extra rudeness will be rewarded...

We've never had a competition here at TWG, however a recent post by my good e-friend 'Miss Smack' has inspired me. It seems there's a new job in the pipeline since she's just finished typing up the ten-million page report for 'The Govt Inquiry Into Some Stuff Which May Have Happened Somewhere' and rinsed out all the coffee cups.

We don't know the new employment details except that she received a phone call from someone who said:

"I'm ringing to formally offer you the position of_____ at______.

If you can't work the gist of the competiton out for yourself then I suggest you go and check out Kitty's photo on the post below. Actually, you should do that anyway; apart from anything else, the original photo is the major prize on offer in the competition.

I'll start.

My answer is: 'IMAX screen cleaner, Darling Harbour XXX MegaCinema'...

on the kouch with kitty kat...

It turns out that one of my favourite commenters is currently being treated for sex-addiction (SA). Personally, I find the affliction, with all its attendant faux-sluttiness, an enormous part of her charm but hey…
Anyway, I got to thinking; what sort of treatment do these hapless tragics receive?? Sex-addicts are shunned as malingerers by society for the most part, victims of a non-disease that just about everyone else seems to suffer in silent dignity. Of course, pieces of celebrity shit such as Michael Douglas have turned SA into little more than a doctor’s note absolving serial philanderers from their marital crimes.

So, in the interest of raising public awareness of SA, and with the permission of my friend Kitty, I’d like to reconstruct, from official notes, her initial consultation with her old shrink: Dishy Therapist.

Kitty: 'Hi there Doc, I think I’m addicted to sex?’
DT: ‘And what seems to be the problem?’
Kitty: ‘I really, really love sex. I love doing it, thinking about it, talking about it…anything to do with it.’
DT: ‘And what seems to be the problem?’
Kitty: ‘I’m obsessed with it. I fantasize about men, women, groups, toys…I flip myself off at least five times a day.’
DT: ‘And what seems to be the problem?’
Kitty: ‘I watch porn and post pictures of myself in my underwear on my blog.’
DT: ‘And what seems to be the problem?’
Kitty: ‘I have lesbian affairs with young mothers at my kid’s day care centre.’
DT: ‘And what seems to be the problem?’
Kitty: ‘Look, I need help. Are you going to treat this problem or not?’
DT: ‘Yes, of course. Please get undressed and lie down on that couch.’
Kitty: ‘Fuck me…I thought you’d never ask…’

PS...I had to break into DT's office and steal the photo from his filing cabinet...

if anyone needs me...

I'll be sitting in that chair for the next 10 days...

these are wingnuts...

And so are these...

By now, most of you are probably aware of the tremendous shit-fight going on between two certain chick-bloggers out there. It’s bitch-eat-bitch, a no-holds-barred cyber-jelly-wrestle…sadly minus the jelly (unless you count what’s passing for their brains at the moment).
In one corner, wearing the blonde hair extensions and carrying a large martini, I give you ‘Steph’; the most innocuous, guileless, agenda-less diarist in The Realm.
In the other corner, wearing the grotesque mask and apparently flush out of mood-enhancers, may I present ‘Shelley’: the newest fruit-bat hanging from The Blog Tree.
Our guest referees at ringside are ‘Uber (No Loony Bin Can Hold Me) Mouth’, ‘Miss (This Has Nothing To Do With Me But I’ll Get Involved Anyway) Smack’ and ‘The (You Live In My Head) Troll’.
At the heart of the hair-pulling is a well-reasoned allegation put forward by ‘Shelley’ which, if my take on things is correct, suggests that ‘Steph’s’ stupendously voluminous-yet-vacuous blog is nothing more than an elaborate Trojan Horse, used either by her or her even-more-vacuous-if-it-can-be-believed commenters to hack into an even MORE underwhelmingly dreary blog…namely that of ‘Shelley’s’ herself.
Presumably this ingenious cover also includes a further ‘red herring’; the diabolically stupefying ‘Big Brother’ blog which ‘Steph’ slavers over like a drooling baboon, daily for 4 months of the year.
Not to be outdone on the Idiot-Meter though, ‘Steph’ has countered with threats of bringing in a high-priced legal team to look at possible issues of libel and defamation. This poses the litigiously novel contention that one fictitious entity can ruin the reputation of another fictitious entity, which almost certainly has potential ramifications for ’Superman’ if he ever thinks of calling ‘Superwoman’ a paranoid-delusional supercunt.
No doubt ‘Steph’ will be happy to claim damages in special invisible money should this jurisprudential wonder ever fly…

warning; long post ahead...

OK, I know this is a bit slack but I was trawling through the wreckage of RADAR and found this piece. It was written two years ago but the cunt editors mangled it beyond recognition, so here is the original...

How often have you heard it said: ‘Australia is a big fucking country’.
Big and bad.
It’s invariably described as such by men who seem to know about these things. Men with deep, rich, impossibly sincere voices that make them sound both ancient and experienced enough to have witnessed the Earth’s formation first-hand. Men like John Laws and Sir Richard Attenborough.
They will inevitably drone on for an Ice Age about Australia’s history as the harshest, meanest, toughest, driest, most dangerous, most spectacular, most stupendously diverse motherfucker of a continent that ever poked its nose above sea level.
It has deserts the size of China, ice-shelves bigger than North America (if you count our frozen property holdings in Antarctica), ancient wetlands vast enough in which to drown New Zealand (not a bad idea either…), rainforests of towering hardwood giants and supernatural Eucalypts and mighty rivers which carve their way from rugged inland mountain ranges created at the dawn of time, to the boundless and bountiful oceans that surround this largest of all the islands on Earth.
Mother Nature, we’re reminded has done a remarkable job in creating a raw, brutal, yet handsome landscape of which we can be truly proud…
But what the fuck kind of drugs was Mother on when she handed out the animals ??
Australia got absolutely screwed !!
OK, not necessarily to begin with and not necessarily across the board, but we eventually got stuck with the most boring, useless, harmless collection of decidedly non-deadly mammals in the world; Europe notwithstanding. Yes, they’re cute, cuddly, unique and superbly adapted to their respective environments – one or two of the monotremes can even lay eggs, the clever cunts - but as far as we humans are concerned, there isn’t a dangerous, snarling, razor-toothed beast amongst the lot.
Where are all our killer mammals ??
According to an SMH article, ‘killer mammals have been rare on all the continents, with only 45 big kinds existing on the planet during the past 65,000 years’. OK, fair enough, they were quite scarce, but we haven’t got ANY of these murderous fur-balls around anymore.
Not one !!!
Apparently we used to…
Apparently, ‘the carnivores that called Australia home millennia ago included six species of killer kangaroo (oooh… how terrifying), 13 kinds of Thylacine (sounds like a type of hand-cream) and eight species of marsupial ‘lions’ (the apostrophes apparently necessary so that these mysterious, extinct beasts are not confused with actual lions). Even historically, our mammals were a pretty lame bunch, although they were plenty more ass-kicking than the present mob.
We have no big, savage cats around whatsoever. Today there are no living descendants of our marsupial ‘lions’, which were thought to have hunted fake antelope, quasi-zebra and the fabled miniature-hornless-pseudo-water-buffalo. When these prey were not available, marsupial ‘lions’ dined on tofu with sun-dried tomatoes, and a group of them were known as a gay pride.
We do have a large rat though; we call it a kangaroo. Whilst it can give a full grown man a nasty scratch which could conceivably get infected, there is little chance of one chasing down a victim, tearing its throat out with large, retractable claws, biting off its head and gnawing on the stump for a few hours.
And what of the bears ?? Did we get any Grizzlies, any Browns, any Blacks ?? Did we fuck; even our Antarctic land mass is a polar bear free zone. We couldn’t even manage a panda or two…
We did get a bunch of ferocious koalas though. These mighty hunters, during the two hours a day they manage to stay awake, may strike fear into the heart of the nation’s gum trees, but you are far more likely to be bored to death than gored to death if you ever came face to face with one in the forest
Wild dogs anyone ?? How about a Big Bad Wolf ?? Perhaps a hyena; laughing, serious or otherwise…
Nope, we got screwed again there. Our most famous wild dog was the Tasmanian Tiger, a mammal so ridiculously designed it actually went extinct voluntarily rather than live with its shame. The last known ‘Tassie Tiger’ is thought to have hung itself with a rope plaited from the hair of its own tail, whilst held in captivity in Launceston Zoo…
All we have left in the canine carnivore cupboard is the dingo, a lean, mean scavenging machine that specializes in plundering road-kill. I wouldn’t back fifty dingoes to last one round in the ring with an African Honey Badger .
We don’t even have any vegetarian behemoths capable of crushing a person to death by accident, like an elephant, rhino or hippopotamus; in fact our biggest danger probably comes from our giant, flightless birds, which have very nasty tempers. A flightless bird…good grief…could anything be more pointless ??
Perhaps a fish that can’t swim ??
Look, I know Australia leads the world in man-eating sharks; our sharks are first class, they excel. They are often the size of ocean liners and armed with teeth that can chew through concrete. We also have the most excellent crocodiles in the world, up in the far north of the country, most of which are capable of snapping a submarine in half with their jaws. There are some wonderfully toxic jellyfish around, however these lethal blobs of protein are rendered completely harmless when faced with a protective shield of panty-hose.
Actually, our aquatic/amphibious animals can be very proud of their ability to kill victims quickly, savagely or painfully, but we have a real problem with the specific lack of land-bound mammalian terror.
Snakes, spiders, scorpions; we have billions of the things. And it’s not that I don’t respect reptiles or insects as proper fauna, or doubt their capacity to drop a wombat at fifty paces, despite the fact that you can’t dent one of those fuckers with a stick of dynamite and a shovel.
It’s simply that if I had to be killed by an animal on land, I think I’d like to die with some semblance of dignity. There would be a certain degree of satisfaction, although an undeniably large amount of pain involved as well, in being dragged from my tent in the dead of night by a 1000kg mass of fur, claws and teeth, torn to shreds and devoured bone by bone.
There’s nothing classy at all about dying alone in your sleeping bag, the victim of a poisonous bite on your helmet…

why don't hot guys ask me out...

Does everyone know my little buddy, Kelly ??
She’s over on ‘Cheaper Than a Happy Meal’, moaning about dying alone, her ex-husband, getting too much attention from boys, her ex-husband, her boobs, her ex-husband, mozzies, eyebrows and of course...her ex-husband.
Sometimes, along with her delightful post-teen posts, she likes to paste pieces of her pasty face on the post…
Little does she realize that as well as musing about whether she does indeed have ‘the hottest vadge in the place’, I have also been keeping these photo-snippets of her gorgeous little face.
And now, with the help of ‘Clip Art’…I unmask her for all the world to see…

don't say you weren't warned...

The unseasonally warm weather this week produced a plague of unwanted vermin in Cunt Point. As part of a community service announcement, but mostly coz I'm a lazy fucker, I exhumed this piece which appeared in RADAR last year.

City-bound motorists using the Kings Cross Tunnel at 7:15 am today were treated to a very unusual sight. In the breakdown lane they would have noticed Sydney’s coolest Vespa parked on its stand. Right next to it was Sydney’s un-coolest Vespa rider, suit pants around his ankles, peering anxiously into his underwear.
Let me explain. I was scootering to work this morning, having just accelerated smoothly up the hill from Rushcutters Bay, when I felt something stirring in the vicinity of my upper left thigh.
Figuring it was just the wind playing tricks, I scootered on... until it happened again. I reduced speed to see what effect it had on matters. It had none; in fact the 'wind' was now beginning to move across to my upper right thigh.
As I entered the tunnel I suddenly realised there was an intruder in the ‘house’, panicked and started belting myself in the upper thigh region with my left hand in an attempt to kill whatever it was, whilst still guiding the scooter (at about 60kph) with my right hand.
Inevitably, I succeeded in simply giving myself a decent whack in the genitals, which winded me, made my eyes water and forced me to pull over to the side of the road.
Jumping off the Vespa, I yanked down my suit pants, hooked both thumbs into my Calvins, drew them gently away from my torso and peered fearfully inside (which is the overall sight any passing motorists would have been afforded). Out flew a moth with a 10-foot wingspan.
The moral of this story: Never hang your damp underwear on the line overnight during Bogong season...

no fingers for a while, girls...

I'm going to be away for the rest of the week.
Very important stuff to do in Singapore and Hong Kong, banker-business, very high-brow, nothing to interest the average blogger.
Please don't make a mess while I'm gone.
If anyone needs me, I can be paged at 'Madam Chang's Whoopee Parlour and Opium Emporium' on Ordchid Ave.
Ask for 'that rude, round-eyed foreign cunt' and I will get your message...