American Tourist Unimpressed with Australia

"

American tourist Ed Tucker has expressed disappointment with the sandy shores of Australia, citing lack of stereotyped behaviour for the letdown he and his family felt.

“I thought it would be all short-shorts and flip-flops” the New Yorker said. “But I haven’t seen so much as one crocodile hunter since I’ve been in Melbourne.”
Further adding to the businessman’s confused and upset state was the dearth of barbecues that he was invited to, saying “We went to one ‘barbie’ but there was no shrimp on offer”. His wife and son were also bemused by the lack of people drinking Fosters.

Tucker blamed his unrealistic expectations on the marketing of Australian tourism overseas. As a warning to his fellow Americans, the family man said “Do not be fooled by the commercials! Kangaroos do not deliver the mail, nor can they speak by clicking their tongues. I know it sounds unbelievable, but trust me: I was there. "

The 47 year old said his friends back in the United States would hear about his Aussie experience, some of whom would be devastated at his news.

"

Customers

"
Both customers sat alone at opposite ends of the bar. There were precious little patrons now. It was near closing time. Before long the aura of the warm companion this place offered would dissipate in favour of a harsher drinking partner: cold, dead night. She glanced at him from across the bar. He sat at one end, a mass of stoic energy, sipping bourban and lighting up a cigarette. She had quit months ago. A little relapse couldn't hurt, though.

"Hey, stranger" she called out from under the neon bar light that, for a brief moment, sketched her silhouette like chalk-outline halo. The tone of her voice was a rehearsed cocktail of sultry and sweet. Too polite to be rude, but too confident to be ignored.

It took a good couple of seconds before the stranger turned his head in her direction; and it was only after he had signalled to the bartender for another drink that he spoke.
"Hello" he intoned, slowly. It was impossible for her to tell what he was thinking.
Maybe he had smiled with a subtlety that bespoke a yearning in his heart. Maybe she saw a glint in his eye that reminded her of a feeling her body had long forgotten. Mabe it was the way his hands were in perfect rhythm with each other, knowing exactly when one mouthful finished and the next cigarette drag began. Whatever it was, she wanted him.

She stood up from her post and approached him, her eyes a mass of contained fire, swirling like a mushroom cloud over a long forgotten Third World city. She was not going to lose out. Failure was not a friend she was willing to get reaquainted with.
"Got a spare smoke?" she half-whispered.
He reached into his pocket, withdrew a silver plated cigarette case. He placed it on the bar between the ashtray and his drink.
"No" he said.
She shot him the look of a stripper presented with coins as payment for a lapdance. The look that says "Do you think I have a coin slot?" The look that she shot any man who attracted and infuriated her so sublimely. The look masking the fact that this was sexy. And he knew it.

When he finally spoke again, his words were at once smooth and gravelly; not a rasp, but a voice with the consistency of tiny pebbles that used to be stones, honed over the years until they were little more than small bumps.
"Are you going to buy me another drink..." He paused for effect, the bastard. "...or do I have to keep giving you the silent treatment?"
She couldn't remember the last time a man had spoken to her like that. She also couldn't remember it being so visceral.
"All right, stranger. But the next one's your shout" she replied, cautiously.
"We'll see."

From now on the conversation was tinted by opera. Even though the music playing in the joint was probably FM rock, she could hear an Aria. Or, at least, what she thought opera sounded like. Surely not something grand, like the Final Trio from Faust. This encounter wasn't that special and she wasn't that smart.

She could only guess at what he was hearing.

When they spoke, she talked nonsense, mostly. Cabbages and kings, past lives. Whatever. The conversation wasn't important. He probably wasn't listening anyway. He didn't speak often or for long, but through the gruffness she thought she could see something. She wasn't sure what it was, but she wanted - more now than ever - the chance to find out. She cocked her head to one side.
"So, are you going to flirt at the bar all night or are you coming with me?"
He took in the final drag of his cigarette and looked her up and down.
"I'm afraid not. I don't do dames with brown eyes", he said, as he exhaled. The smoke escaping his mouth made it seem as though his words were smoldering.

And with that he stood up, collected his jacket and walked out of the joint. Maybe he winked slyly, too. Maybe he hadn't heard her call after him, "But, they're not..." She couldn't be sure.

Sometime in the future she would pretend that she had left first. She would play that version of the movie in her head enough times to forget the truth. But at this moment, in the slow burning aftermath of her quietly crushing defeat, she knew she was beaten. And that was enough.

"

" I guess being an expert on evolutionary psychology is just something I was born with"

"

You know, people often ask me how I know so much about evolutionary psychology. I had never really thought about it before but I'm pretty sure that having a talent for knowing all about the controversial academic area of evolutionary psychology - or 'Ev Psych', to us experts - is something that you're either born with or you're not. A lot of people don't like that idea, though. I guess that's why what I'm an expert in is so controverisal.

People say the dumbest things, too. They'll be all like "Dude, the only reason you actually know anything about evolutionary psychology is that you went to university and studied anthropology, biology, psychology and zoology. You got your knowledge from learning, socially" or they'll say, like, "You've read mountains of books and regularly keep up to date with academic literature about this stuff: that's how you know about it". And I have to say, those guys are douche bags. If they knew anything at all about evolutionary psychology - which they don't, because they weren't born with the knowledge that I was - they would be aware that people are just born with talents, abilities and qualities genetically. Some get the goods - like me - and others don't - like the douche bags who talk about 'social learning' and 'conditioning' and all these other current buzzwords.

I won't lie to you. I can remember a time when I didn't know anything about evolutionary psychology. In fact, I probably couldn't even pronounce it. But that's easily explained. See, I was predisposed to become an expert in this area and it was lying in me, dormant, until one day it occured to me that I, indeed, was an expert on evolutionary psychology. One day I was just sitting there, not realising I was, at the genetic level, an expert on an obscure scientific area; then, poof, I became self-aware. Like those machines in that movie.

But, hey, I don't let it get me down. After all, the people who want to deny my innate expertise in evolutionary psychology probably can't help being dickheads. Just like I was blessed with being born knowing heaps of information about Ev Psych, even though at first I didn't realise it, those naysayers are hardwired to just not understand. We shouldn't get angry with them. It's just the way they are.

"

"Cock, I'm sorry I didn't pick that girl up tonight"

"

OK, cock. I know you've had a bit of a hard slog of late. I guess I have some explaining and apologising to do. I am sorry, cock. I am sorry for not sealing the deal with that girl tonight. I could have sworn she was into me. You don't deserve this, I know.

Don't think I don't know what you're going through. Far from it. Shit, I've been right there with you through every failed attempt. I know you're just as sick of my hand as I am, dude. So, yeah, I'm really fucking sorry about all this. Especially tonight. Man, I can't believe I screwed it up. I was pulling all my best moves, too, you know. I think she was into me all night long. Yeah, until right at the end just when it was quietening down and things had the potential to get more intimate. Then she casually mentions her boyfriend and how he has the names of his future kids already laid out. You should have seen my face. I was like "What the fuck, lady?". I guess I could see it coming. The last hour or so might have been a bit much. Some ladies just can't handle all the love I've got inside me. You know what that's like, Mr. Sparkle, right?

And, to your credit, you never fucked it up and made yourself known, like you might have done in past. Yeah, I guess it's best not to think about those incidents. We should, I guess, be proud of ourselves for that. But, really Mad Marvin, it's pitiful. I don't have to tell you how long it's been. And yet I was so sure we were in with a chance tonight with that bird. She certainly wasn't acting like she had a boyfriend.

So, do you think maybe she was just making it up because she was frightened of how attracted to me she was? Chicks are prone to do that. They tell their girlfriends they might lie about a fake boyfriend to a prospective mate because they don't want to feel like sluts. But it's very possible she really does have a boyfriend, Tricky Dicky. That would explain how into me she was. Maybe that comment about her boyfriend just slipped out when she didn't want it to and I let it get me down. Shit. That could be it. After all, my macking was top notch tonight. I was cocky, funny, sexy, seductive and interesting. Her friends were lapping it up too. Maybe I shouldn't have paid so much attention to her alone. Yeah, that's it, you reckon my ol' Penal Colony?

In any case, tonight I fucked up and you were the one who had to pay for it. So, yeah, sorry dude. I'll try harder next time. No pun intended.

"

"I'm sorry that I didn't wear my good underwear to your party"

"

You didn't know this, but I feel bad anyway, so an apology is in order. When I attended your party this past weekend - by the way, excellent party - I was not wearing my good underwear. In fact, it was an old pair, quite unattractive to the eye. Don't get me wrong, it was still clean and functioned perfectly well, but was in no way sexy or funky or any of those things that are expected of us when attending a party. As you can imagine, I'm fairly embarrassed.

I do not expect forgiveness. I just would like to have a conscience clear of this particular unfortunate incident. Because, you know how it is. It is customary to get dressed up underneath when one dresses up on the outside for a social gathering. Or at least, it's a custom I try and practice very often. So, from the bottom of my heart I apologise profusely for this hidden social faux pas. I promise it will not happen again.

However, it wasn't entirely my fault. The laundry wasn't done in time. Maybe if I hadn't have had to pick up Jane and James it would have been a different story. But I was the designated driver and was obliged to help them out. If only I hadn't have waited until the same day to wash all my good underwear. I can't believe how out of control this got.

I am also considering writing a letter to that guy I hooked up with at your party, apologising to him too. What was his name again, Mogga? I mean, it was pretty dark but since there was definitely removal of certain items of clothing, it is more than likely that, through the darkness, he copped a glance at my ashamedly tattered underwear. Shit, that was probably the reason he left when I fell asleep. Speaking of which, if I do decide to write a letter to him, I'll need you to give me his email or address or something. He didn't tell me his number, strangely. I guess he forgot.

So, yeah, there's my apology. I hope you can understand my position and don't you worry, there will be many more excellent parties with me in my good underwear to match. That's a promise.

"

"Mike, I'm gonna have to say thanks, but no thanks to doing This is Your Life"

"

Look, I know you've always been a big fan of mine, and I can understand how eager everybody might be but, I'm sorry, I'll have to decline, Mike. I don't think I want to be the subject of an episode of This is Your Life.

I've been thinking this over in my head for a while now. And, yeah, I know you haven't asked me yet. But I can feel it: You're going to approach me about detailing my life, through a series of long lost friends and family members and broadcasting it on television. And I'm going to have to say no. Sorry, it's just not my thing. I think that, as a big celebrity, it cheapens my work - all of it, even the work I don't acknowledge anymore. I didn't spend all these years filming trips to the toilet, selling the tapes on ebay and making money out of misery just to see it all reduced to some flashing dots on prime time Channel 9.

Besides, it's all very self-involved, self-obsessed, self-aggrandizing and other adjectives with the prefix 'self'. It's that bad. To me, of course; I'm sure you find great fulfilment in what you do, Mike. But it's not me. We don't need another chapter to my life's well worn book. Between the sixteen authorised biographies I sanctioned last year, the memoirs I optioned as a biopic and my new line of trendy formal wear, I think that, for now, it's best to let this television opportunity slide. I mean, come on. I'm hardly underexposed.

Anyway, I'm sure there are many more celebrities - ones equally as famous as me - who would jump at the chance to be on This is Your Life. Like, um, that guy. You know, he was on Neighbours for a couple of days. Sam, I think his name was. Cockatoo hair, cute dog? No? Well, what about...Oh, I know, the guys on that sketch comedy show on Channel 31. I think they'd do it in a flash....no? You only want me? I'm flattered, really. But no.

Let me tell you a story. I used to dream of a day like this, when Mike Willesee himself would want me - what? Oh, sorry: Mike Monroe - would personally ask me to do his surprise biography show. But I didn't make home made movies of my sisters sucking off horses while kneeling on the Bible just to throw my artistic integrity away for selfish reasons.

So, as I say, thanks but no thanks. I have a reputation to think about.

"

"You know, I think I'd do just about anything to get Fiona Apple to write a song about me"

"

You know, I've been thinking lately. I think about the kind of music I like and the songs that really touch me. And I realised that Fiona Apple is such a damn good songwriter: I mean, I love her music a lot. It's a shame that her record company, Sony, shelved her third album - the one that should have been released, like, two years ago- because they couldn't find a single. It didn't have enough commercial potential.

Anyway, I also noticed that most of Fiona Apple's songs are about bastard or idiot men. You know, guys that fucked her over. I guess the way it goes is, a guy fucks her over; she gets angry; she writes a song. And she can be filled with such vitriol. Like in 'Limp', "So call me crazy, hold me down/Make me cry, get off now, baby/It won't be long 'till you'll be/Lying limp in your own hand". Boy. You'd hate be the guy that was written about, right?

So I got thinking, you know. What would it take to get a song as good as that written about you? Well, I think I've found the answer. I'm going to become Fiona Apple's boyfriend. I know what you're thinking, but let me finish. I'm going to become Fiona Apple's boyfriend and I'm going to fuck her over. I'm going to make her fall in love with me and then break up with her for no good reason. And she's going to write the greatest song about it. It's going to be sweet.

Right, right, I know. It would probably be better if she just wrote a song about me because I'm a good boyfriend. But my Fiona, she doesn't write about good men. In her songs, they're all bastards. So that's what I'll have to be.

And, yeah, she's probably much too good for me. But, come on, dude. We all have one moment of greatness in us. And this is mine. I'm pretty much awesome at being a cunt. And I think that aspect of myself would be great inspiration for Fiona Apple. She'll love me, then learn to hate me and then write a great song - maybe even one that's commercially viable - and it will become a big hit. It will become a song that people will wonder about, like You Oughta Know or You're So Vain. They'll say to themselves "Gee, I wonder who that song's about".

And when that happens, maybe Sony will release Fiona Apple's Extraordinary Machine album.

"

Pitches for Movies They'll (Probably) Never Make

Title: Compulsive Shumpulsive
Tagline: "Sometimes you only have to open your door - then close it, then open it again, then close it, then lock it, then unlock it, then lock it- to find hope"
Synposis: In the cruel dictatorship of Politzville, people suffering from OCD are taxed more for their water usage. This provokes an uprising from the afflicted: with amusing consequences! Includes soon-to-be-infamous scene where the Compulsives Union march on the capital, having to take convoluted routes because there are too many cracks in the straight road. They also have to literally take one step back for every two steps forward. Destined to be a classic.

Title: A Loser, Am I?
Tagline: "The feel good movie of the Autumn."
Synopsis: A boy bullied all his through his school years because he can't play sport finally realises the way to solve his problem is to show that he isn't actually the 'loser' he is thought to be. One fateful night he steals all the trophies he can find and brings them to school the next day. He sets them up on his desk and smirks at people as they walk by. "Now they'll see I'm not a loser" he thinks to himself. But it all goes horribly wrong when one of the bullies points out that the trophies belong to his older sister and are, after all, for ballet. The kid later dies from the injuries sustained.

Title: The Neopolitan Fire Brigade
Tagline: "Fire and Ice-Cream"
Synopsis: In the irreverent fashion of the Full Monty and Brassed Off comes another picture about small-town folks with big-town hearts. The Metropolitan Fire Brigade of the tiny hamlet of Hamlet needs a gimmick. They are fast becoming useless since Hamlet won the record for World's Wettest Place and a glitch in the local charter means a full-time, full salaried Fire Brigade must be present at all public functions! Add to this that money is needed for Mrs MacGilicuddy's Fete this year and time is running out! Just when all hope was thought lost, good ol' Fireman Sam Briton comes up with the perfect idea: sell ice cream from the fire trucks! Features fantastic climax where a fire actually breaks out and everyone throws ice-cream at it.

Title: Dry, Dry, Dead.
Tagline: "Your tears will be dry...forever!"
Synopsis: In the tradition of Soylent Green comes a thriller about a Talcum Powder manufacturer that is sent anthrax by a terrorist group. Because of its appearance and texture, nobody notices it until it is too late. Or is it? (Hint: No. We'll stretch this out to 90 minutes somehow).

Title: How Appropriate: Behind the Ridicule.
Tagline: "You saw them briefly embarrased. Now see extended shame".
Synopsis: Documentary detailing the true story of a sadistic quiz show where each question asked was all too applicable for the contestants. For example, a fat woman would come on the show and be asked to answer the question: " What is the name of the weight loss drug popular with supermodels?" or a man with one eye asked to define 'Cylcops'. Features all new interviews with the contestants who, somehow, got over it all very quickly. (Legal note: the quiz show in question denies the appropriate nature of the questions is anything more than conincidence to this very day).

Title: Lint and Other Lies
Tagline: "Ever wondered where lint REALLY comes from?"
Synopsis: Ever wondered where lint comes from? Hardened journalist Davo McDave is determined to find out after his beloved wife Trudy was killed in a freak laundry accident. He discovers that a secret government organisation, employing midgets trained in ninja, distributes the bizarre collections of linen fibres to households everywhere, secretly placing lint in the population's belly buttons, arse cracks and pockets. McDave becomes a man possessed and goes undercover, infiltrating the midget gang (which involves a fantastic scene where a black market doctor removes his knees) and discovers the harrowing truth about Trudy!
Could be either a thriller or a screwball comedy, depending on direction.

Title: Legacy Eternal
Tagline: "One Man's Tale"
Synopsis: A man is thrown into solitary confinement for some unspecified crime. He is to stay there until he dies. He will have no outside contact with the world, but has all the access to pencils and paper he wants. He has this one final chance to make his life meaningful; to be remembered. He has these unending reams of paper and unblunting pencils to write or draw the greatest work of art he can. It is his one chance at being eternal. Unfortunately he has dysentery and has to use all the paper for toiletry purposes.

A Hardboiled Story in Black and White

"

It was a $50 cab ride back from the strip joint to the relative safety of my home, which was beginning to seem like a stranger's of late. As I sat there with a silent driver named Muhommad, I tried to recount the evening. Sultry jazz played over the flashback in my mind, punctuated by smoke and aftershave. Hardboiled and on a quest, I tried to work out whether I had been successful.

The streets had glistened that night. Maybe it was a hangover from the day's rain and maybe the streets were still drunk. I was beginning to confuse the two myself. Whatever, my mission was clear. I was to imbibe as much of the black liquid that this old body could handle before collapsing into the arms of a stranger. And she would stroke my hair and make sure that the bad dreams would go away. At least until that bastard sunlight attacked my senses, sending me tumbling back to the Hell that the Earth was.

It was some party at a place that feigned comfort and class but underneath was made up of the same bile and insect feed that permeated the very souls of the people inside. Arriving late, I navigated my way through the scores of common folk I had known in a past life. If they recognised me, it was to their credit that they kept that information to themselves. The only thing on my mind was the soothing liquor that could temporarily wash the discomfort away. Through the sea of hopeless and irritating patrons there were life buoys of interest: people who didn't make me want to kill myself with drink after every sentence that defecated out of their vacuous, lipsticked mouths. I floated with them until it was time to move on.

I left the lounge and made my way to a place where the downstairs made the upstairs seem more heavenly than it actually was, such was its idiocy. Metal music, they call it. It provided me some solice while my gut was filling up, but not as quickly as I might have hoped. There was walking, but my legs moved to a different tune to that of my head.

The third venue of the night was like an old friend after the bourgeois nature of the first. There was an older crowd, my kind of people, and two acoustic guitars playing hit songs that are only remembered because people on acoustic guitars play them. I wasn't familiar with them all, having long ago decided social congruency wasn't worth the price if I had to forfeit good taste.

So I question this dame beside me, "What is this song?" She is aghast that I don't know the entire Jon Stevens catalogue. The only thing I have as a reference is Jesus Christ Superstar. Jesus Christ, this woman was a wonderful lady once upon a more naive time - when her good looks weren't corrupted by a sadness so clear in her eyes.

We get to talking and she's embarrassed at her age. She's 32. Hey, we've all got to go sometime. Tracey, she calls herself. With an E. She was sad, I could tell. The dame's confidence had been rattled by years of abusive men and had become suspicious of everyone as a result, I was sure. It was all in her eyes. It was the reason why she couldn't let herself have a little fun. She was guarded and outgoing at the same time. She was no longer at ease with the idea of being able to trust a total stranger, if she ever had been.

She told me where she was going next - a place of retro kitsch, where she could feel alive - hinting that I should come too. However, her inner contradictions bubbled away, meaning her implied invitation was quickly dashed at the explicit suggestion of accompanying these lovely older dames.
"I'm ten years older than you!" she said.
"Eleven", I corrected her.

My world and hers could have collided for a few short moments but the animals I had aligned myself with were keen to exit. I gave her a choice and spelled it out with my fingers. One, two.
"Either you never seen me again or you give me your email"
Her conflicted and drunken mind gave a confused shake of the head. The poor dame was done for. I left with a whimsy and melancholy usually reserved for people only equally as important as myself.

Venue four bears little description. It was the kind of place I imagine looks like the display screen of a colonoscopy if only I had enough tolerance to actually get inside. I told my moron companions that this detective wanted to leave. The wait was too cold and long for anything in there to be more than a victory the size of their testicles in the grand scheme of things. They had no business here, unless all they wanted was to add to the culture of exclusivity and stupidity.

I could no longer abide it. My bladder was full and I was fed up. My fellow private eyes weren't interesting anymore. They Baa-ed at me to leave if I wasn't completely into the idea of sucking the Big Black Cock of Satan and entering the haunt of the damned. I left without goodbyes and found a carpark stairwell to expel liquid into. I checked for situational crime prevention mechanisms like security cameras - years on the job had taught me that - but there was nothing. Clearly nobody much cared for the cold concrete floor and what might spill onto it.

A cab ride later and I was inside a strip joint, looking to find somebody I had known back when dames were only after one thing. I had hoped she was still only after this one thing, but the smell in the air was one of defeat. I made my way to another in the series and met Saint Lazarus and a fat guy who was kicked off a party bus. She wasn't there either. Not the same She, but weren't they all the same anyway?

So there I sat, with a man who was probably a doctor in Ethiopia, driving to my current humble - though charmed - abode. The mission wasn't quite a success, but it could be learnt from. Hell, I wasn't even that drunk.

"

"These heart palpitations are alien implants for sure"

"

Listen, I know you'll think I'm crazy but these heart palpitations I'm getting have just got to be alien devices inserted into my torso for monitoring purposes. Sounds far fetched? To you maybe, but, like, what else could it be?

Sure, it could be withdrawl from coffee - I've only had two today - but this has been more prolonged. And, yeah, maybe it could be my body adjusting to eating healthier and then struggling through a little junk food from last night. And I suppose it's possible that my heart is just overreacting to the few mild cardio exercises I've started doing randomly the last few days but, man, I can feel it. It's my body and I know my body. And it's telling me that this, without a doubt, is a result of alien implants.

Now that I think about it, I can probably remember the exact time my body was violated - smoothly; steadily; but surely. A few nights ago, as I got up to get a glass of water in the middle of the night I could sense the faint glow of something...mysterious...in the air. It was there for only a second, but at that moment I knew I had been altered. Sex for aliens might be very much like it is here on earth - very short and devoid of feeling.

So, I think it is clear what these heart palpitations I've been having today are. That wonderful night when I was reborn as a member of the extraterrestrial study group, something was inserted into my chest that is reacting with our Earth's Sun and having strange repercussions on my body. Case closed, as far as I'm concerned.

Besides; if they aren't alien implants, why are my breasts all of a sudden this large?

"

English teacher treasures every correct apostrophe she finds

"

Year 12 English teacher Gwen Banyon is no stranger to typos. Her classes over the years have been filled with underachievers throughout her 25 year career. That's why this year she has made a vow to appreciate and treasure every correct apostrophe she finds tucked inside her students' essays.

"I've finally realised that I can't help them anymore. They're on their own now; all I can do is congratulate them every time they happen upon correct punctuation" said the 53 years old. "Their grammar, spelling and style of prose is still terrible, but I will now be able to smile at their accidental achievement".

Experts say that education standards have dropped so far that so called 'accidental achievements' should be cherished, however minor they may be. "There was a time when teachers simply expected students to be able to use punctuation and grammar as a matter of course" said Education Specialist Dale Edwards. "But now, with the popularity of internet and mobile phone shorthand, adolescent comprehension of English is pretty much shithouse".

This is only the most recent in a slew of English teachers lowering their standards in order to cope with the poor state of education now faced in schools. Last year, English teacher Trudy Hall found satisifcation in a semi-colon used correctly by one student in a 500 word essay. "Since I can no longer feel good about getting my students to learn proper English, I'm now scaling down and being pretty impressed by that lone semi-colon" she said at the time.

"

Terror Mastermind

Beware: There's a Terror Mastermind Out There.

I shit you not.

"He was a cricket fanatic; and, as it turns out, a terrorist fanatic"
- Christine Spiteri, Channel 9 News Melbourne, 6pm tonight

Popular Books for Today's World

"Shooting Fish in a Barrel: the Aspiring Comedian's Guide to making jokes about George Bush's intelligence"
by the Hack Comics Co-Alition.

"Life Inside a Star" by Britney Spears' fetus.

"Dedicating Songs to 9/11 Victims and/or 'Our troops': the Pop Stars' Guide to Appearing Political" by Faceless PR Men.

"Fat Annoying Guy Married to Hot Woman with Precocious Kids: the Formula for a Winning US sitcom" by Anonymous.

"AFL football: the Aussie way to sublimate homosexual urges" by Rex McAbblet.

"Seven Habits of Highly Ineffective People" by Carl Nehigh. Includes the favourite 'Counting Xbox time as Exercise'.

"Intellectualism for Dummies" by A. Feltcher. Includes quotable, out-of-context sections of Plato's Republic for after-dinner speeches!

"Common Sense for Common Folk" by "Dr" Phil McDonalds. - The Doc's new book includes how to breathe through your nose and chew gum at the same time!

"We Are Artless Sell-Out Fuckos with No Balls: the One-stop Guide to making sure nothing interesting gets put on television" by the Amalgamated Network Television Executives Organization.

"We Rote This All Bye Miself" by the Big Brother 2005 contestants. Contains transcipts of all their most riveting conversations, including the infamous 'Big Brother is a Jew'!

"Oh the Irony: How to Run a Website that is Essentially a Blog and still get away with Bagging Blogs, much to many Bloggers' amusement" by Maddox.

" 'Do your Fucking Job; I don't understand computers, that's why I'm ringing you' and 9 other helpful phrases to say to the rude Tech-Support Guy" by Franklin Luddite.

The Cuckold Clock (for Elle)

INT – LOUNGE ROOM – DAY
A man dressed entirely in one colour stands against a wall, resembling a grandfather clock. He addresses the camera directly.

CLOCK
I was married for 5 glorious years to the most beautiful
woman I had ever met. I never suspected anything. She had
my complete and utter trust. It was what our love thrived on.
(pauses)
For two whole years she was cheating on me! And I never
suspected a thing! I was such a failure as a man and a husband
that she chose to insult me with not only infidelity but also
dishonesty.
(pauses)
I’m a wreck. I still can’t get used to putting ‘ex’ in front of
‘wife’. Why, oh why, did she have to cheat on me?
I’m a nice guy, right?

Now another man walks into shot. He is getting ready for something and is about to leave the house.

MAN
(curtly)
What’s the time?

CLOCK
(wipes eyes, checks watch)
Ah, it is eight-thirty...now.

MAN
Thank you.
(then, under his breath)
Bloody cuckold clocks.

As the man leaves the room a title appears. It says ‘the Cuckold Clock: His wife won’t give him the time of day - and now he’ll give it to you!’

The Wrestlers

INT – SPORTS VENUE – DAY
A large, Olympic-sized crowd watches an intense match of Greco-Roman wrestling. The two men in the match are holding each other intently. As they wrestle we can hear two commentators on the soundtrack.

COMMENTATOR #1
Wow, this match sure is something. I haven’t seen
Such a gallant attempt at a sleeper hold since
Laurence Ciccone back in ’78.

COMMENTATOR # 2
Indeed, this is riveting. These two men are so close
They are virtually inside each other…

Suddenly, the two wrestlers start KISSING. And not just any kiss but a full-on homo-erotic PASH.

COMMENTATOR #1
(sighs)
Well, I suppose it had to happen some time.

COMMENTATOR # 2
(stumbling)
Ah, yes. I think…um…

The kiss continues.

COMMENTATOR # 2 (con’t)
Gee.

End.

"I left enough space in the frame for you, baby"

Fuck Fiction

"

The squat little man had made his selection quickly and left. He walked down the street, past the Noodle Bar; the Haircare Bar; the Coffee Bar and the Pub, which was actually a bar but was too cool to admit it. Having just left the Blocktastic-tainment store, his night was shaping up to be filled with DVD goodness.
Approaching the car park now, he shifted his hires so that they were held to his body with his elbow, and patted himself down to check for his keys, his wallet, his phone and his manhood. Something was missing. Not the manhood - that was still intact - but something, he felt, was amiss. He looked at his purchases for the night. Nothing suspicious there, except an unhealthy fascintation with Natasha McElhone. He must have left it in the video shop.

Inside the video store, a strange package had been left on the counter. Sheathed by a plastic bag, it was a square cardboard box. One employee mistook it for a pizza and removed it from its wrapping only to be let down when he discovered its true identity.
"Who left a Best of Johnny Cash record set here?" he said, feeling his stomach grumble its disappointment. His co-workers wore blank faces, but that was nothing new. They didn't know who left the vinyl collection in the store either.
"Maybe it was that guy in the trench coat" said a guy with a nametag that said Hector, but whose name was actually Dave. He didn't work there; he just liked nametags. He felt it gave him authority. Yeah, he was a moron, just like most of the regular customers at Blocktastic-tainment.
"Maybe" said Pizza Boy, still saddened at having deceived his stomach.
Suddenly, a squat little man ran in, sweaty and distressed. When he caught his breath he managed to spit out "I think I left something in here".
"Was it a Johnny Cash vinyl set?" said Pizza Boy.
"Yes!" said the squat man, emphatically.
The employee presented the records to the apparent owner. However, the squat man took one look at the box, said "Oh. No. This one isn't mine" and shuffled himself out of the store.
"What a strange person" said Dave, as he wiped a layer of dust from his nametag.

"

Ode to a Constantly In-Growing Toenail

"

It's time to let you go
Because you have so much to offer the world
At large
With me you're just an infection
But, oh, how you could soar
Detached, you could be a big star
A big toe star
Don't let me hold you back

Oh, you've been growing in for some time
I think it's about time you grew up
And spread your cuticles and flew away
Without the aid of the surgeon's knife
Oh, what a life

There was love
But it was never enough
Boy, are you a pain in the behind.
But even more of a pain
In the Foot.

No more, no less than the greater pain
Pins, needles and that hooked thing you crochet with
Let go of the apron strings
And grow upwards and outwards
Before they pull you away from me
For good

I know you're scared
And the pain will be difficult at first
Yet, to reach your full potential
As a wonderment of podiatry
That is truly a thing to behold

And though you'll be far from me
I can feel your every move
Because you are still a part of me
Every time I walk
The memory will remain imprinted
On my tiny great toe
That never had a chance
With you, to grow.

"

Official Statement: Inane to Replace Subtle, True.

"
Users all over the online world of blogs take note:

Please abstain from your usual routine of being true to yourself and let recent events trip you up. Let the Tragedy get you in such a state that you can't smile. Nobody's reaction to a situation is valid unless it is exactly the same as everybody else's. Do not be subtle in your grief. Make it obvious and grotesque.

Do not channel your fears, concerns and emotions into something creative. Shut down the parts of yourself that still can be stirred to creativity. Please be as everybody else is. Obviously, anybody who is not overtly maudlin and trite is suspect.

We urge you to observe these new guidelines.

Thank you.

The Manager.

"

Guy Tries to Masturbate Fear of Terrorism Away

"

Fear of terrorism in the West has risen to new heights following the harrowing attacks on London, prompting unprecedented levels of masturbation in Devin Sawyer, a 24 year old desk clerk for a Melbourne business. Since first hearing the news, Sawyer has pleasured himself no less than 12 times; a physical feat accomplished only with the help the international news media, who have brought him constant updates on the "shitty state of the world"

The most intense "wank session" thus far was the very first, just after hearing about the explosions in the English capital, when Sawyer repeated “It’s all gonna be ok” to himself as he sweated like a hog, beating off to the classic pornographic 'gonzo' film, Up and Cummers 11 – one of Jenna Jameson’s first guy-girl sex scenes. “Yeah, I was hoping that marveling at Randy West’s groundbreaking internal popshot at the conclusion of the scene would be enough to keep my mind off London being bombed" said the former Boy Scout. "But, nope. I still feel fucking awful".

Sawyer, also an aspiring drummer, says he will perservere despite still not feeling any better after "flogging the bishop" so much. "I've got a few movies downloading at the moment that will hopefully aid in giving me some release" Sawyer said. "Here's hoping Michelle Wild can make all the pain go away".

This is not the only account of people dealing with fear of terrorism by over-indulgence or sublimation. There have been reports of excessive gum-chewing, lactating and blogging amongst those emotionally affected by the recent terror attacks.

"

Richard Dawkins: The Man with the Plan

He was right then and he's right now: Fuck Terrorism and Fuck Religion.

“Our Impotence in the face of Terrorism is still not as Impotent as You”

"

OK, honey, so the world is once again feeling powerless in the face of an international terrorist threat, this time directed at England...Yes, tonight – morning there. You didn’t hear about that? Well, it happened...Yeah I know, babe, it’s some fucked up shit...in any case…there is still a matter that I’ve been meaning to talk to you about which is just as much an issue to me.

You see, sweetie, as impotent as the world is up against something as faceless and frontier-like as the battle ground of global terror, it’s still not quite as impotent as you are. I thought you were going to have that checked out and...Yes, I know. I thought everyone liked England too. Honey, please concentrate. The pressing matter is that you are – frankly speaking –as limp as Liberace’s left wrist. Yes, in bed! Where else would I be talking about?

So, metaphorically speaking, dearie, just like this ol’ world of ours needs a big love-injection, I think you need a shot of ‘erectile-dysfunction-cure-serum’. Do you understand what I’m saying? Yes, that’s right. You know the way to my heart: a prescription of “Operation Enduring No-More-Terrorism(No-seriously-this-time)” for the world and a prescription of Viagra for your penis. That would make me happy.

"

Random Quotes from the Scared and Confused

"What was that you were saying about religion being pretty much the worst human invention ever? Right, well, we get it now"


"I know France was disappointed about not getting the Olympics but...fuck"



"So, what, have al-Qaeda claimed responsibility for fall of the Holy Roman Empire too now?"


"Man, Slayer was right: God Hates Us All!"

Governments Consider Abolition of Transport Systems

"

After careful consideration of the dangers of modern terrorism, governments all over the world are considering dismantling their transportation systems and outlawing the usage of all automobiles, aeroplanes, trains, trams and buses.

“They’re just big trouble” said Rufus T. Firefly, President of Freedonia. “Think about it: recent terrorist attacks in Spain, the UK and the US relied on public transportation services like trains, buses and planes. Perhaps if we all became luddites and just, you know, walked around, maybe then we’d be safe”.

Although the President was optimistic, it is doubtful that ridding the modern world of transport technology would do much to counter terrorism, Vulgarian Ambassador Baron Vulgar said. “Terrorists are sneaky little buggers” the retired Colonel said. “Even if we did get rid of machines that move us around, they’d still find ways to carry out their evil deeds, possibly by way of magic.”

In this age of uncertainty, one thing is clear: transportation unions are going to be pretty fucking upset.

"

"Youths Completely Misunderstand Fight Club"

"

In a frightening trend among male youths in their late teens and early twenties, the 1999 film 'Fight Club' is being viewed regularly, quoted constantly and totally misunderstood. It is suspected that due to the film's simplification of complex moral and philosophical issues, coupled with witty, quotable dialogue, 'Fight Club' has gained exactly the kind of mindless following it actually warns against.

Fight Club, based on the novel of the same name by Chuck Palahniuk is a humourous take on late-modernity's obsession with self-improvement and quick fix answers. In it, a man becomes addicted to Ikea catalogues, then support groups, then finally a club where men beat each other up.

Experts say the film, starring Brad Pitt, has been completely misinterpreted by its own fans. "While [Fight Club] does discuss nihilistic philosophies and antiestablishmentarianism, the actual viewpoint of the film is that such ideas, while attractive, are destructive and stupid" said film theorist and philosopher Dale Cunningham.
"It really is fairly ironic that the anti-hero Tyler Durden has become a rolemodel for certain misguided young men, when he in fact can be seen to represent just another prison the 'Jack' or narrator character has built for himself."

Added the 32 year old: "It makes me laugh every time I see a blogger profile quoting from the Fight Club movie or book. It seems [the youths] have been seduced by the very nihilism the film attacks."

The added irony, said Edward Norton, who also stars in the film, is that many young kids watching it don't understand that the fight club and project mayhem are just another support group. "They, along with Tyler Durden, represent more ways in which my character is avoiding his true feelings and obligations" said the American actor. "It's supposed to be a warning against the lure of nihilism, which can seem so sexy when associated to somewhat agreeable critques of modern life. But these kids have missed the point and taken everything at face value. Shit, didn't these kids even listen to my audio commentary?"

This is not the only time a film has been taken on face value alone and misconstrued in such a way. The 2001 sci-fi film Donnie Darko has often suffered from the same
kind of misunderstanding and deification by pseudo-intellectual teens.

"

"Baby, I swear I will never hit you - that hard - again"

"

Calm down, honey. I know you’re upset right now, and that’s understandable. I was totally and completely out of line. I should never have hit you that hard. And I swear to you here and now with our Dog as my witness that never again will I hit you as hard as I did last night.

But you’ve got to understand it from my point of view: I was just sitting here in my own living room, trying to relax and watch the footy when you come barging in complaining about how I’m getting ciggy ash all over the carpet and how your Michael Buble CDs aren’t coasters. I mean, do you have any idea what that can do to a man?

So I gave you a whack. And, in retrospect, it was probably – no, definitely, you’re right – too hard. That level of physical abuse shouldn’t have to be tolerated by a woman in this day and age. For that, I apologise. How can I make it clear to you that this will never happen – to that extent – ever again? Really? OK, I can do that…

Right, here goes. I’m on my knees, baby, pleading. Baby doll, I promise you – and this promise means more to me than any of those other promises I made and broke, like the time I told you I would never ash on the carpet again – that I will never, at least hardly ever, hit you again. At least…not that hard.

"

People You Don’t Want Singing at Your Funeral

- Ashley or Jessica Simpson – because, you know, they’re terrible

- Bono from U2 – because it will no longer be your funeral: it will be a requiem for all the innocent victims of the failed revolution, man.

- Phil Anselmo– because in between songs he will be spouting drunken banter like “How many o’ y’all mother fuckers been with [your name] from the beginning? Because…the fuckin’ media have been pissing on [your name] for the last…hell, [your name] was my brother, my sister, my everything I….you know what? Fuck y’all”

- Mike Patton – as if he’d be able to take anything seriously, least of all your life.

- Vince Neil from Motley Crue – because he’d be asking everybody to get up and party all the time.

- Abbath from Immortal – because you don’t want anybody looking more dead than the fellow in the casket, now, do you?

- Marilyn Manson – ripping up the Bible during your funeral might not wholly appropriate, especially if the service is in a Church.

- Axl Rose from Guns and Roses – because he’d storm off the performance space because of the shitty sound system.

- James Hetfield from Metallica – how many rednecky ‘yeahs!’ are really needed at a funeral?

- David Lee Roth – because he’ll have a falling out with the accompanist and then try and do CPR on your body.

- Syd Barrett – because…actually, if you can get him to perform, I’ll come to your damn funeral.

"Who's looking out for you, baby?"

Harsh Realizations for a Rainy Afternoon.

- That guy that owes you thousands of dollars for work done two years ago is never going to pay you. He has changed his email address and leaves not so much as a paper trail in his wake.

- She doesn’t love you anymore. Maybe she never did.

- The reason you were upset by it is because it was true.

- The likelihood of you forming meaningful new friendships is very slim. Your old friends are all you have, and they were never enough to begin with.

- Realism is often mistaken for cynicism; idealism for possibility.

- Julia Roberts’ part in Closer should have gone to Natascha McElhone.

- The music you loved as a teenager really wasn’t very good: through nostalgia you’ve romanticized it until your ability to experience new beauty is defined only in the terms you set when you were too busy hiding alcohol from your parents to learn about World War II.

- It will never be enough.

- You’ve already met the person you should have married. They are probably already gone.

- The songs and poetry you’ve written still aren’t as good as your modest, self-deprecating opinion consider them to be.

- There will never be another Sinatra.
- There will never be another Zappa
- There will never be another Dimebag Darrell.
- There will always be more Paris Hiltons.

- You are, in very many ways, a child. You are probably too shallow and immature to succeed.

- People don’t really care. And you’re one of them.

- No stripper has ever liked you for anything other than your money.

- You really are going to be OK.

Hardened Cynic Inspired by Live8

"

In a development shocking friends and family, hardened cynic Nathan Masterson was reportedly touched while watching the live broadcast of Live8, the already legendary series of concurrent rock concerts organised by Sir Bob Geldof.

“It made me feel like a change for the better could really be made” said the 23 year old, known for pooh-poohing everything from the tsunami news coverage to the new Coldplay album. “I didn’t think I’d take it seriously; but, man, it’s pretty hard to be cynical about that kind of thing. I even feel less hostile towards Geldof for his performance in that Pink Floyd film”.

The fact that 30, 000 children die every day from needless poverty - and Geldof’s valiant efforts to change that - has been stirring new feelings in cynics all over the Western world. Sources say that people everywhere renowned for making sarcastic comments about every sort of social justice initiative are being inspired by the Live8 performances.

Masterson feels that the cause is too important to let fall through the cracks because of a cynical outlook that considers mass participation a 'disparaging indictment on individual autonomy'. "Seriously, we need to get our heads out of our arses" he said.

Added the usually contemptuous cynic: “Sign the list mother fucker”.

"