Tuesday, 30 September 2008


From 1940, “The Grapes of Wrath”, directed by John Ford


Sarah Palin.

What on earth was John McCain thinking? The woman might well be able to kill her own food, but outside of that, she's dumber than a box of rocks.

Why can't we have someone with a brain if we're going to have someone at all? I mean, isn't it about time after 8 fucking years? Why do we have to have stupid people trying to run the world all the time? Why do we let them? Why can't they stick to playing sport like the stupid people are supposed to do?

Haven’t we had enough of dumb?

I'm not going to run about beating my chest and banging my head against a wall if McCain's elected President in November. After George W. Bush was installed for a second term in 2004, the futility of that type of response became quickly apparent to me. It hurts for no good reason. To be perfectly honest, after Bush they could make
Duck Dodgers President for all I fucking care.

Sarah Palin?

I'd rather see Britney Spears as V.P. The most damage she could do would be to wobble about the White House lawns drunk and throw up on some bushes.

Sarah Palin?

She's an intergalactic traveller without a ship. An antler short of a full set. Not only is there nobody at home, the roaches fucked off 'cause they were scared of the dark and the mice have hung themselves by their own tails. There's naught there but dust bunnies now. Dust bunnies and crusty bits of antique snot under the couch cushions.

I'm scared, mummy.

There's a
crazy woman on the tee-vee.

She wants to run the world.

she can see Russia from her house.

From 1963, Matt Monroe “From Russia With Love”

Friday, 26 September 2008


You don't say.


Some people have seriously fucked up their lives by not choosing to do stuff that other people have done and those people will die.

And I am one of them.

Oh, poo.

Anyway, here’s a few of the things I forgot to do, and, in the forgetting of them did I unwittingly seal my fate forevermore as nothing other than an insubstantial fart of failed fat cells flapping impotently over the face of the planet …


I forgot to buy a house.

Oh, poo.

I live in a rented flat. I’ve been living in rented flats and houses for the better part of 27 years, ever since I moved out of my parents’ house when I was 22. And half of that time has been spent living in rented flats with other people.

That was called “sharing”. I don’t think “sharing” happens much nowadays as lots of people seem to think they’re far better off living at home with their mums and dads until they’re about 45 years old at which time they just might be able to afford to buy a bedsit up a back alley in King’s Cross just down from where that whacked out crackhead smashed her baby’s brains out on a park bench the week before last until some cops shot her in the kneecaps. It’s only about one and a half million bucks, but it’s close to shops and transport and it’s certainly got character alright, that’s for fucking sure. Where else can you entertain yourself at night when there’s bugger all on the box by peering out the window at the winos underneath beating the crap out of one another and then hoiking up their stomach lining on your front stoop.

But hell, it’s a home, goddammit, and it’s yours and you’re entitled. It’s an Australian right. It oughta be in a constitution somewhere.

Whydonchawritealettertoyalocalmemberofgummentandseeifyacangetitputin? Huh? HUH?

I’ve been perfectly comfortable up to now renting flats and houses and sharing some of them with other people. It meant we had more money for other things. Like going out and seeing bands and movies and shows and buying compact discs and having parties and eating out and drinking and taking drugs and all that stuff I thought people were supposed to do when they were young enough to do it.

But I was wrong. I should have left high school and started to think about planning for my retirement when I turned 18. Apparently, that’s the way to go. Leave school and start preparing for when you’re dead.

I thought renting a place to live in was perfectly acceptable in today’s modern society
but according to some people, it’s the utter fucking pits of deprivation and despair and it’s a wonder it hasn’t yet driven me and others like me to fling ourselves off our balconies in foaming fits of self-loathing.

Oh, well.

Some friends of mine just bought themselves a very nice house on the NSW Central Coast.

It cost them about $325,000.

I don’t have $325,000. I pay $1300 a month in rent. If I borrowed $325,000, I’d probably be paying double that in mortgage installments and I’d have to eat wild thistles and lick the cheese off discarded burger wrappers in order to live. I don’t think that would be much fun, but apparently it’s a far better thing to do than living in a rented flat according to all the people who are supposed to know what the better things to do are.

My friends had to borrow some of the deposit for their house from their parents. That’s fair enough, I guess, especially if the parents had it to lend.

My parents can’t afford to lend me money to put a deposit on a house for me to own, though.

They’re on a pension. It’s all they can do from day to day to
scrape up enough pennies to buy themselves some new bits of cardboard so they’ve got a clean surface to eat their own poo off of. Or some old bottles that they can keep their urine in for when they need to freshen up with a splash under the armpits before venturing out in public to forage in skip bins for rotting root vegetables and bruised fruits.

Fucking losers.

Which brings me to the next thing …


I forgot to get married.

Oh, double poo.

I don’t know why this is, but the concept of marriage never seemed to take a hold on my mind as a thing that desperately needed to, or even should, be done. I could’ve taken the option a few times, really I could have. I just didn’t. If I had taken the option, I’d be part of a “working family” right now and my life would have some sort of validity.
According to some it would, anyway.

Maybe it had something to do with the fact that I grew up with married people. My parents.

As a child, I remember watching as my parents argued, or had a fight about some trifle or other and wondering to myself, “Why do you bother with this? You all seem so fucking miserable”. Sometimes my parents would go visiting other married grown-ups, friends or relatives, and, as is the way of these things, poor fucking Ross would get bundled into the backseat of the car to go visiting too when all poor fucking Ross wanted to do was stay home and get down and dirty with some Lego or paint camouflage stripes on a
Tamiya model kit tank.

So I’d wind up sitting in the houses of these married people who mostly seemed to communicate with each other through a series of guttural, monosyllabic grunts and grimaces and, if some sort of conversation ever actually happened to evolve from these primitive beginnings, it was usually about how this or that relative of theirs was fucking hopeless or in trouble with the law or was getting divorced or was having kids or had the shits with them or it was about the dickhead neighbours next door or it was a bit of shocked oohing and aahing over the fact that a Chinese couple had just moved in down the other end of the street which was unusual in those days and did you know the Chinese buried their food in the backyard for 12 days before they ate it and when they did eat it it was made of cat and Mabel three doors down lost her cat last week and it wouldn’t surprise us in the least what happened to it if you know what I mean, you know? Bloody foreigners.

Jesus Christ, the things you have to put up with when you’re a kid.

And through all this, all I could think of was how miserable and “small” everybody seemed to be. It was as if, having exhausted whatever few joys they thought marriage had to offer them, they then settled for a life devoted to giving each other the shits on a regular basis instead.

No thank you.

But, turns out I was wrong again. Finding that someone special to spend the rest of your life with and yell at and be yelled at and get the shits with is supposed to be
good for one’s longevity.

Fancy that.

Which brings me to the other thing …


forgot to have children.

Oh, poo all over.

I once had some friends who had children and one day, the mother cooed to me, “Oh, Ross, you don’t know what you’re missing”, to which I could only reply, “Yes, I do. I’ve met your kids. They’re fucking horrid.”

Needless to say, that was not a friendship that endured much longer after that. But it was true. Her kids were insufferable little shits. When the family popped over to visit, the kids would run rampant through the house, into any room they wanted, into the fridge, constantly yelling at the top of their fucking lungs about this, that or the other thing until, after an hour or two of this, all I wanted to do was grab them by the scruff of the neck and shove their heads into the toilet bowl and piss on them.

And I was once in a relationship with a woman who had a two year old son. My God, this kid, when he decided to void his bowels, you’d swear the
spirit of Jackson Pollock had taken nest in his colon. There wasn’t a Huggie on the planet that could withstand the power of his explosive expulsions of luminescent poo. They could’ve made a Huggie from titanium and vacuum sealed it to his butt and still that stuff would find its way to splashy, smelly freedom. The odds of getting the bond back on that rented flat at the time was a long-shot bet, that’s for damn sure.

But I’m realistic enough to know that not all kids are like this. Many children are utterly delightful, given to refreshingly innocent but honest appraisals of life and the world around them, such as “Look at that old bald man, mummy.”

I’d be a crappy father. I would, I really would. Not deliberately, on-purpose crappy, but crappy nonetheless. I’m bad-tempered, impatient and I need lots of time to myself or else I get really ratty in the head. Having a kid crawling all over me demanding attention to its every action or utterance on a daily, nay, hourly basis would melt my brain.

But I’m wrong. I shoulda had
one for the country, one for mum, and one for dad (which would be myself, I guess). We’d send the one for the country off to fight a war somewhere and take a bullet through the head so we could have a parade and some things for the display cabinet at home; the one for mum would take her side during the divorce proceedings and hate my guts for the rest of my life and say nasty things about me on the internet; and the one for dad (which would be myself, I guess) would dutifully and lovingly nurse me in my shriveled dotage, feeding me mushed pears and peas with a spoon, wiping the drool off my chin and making sure I didn’t choke to death on my own dentures if I decided to get adventurous one day and eat some solids.

Talk about fucking everything up in life. Boy, did I take a wrong turn.

I’m sorry.

I shoulda bought a house and I shoulda got married and I shoulda had kids and then I coulda been somebody. Instead of what I am. Which is a bum.
I coulda been a contender, Charlie. You was my brother, you was supposed to

Hang on.

I don’t have a brother called Charlie …

Never mind.

Anyway, I see it all now. My whole life before me. Or at least what’s left of it.

Spending the rest of my days living in a rented flat without a wife and a bunch of kidlets to keep me warm and comfy. There to expire one distant day in isolated anonymity with only the stench of my rapidly decomposing corpse to alert the neighbours to my passing. The door smashed down by ambulance officers who, upon entering, will upchuck their lunches and then settle down to the business of scraping my innards off the walls after the build-up of gases in my internal organs made my stomach explode like a red roman candle.

Shit, eh?

I’ll make sure there’s some
BAM in the laundry.

At this late stage in the game, it’s the least I can do.

Sorry about that.



We’re bloody sick of it.

Do you realise what we all have to go through news-wise when, every second Tuesday, you get a jones on for adding another to your broody pile of cunt nuggets?

Jesus Christ, girl. What do you think you're doing, collecting action figures?

Why don’t you buy yourself a fucking puppy or something?

Monday, 15 September 2008


"To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more.
It is a tale
Told by an idiot
, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing."

Friday, 12 September 2008


I first became aware of the music of Estonian composer Arvo Pärt when some of his works were used for the soundtrack of the 1996 Canadian adaptation of Kurt Vonnegut's "Mother Night" (an excellent film).

I was trying to track down a decent clip for Pärt's "Requiem for Benjamin Britten", but no luck. Instead, this is an interesting visual interpretation of a shorter piece, and quite well done ...

Clip by Cesar Harada

Thursday, 11 September 2008


ABC Sydney 702’s afternoon host James Valentine now offers a video stream of his program and it’s a hoot to watch, so if you get a chance check it out.

UPDATE - Appears it's an occasional thing only.


It’s not difficult to get caught up in the enthusiasm and excitement of the various boffins and scientists who’ve gone all gooey over this thing even if, like myself, you’re buggered if you know what it all actually means. But, as Dr Karl Kruszelnicki was working himself into a nerdboy lather about it this morning on Channel 7’s “Sunrise” program, I couldn’t help but share a sense of wonder and awe over the achievement …

… Typically however, as the world came to know of the impending experiment and the usual suspects in the foot soldiers of the stupid indulged their penchant for end-of-times panic, many chose to focus on the cost of it all.

$4.75 billion dollars.

“Heavens!” they whined, “Surely we can find better things to spend our money on? Think of the starving millions!”

But as the host of "Sunrise" was about to bring up the cost with Kruszelnicki on the program as if it should be relevant to him (or us), the doctor was quick enough to politely point out that it was equal to “the cost of 3 American bomber planes”.

Which ended that line of inquiry quick smart.

Perspective. The good doctor has it.

“Sunrise” host. Pwned.

Wednesday, 10 September 2008


I mentioned this writer briefly just recently. Some of his books have been adapted for films that we have yet to see (and maybe never will), and another one is about to be.

Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to track down his books in any local stores yet, but I may have a bit more luck next week when I hit Sydney for a break.

In the meantime,
this interview with Ketchum at Evolver continues to have me intrigued about the man and especially keen to become acquainted with his works. Especially this bit …

“I've never been interested in being politically or socially correct. That's not to say I frequently vomit into someone's lap at parties. It just seems silly to me to abide by any more rules than those you absolutely need in order to get by. I think we've become more and more neurotic in the years since I was in my twenties and thirties. We're afraid of everything. We want to restrict everything and manage it. Well, life isn't terribly manageable. The frequency of natural disasters ought to be enough to tell us that. But somehow we don't get it. When I was a kid the idea of putting on a helmet to ride a bike would have gotten you laughed out of the neighborhood - and rightly so. And I don't remember anybody wearing one against all those riot-sticks during the Vietnam protests either. It would be nice to live long enough to see the world get some guts again - but I don't think it's going to happen, sorry to say.”

Groupthink. I has one.


Robert De Niro made his feature film debut in 1968 for Brian De Palma's "Greetings". He made a further 8 films prior to 1973's "Mean Streets" from Martin Scorsese. Then he did "The Godfather: Part 2" the year after that, and his next film was "Taxi Driver" in 1976 as Travis Bickle. Before the 70's and 80's were over with, he gave us Jimmy Doyle in "New York, New York", then "The Deer Hunter", "King of Comedy", "Once Upon A Time in America", "Brazil", "The Untouchables", "Midnight Run" and, of course, Jake La Motta in "Raging Bull". In the 90's, we got "Goodfellas", "Cape Fear", "Mad Dog & Glory", "Casino", "Heat", "Wag The Dog", and "Jackie Brown". Among others.

Then, in 2000, he produced and appeared in ...
"The Adventures of Rocky & Bullwinkle".

Nobody's perfect.

After 40 years in the movie business, De Niro finds himself regularly criticised for the roles he now takes on. As
Philip Horne notes in the UK’s Telegraph, according to many De Niro has squandered his talents these last several years in sub-standard vehicles that do him no credit whatsoever. "Analyse That" anyone? "Godsend"? Who’d like to sit through “The Good Shepherd” a second time?

Well, no, but ... Excuuuuuuuuuuuse me …

At 65 years of age and with 78 feature films to his credit, I think De Niro, given all that he has achieved as an actor as I’ve noted above, can do whatever the fuck he feels like until he drops dead.

And who the hell are we to insist he fulfill our ridiculous and unrealistic expectations that he pile on the pounds and powder up to bring us “Raging Bull Pt. 2”? Perhaps he should have a word to Scorsese about reprising his role as Travis Bickle in … let’s see now … “Bus Driver”? Would that help?

For God’s sake, live in the world.

Imagine spending 40 years of your life in the film industry. Liars, thieves, shills and spivs, con-men, bullshit artists and the flat-out deluded and insane – these are the men and women who, if they thought it would help get them an “assistant producer” credit on a flick, any flick, would happily shoot their mothers through the head, pack a bag and grab the first plane, train or automobile to Hollywoodland for a 5 minute meeting and a glass of warm water with someone’s stationary clerk.

The only thing worse than 40 years in the film industry would be spending 40 years in the fucking music industry.

For example, in
his recently published diaries, director Bruce Beresford goes through a period of (I think) two years trying to get a couple of projects that he has an interest in off the ground only to be dumped on again and again and again as dodgy finance people (read, “producers”) reveal themselves to be full of it, actors won’t work with him, and various other self-absorbed, talentless shitheads with Patrick Bateman business cards endlessly fuck and fart him about. Eventually, desperate to work simply for the sake of having some work to do to keep him busy, he winds up lumped with a project he thought was crap from the start, but at least has some names attached and a green light, so … we get “The Contract” (Unfortunately (or not), I can’t remember anything about “The Contract” other than John Cusack and Morgan Freeman were in it, and I only watched it about 3 weeks ago).

That’s life in showbiz.

And if you’ve spent 40 years as an actor in it, well over half of that time will have been spent sitting on your arse wondering why you were called at 5am in the morning and it’s now 2pm in the afternoon and all you had to do was a one line reaction shot …

“Fact is, Mr. De Niro, we might have to bring you in tomorrow for the scene as the bombulator we needed for your shot has slipped a snigget and it’s a four-hour drive to the next county to pick up a new one as the snigget manufacturer’s delivery guy went on a cocaine bender last night and shot some fellas in a MacDonald’s after an altercation with a trans-gender lap dancer and the production designer won’t dress the scene until the vintage
Pez dispenser he wanted for the bedside table gets here from eBay … Also, someone put superglue in the boom operator’s Fleshlight and he can’t stand up straight right now.”

“Oh. Okay.”


At which point, one could be excused for thinking, “Maybe I could open a restaurant. Or a bar. Start a film festival, perhaps? Hell, why don’t I produce my own movies and as long as I don’t have to do much or not even be in them, I wouldn’t have to deal with this shit …”

From ?, Robert De Niro “How to Piss Off Robert De Niro in 30 Seconds”

Actors do not act in order to prove they can to an audience. They act in order to prove to themselves that they may achieve what they have set out to achieve to their own satisfaction and to the satisfaction of the director in accordance with the rules of the script. Anyone who does otherwise is not an actor, they are a “celebrity”. De Niro is not a celebrity and he has absolutely nothing he needs to prove anymore as an actor. Having turned himself inside out physically and emotionally for a couple of decades in order to meet the demands of the roles he was fortunate enough to score and subsequently succeed in, he’s well and truly entitled to a nice long fucking rest.

And for anyone who thinks that De Niro has “lost it” – if your video store has one of those 7 rentals for 7 bucks deals, grab any 7 of those movies mentioned in the first paragraph and watch one a night for a week. Then imagine what “Taxi Driver” may have been like if
Jeff Bridges or Dustin Hoffman or (God forbid) Neil Diamond had been given the role of Travis Bickle. Bridges and Hoffman are fine actors, but somehow … As for Neil Diamond … truly, the mind not just boggles at the thought, but returns a “file not found” error report.

In the hopefully not so far off future De Niro may come upon a script or a project that fires him up sufficiently to knock us senseless with awe once again. We can only dream.

However, given his choice of roles these last several years, I think it could be reasonable to assume that he really couldn’t give a flying fuck about accumulating Academy Awards and the like just now and has been doing precisely what he feels like when he feels like doing it.

And if that means taking it (relatively) easy in work at an age when most people are expected to retire and eat dog food and whine about the pension, so be it.

From 2007, Robert De Niro in “Extras”

Tuesday, 9 September 2008


I knew it wouldn’t last. Against my better judgement I popped over to Bolt’s blog to have a gander at his rattlings.

Now …

What the fuck does this mean? …

America’s Left clearly doesn’t worship Gough Whitlam the way our own feels he deserves. Here’s The Huffington Post’s Adam McKay in a panic attack:

"This is it folks. If McCain takes power we fade and become Australia in the seventies: a backwoods country with occasional flashes of relevance."

Weird: our Left fears we’re becoming too American; theirs frets the US will become too Australian. It strikes me these folks have a few differences to work through. They should get together and harmonise their lines.


That’s the whole post. That’s it.

I haven’t been paying attention to anything Jimmy Olsen has been blathering on about for almost a month now. Honestly, it’s like a multi-vitamin shot to the brain. Now, having spied this one post on this one occasion, I fear all my good work has been for naught …

Brain function = Fatal Error. Fail.

Ctrl+Alt+Del = Restart ...

Brain function = File Not Found. Fatal Error. Fail.


Send Error Report?


No, just bring me a beer …

Next time I get the urge to “read” something of Bolt’s, I’ll employ some CBT techniques and pop off to Bloody Disgusting instead.


We had previously received a number of comments from staff concerning the general condition and cleanliness of the office toilet facilities and did at that time attempt to convey to staff the need to maintain these facilities in a relatively hygienic fashion for the benefit of us all. However, we really just couldn’t be bothered any more as many of you appear to be thicker than a swimming pool deck and so repellently filthy that the proverbial shithouse rat is beginning to look like June Dally-Watkins in comparison.

So, in future, when using the toilets, by all means please:

1. Go ahead and urinate in the sink.

2. Smear your faeces over the walls. While you’re at it, write a verse or two.

3. Please use your indelible makeup to scribble on the mirror and benchtops.

4. Throw your bloated, befouled tampons wherever. Why not toss them to the ceiling and see if they stick?

5. Don’t use toilet paper! Just drag your saggy arse across the floor and make sure you press your shit into the grouting as you go. The cleaners are grateful for the overtime.

6. If you do use toilet paper, don’t put it in the bowl, the floor’s there for a reason too, you know.

7. Wash your hands? Nah. Go and rub them all over the biscuits in the lunchroom upstairs.

8. Hepatitis is a real buzz if you can get the right drugs, so don’t bother with soap.

9. Hide your discarded syringes in places where other people might sit on them. What a hoot. Whoopsy!

10. Last, but by no means least, don’t flush that big brown thing, you silly nong! The people who come in after you are really keen to have a look-see.

Thank you all.


Friday, 5 September 2008


I'm currently busier than a maggot on a stackburger so, in view of the news of these "shocking" revelations, and instead of buggering about with something new, the time seems apt for a re-presentation of Rebus Flatbush and "The Tale of Brit-Nay's Mama" ...

From “Rebus Flatbush’s Famous Fables & Folk-Tales of the American Mid-West” ...

“Now ... Feetus, Teetus an’ Meetus, you boys git in here and settle yerselves up for bed cause I’m a gunna speak a story at yer ... This here’s a story ‘bout Brit-nay’s momma ...

Once upon a time Brit-nay’s momma done once lived raht here in this ol’ trailer park, an’ afore she done popped out Brit-nay, she useta set in her trailer a’drinkin’ an’ a cussin’ at herself ‘cause she weren’t a fam-ous person. She’d rub her big bumpy belly and take a big swig a’ corn likker and tell herself, “Mah baby’s gonna be someone one day, yessir she is, I’m a gonna show ever’one I ain’t no common piece ‘a trailer trash, no sirree I ain’t! I gots talents! An’ so will mah chil’, dagnabbit!!”

Then she’d let go of a buncha burps and farts so loud they fair stunned all the woodchucks fer miles aroun’ and set the grizzlies a-runnin’ for higher ground and then she’d fall down lahk a dead person an’ set fire to herself agin an’ we’d all haveta come a-runnin’ with buckets ‘a water and put her out. This useta happen, oh ... ‘bout every day or two.

(Feetus ... stop rubbin’ yerself agin yer’ brothers an’ pay attention, boy ... )

Anyhoo, Brit-nay was popped outta her momma’s belly one afternoon in the toilet block while she wuz givin’ Otis the janitor a seein’ to ‘bout sumfin’ (though why they wuz both nekkid at the time ah ain’t ever been able to figger, but ah guess that’s a’ no mind of mine to think upon), an’ she picked her baby up outta the toilet bowl an’ says “I gots myself a ticket to a fortune at last!”

An’ she taught that chil’ how ta dance an’ swivel her liddle hips an’ poke out her chesty bits and sing into a hairbush, all the time tellin’ her, “You gonna be fam-ous, Brit-nay, yes you are, an’ ah don’ wanna hear any arguments about it, you gonna be someone and ahm gonna be someone too! ... Now you gotsta learn how to poke out yer liddle baby pillows sum more and smile when all those nahce men from the talents agency come ‘round ... Oh!, that reminds me ... we gotsta git yer teeth bleached agin! ... You stay raht there now whiles I git the Persil.”

An’ sure e-nuff, Brit-nay got herself fam-ous an’ made a whole buncha money, an’ her momma made a whole buncha money too coz she done went and made herself Brit-nay’s manager person.

An’ then one day, when Brit-nay was a lot older, she started actin’ jes lahk her momma what with the drinkin’ and the smokin’ an’ cussin’ an’ gettin’ herself tattoos an’ havin’ a baby wif some fella who lahked to wear his pants ‘round his knees so as to show off his unnerwear an’ such ... Yessirree, she was actin’ up sumfin’ feerce all the time, an’ she got herself a dee-vorce an’ lost custody a’ her own l’il baby, an’ on top a’ all that, she went an’ tol’ her ol’ momma to go feck herself, ‘cause she was mahty sick of her.

An’ her poor ol’ momma soon found she had no more money left an’ she weren’t fam-ous no more an’ she had to come back an’ live with Otis the janitor in the toilet agin’.

Now, the moral of the story, boys, is this – no matter how many times you change the size an’ shape of yer trailer, the trash’ll always stay the same ...

(Er, Teetus ... take yer thang outta Meetus’s earhole and git yerself off to sleep, son.)”

Wednesday, 3 September 2008


Don LaFontaine, 1940-2008


Lindsay Lohan's DJ girlfriend flew into Sydney this morning and, upon leaving the airport terminal ...




That's it.

And this has been deemed worthy of (online) reportage by The Sydney Morning Herald.

Jesus wept.

Tuesday, 2 September 2008


The Managing Director of the company I have worked for these last 3 years retired on Friday. A number of functions had been held in the previous couple of weeks to mark the auspicious occasion – after all, he had worked here for over 20 years and an appropriately spiffy series of send-offs seemed well and truly warranted after such a lengthy stint.

So, rather than simply scribble a few inane remarks on the card that came around, I decided instead to send the dear fellow an email with some personal thoughts and observations as to the matter of his departure.

This was it …

Dear Mr. D********,

Even though I am a mere newcomer to this illustrious company (relatively speaking in respect of yourself, that is) I do feel that, in light of the recent comments and speeches and slideshows and spontaneous bursts of politely restrained laughter and applause that have accompanied even the most banal or slightest of enthusiastically intoned anecdotes as regards your impending departure, some things have been left out, and in the leaving of them, a somewhat skewed and unarguably unrealistic portrait has been conveyed ...

So, please indulge me a few final thoughts in order to restore some semblance of truth to the matter ...

Now certainly, while those who have spoken of you have done so fondly, I feel, in all honesty, that it is with a fondness for the man they once knew at his peak rather than the sad and distressing spectacle that so many of us have had the misfortune to witness you become in these, your declining and debilitated years ...

And while it is undoubtedly fair to say that your contribution to the success of this organisation is respectably significant (I mean, let's not so obligingly shoot our heads up our own anus just yet, shall we?), none of us who now remain will feel any sense of loss whatsoever at the recent sightings of you shuffling about the lunch-room in an old pair of fluffy slippers and poo-stained pyjama bottoms, regaling any poor bugger within earshot of the ever-increasing number of ailments with which you have now found yourself afflicted.

Frankly, we'll all be a damn sight better off now that we won't be hearing the gloopy details of your irritable bowel syndrome and erectile dysfunction problems while we're trying to chow down on a bowl of curry or a banana. I mean, for fuck's sake.

And it will certainly be reassuring to know that we will now be able to move freely through the building to go about our business without our senses being shockingly assaulted at every turn by the toxic by-products of your embarrassingly inappropriate occasions of explosive incontinence. Did you know that one of the cleaners was so overwhelmed by the fetid stench from your office that she thought she was Timothy Leary for a week and is now looking at spending the rest of her life in an iron lung? At least we'll be able to attend to meetings from now on without having to bring along our own sponge and bucket and cover our clothes in Glad-Wrap. Thank fuck for that.

Nevertheless, despite these often disturbing aspects of your character and person, may I take this occasion to wish you well for the future. I'm sure that the life you have decided to map for yourself in retirement will be an auspicious one and exactly as you desire. That is to say, spending many a gloriously lazy day at the Golden Years Caravan Park up from the Ipswich Bowls Club, eating sausages and meatballs from a can while sucking VB from a 44-gallon drum through a bendy straw and throwing rocks at any poor pigeons who have the audacity to poop on the heads of your impressive collection of garden gnomes.

Have a nice time.

P.S. I hear Pauline Hanson's looking for a fella. You'll be in the neighbourhood, why not give it some thought? All you'll need do is shove a plug up your butt on the night and who knows what might just happen?

I really do wonder sometimes precisely how I’ve managed to remain employed for the last 30 years …

But then again, why settle for just pushing an envelope when turbo-charging one is so attractive an option?

It also helps if the boss has a sense of humour.

Lucky me.