I CAN HAS SPAC ATTACK?

So, I’m on the train to work yesterday morning. I only have two stops to go and I often walk. It was early. Cold, too. I took the train.

As it approaches my stop, a message comes over the intercom …

“Passengers should take care when detraining from the vehicle.”

…

…

…

“Detraining”?

“DETRAINING”?!!!!!

“DE-FUCKING-TRAINING”!!!!!!!!!!!!??????

I would like to find the person who thought of that and smash their fucking stupid head into a toilet bowl until they become de-fucking-brained.

Fucking spacwad.

PONDSCUM

Malcolm Turnbull. Sharman Stone. Kevin Andrews. Colin Barnett. Alexander Downer.

You are filth.

I pray you die. All of you. For yours is not the type of blood that should run in the veins of any other human being upon this earth.

And that, in what you may think are your final moments on this earth, you are confronted with visions of such torment, such pain, such interminable hell, that your internal organs burst from your pudgy, puffy little bodies in fear, that blood runs from your ears and your eyeballs, from every orifice and pore, and that the screams you make, the howls of anguish that escape from the scabby, wounded slits that are your reeking word-holes, rattle the very stars in their firmaments, shake planets from their orbits and extinguish the flames of suns, that the torture you feel in these moments will seem like an eternity, will be an eternity, will draaaaaaaag itself out to the bitterest end, an end that will never come, and, in flailing desperation, you reach for the nearest, the sharpest, the heaviest, the most damaging instrument you can lay your hands upon and plunge it deep, deep, deep into your eye sockets to puncture the withered, sucked-out spastic organs, those buckets of rancid sponge that are your gonorrheaic riddled brains and, as it goes further, harder, deeper, ever deeper, your pustule ridden flesh is rattled and wracked with involuntary bone-snapping spasms and you befoul yourselves, your moans and cries reaching such a fever pitch of wailing horror at the fate that has befallen you, that the sands on beaches and the sands of the deserts all turn to glass and shatter into a billion-billion shards, and that green rancid shit, bile, and clotted acid-pus dribbles and runs across and over your prone, shuddering, shattered bodies, burning gaping, festering black holes down to the marrow of your shattered, broken bones and that it goes on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on ...

AND THAT IT NEVER. EVER. EVER. ENDS.

You are filth.









God, that felt good.

And now that I've got that off my chest, I shall resume my normal, happy, well-adjusted widdle self ...

La de da …

Oh, look, butteryfly!

Is Puuuuuurty …

NORMAL SERVICES SHALL RESUME SHORTLY ...

AAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!

GGGGGGGGGGGGAAAAAARRRRRRRRRGGGGHHHHH!!!!!!!!

PTOOPFHHTPTOOEY!!!

BLERK ...

Sorry about that.

I WISH I'D WRITTEN THAT ... PT.2*

Never a truer word has been written …

From "The Onion"'s article of August 6, 2008 "Local Idiot To Post Comment On Internet" ...

HAZEL PARK, MI—In a statement made to reporters earlier this afternoon, local idiot Brandon Mylenek, 26, announced that at approximately 2:30 a.m. tonight, he plans to post an idiotic comment beneath a video on an Internet website ...

... Mylenek, who rarely in his life has been capable of formulating an idea or opinion worth the amount of oxygen required to express it, went on to guarantee that the text of his comment would be misspelled to the point of incomprehension, that it would defy the laws of both logic and grammar, and that it would allege that several elements of the video are homosexual in nature ...

... "We are blessed to be living in an age when we have a global communications network in which idiots, assholes, and total and complete wastes of fucking human life alike can come together to give instant feedback in an unfettered and unmonitored online environment," Mylenek said. "What better way to take advantage of this incredible technology than to log onto the Internet and insult a complete stranger?" ...

According to media critic Judy Turner, this type of behavior is not uncommon among idiots.

"Brandon's comments in particular contain a degree of unoriginality and stupidity that you only see in the most muttonheaded and imbecilic Internet commenters," Turner said. "In fact, I've seen him use at least a dozen variations of the word 'gay.' Suffice it to say, Brandon Mylenek is a truly stupid, stupid idiot."

Mylenek concluded his press conference with a solemn vow to uphold the awful, unintelligible, anger-inducing quality of his past Internet comments.

"I promise everyone that this post will be exactly what you have come to expect from an idiot like myself," he said, "and that I will check my comment regularly so that I can call everyone who says it's stupid a fag.

Sums up the so-called "blogosphere" quite nicely, don't it?

Interactive technology. Feedback. Your say. Your comment.

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IT ALL SUKS G!R!E!E!N!I!E FAGGETS WHAYLE DIK!!!!!!!!.

LOLS!!!!!!!!!!!#!#!!!!!!!!!!!!! :)D




*Part 1 is here, if you could be arsed. I couldn’t. That’s why this is such a lazy bloody excuse for a blog post. Anyway, I’m very busy …

… Well, it’s my fuckin’ blog! Oh yeah? Fuck off. Go on!? Fuck off! You can’t answer me, can you? You’re a fucking liar! Come here and say that! Oh, yeah? YEAH?!!!

Cross this line. Come on, cross it …

_____________


You won’t, will ya?

Gutless cunt.

Huh? Who? Your mother?

Lol.

HALLE-F**KING-LU-OFF

Having watched the Sunday edition of the ABC's "Insiders", I left the television on whilst I busied myself with a few random household chores (as one does on a Sunday). All stations gave blanket coverage to the memorial service for those who died in the recent Victorian fires, a duly serious and sombre affair attended by the usual dignitaries, officials and politicians, all of whom wore duly serious and sombre clothes and serious and sombre expressions.

Duly serious and sombre words were spoken, the national anthem was played, and so on and so forth. So far, fair enough ...

And then they went and spoiled it all by playing something stupid like "Hallelujah".

I swear, if I never hear this fucking song again for the rest of what remains of my life, I shall give thanks to the entire pantheon of Roman and Greek gods and sacrifice a few live chickens on the balcony in gratitude.

Shoving the word "hallelujah" into the lyric of a pop song does not a sacred hymn of praise make and why this bloody tune, which has had the living shit thrashed out of it by anyone and everyone with a half-decent set of pipes over the last God-knows how many years should be considered appropriate for such an affair or anything similar to it beggars belief.

Let's have a look at a verse ...

"Well, your faith was strong but you needed proof
You saw her bathing on the roof
Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew you
She tied you to a kitchen chair
She broke your throne, she cut your hair
And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah"

Relevance - FAIL.

Although, I guess we can be a mite grateful they didn't go and dust off "Candle in the Wind" instead.

Or did they?

I got the shits, turned it off and went up pub.

IN OTHER NEWS ...

I'm trying to think of an appropriate response to this story from today's News.Com ...

THE pension age should be lifted from 65 to 67 to encourage older Australians to stay in the workforce for longer, the Federal Government has been told.

In its submission to the Harmer pension review, the international investment and financial consultancy firm Mercer added its voice to calls for a gradual increase in Australia's pension age, starting in 2025

Mercer's Rob Knox said 65 was no longer an appropriate retirement age for many Australians.

But all I can come up with is ...

GET. FUCKED.

SHINY HAPPY PARASITES MUST BURN

From last Friday to Wednesday of this week, I was laid up sick with an unidentified stomach bug that had me rushing from the couch to the sink (closest receptacle available) to dry retch every 20 or 30 minutes. Over the course of 5 days, I've eaten 2 pieces of toast and an apple. The upside (upchuck?) is that I've lost a notch a half in belt size, so I've fought the good fight against the rampant obesity epidemic, going from a whopping 32" waist to about 30".

Fuck you, Jenny Craig.

And during this time, my brain being too rattled to concentrate on anything requiring coherent or sustained thought, I sat in front of the television whimpering like a whipped dog from the pain of a stomach in knots, and watched as the horrors of death, destruction and inconsolable grief flickered their way across the great glass teat of pop'lar ennertainment.

By Tuesday morning, enough was enough.

Thank God for SBS and the ABC, for they were the only two television channels that made any effort to report actual news about the events of that weekend rather than wallowing like fat happy pigs in the hollow pits of pain and loss that once were people with lives, with futures and with pasts, and who, now, wandered like shell-shocked soldiers through a battlefield the likes of which they could never have imagined in their most outrageous nightmares.

The shiny, happy parasites of commercial infotainment, self-anointed Masters-Of-The-Universe-As-Gods-Of-Pain outdid themselves in the rush to see which “host” of this once-in-a-lifetime entertainment opportunity could best make der unhappy, scrunchy face and convey to you, to us, just how horrible everything had been, how much worse it was going to get, and just how thoroughly and utterly fucked everybody involved were.

For we would not be able to grasp the deep import of these events without a familiar face to guide us through the proper meaning of loss, something only they could convey and can we please have some music for the underscore just in case anyone missed it? Thanks very much, Pachelbel’s Canon will do just fine, but after the break can we toss in some R.E.M. or Jeff Buckley? Cheers, thanks, ta, we have an annual licence so there’s no probs with der rights, eh?

And so, with their faces duly pasted and painted so as to take the shine off their shiny, shiny foreheads, they cast their eyes about for the wasted and the wounded, knowing full well they’ll be met with little resistance from the shocked and the stunned as they shove microphones and cameras in the faces of people who’ve lost husbands, wives, sons, daughters, parents, their homes, their pets, the entire record of their lives on earth to date and ask the really, really pertinent questions that really, really begged for an answer …

“You’ve lost your wife and your children and your home and your pets and the entire record of your life on earth to date … How do you feeeeeeeeeel nowwwwwww?”

The answer I wanted never came, or it was certainly never broadcast …

“How would you feel if I shoved this fucking microphone and this fucking camera between the flappy folds of your saggy, spotted buttocks until your fucking pinhead pops off your scrawny fucking shoulders, you ghoulish fucking lump of insensitive cuntspit?”

Better luck next time, perhaps.

And in their wake come the whores, hacks and harlots of the “popular” Australian press, ever eager to drive the standards (?!) of Australian journalism (??!) and reportage (???!) into the mediocrity it so enthusiastically and increasingly embraces ... (Hey! Psst! Wanna see a photo of Salma Hayek breastfeeding a kid? WE GOT IT! Tits, man! And boy, ain’t she got a set! Hubba hubba!).

Yet that shouldn’t be too surprising, given the “popular” press is mostly owned by some pussy-whipped old fart whose hair goes through more colour changes in a week than Joseph’s Technicolour Dreamcoat could do in a 6 month Broadway run.

Yep, round up the usual narcissistic deadshits and set ‘em to work to preach from the same old bully pulpit as always - Hell, you need talent, intelligence and imagination to think up something new and actually write about it in depth and no one wants to read that shit these days, do they? Is Australia, mate, the “lucky country”, don’t you be gittin’ above your raisin’ an’ puttin’ on airs an’ graces boy, an’ gettin’ deep on us all.

There’s a predictable lad.

Ah, fuck ‘em all. Throw some money in a bucket or a tin can or organise something at work or donate some blood or whatever, but next time these cunts of commercial “news” suggest splashing the face of someone writhing in the throes of uncontrollable grief for “your consideration” in some special extended agony remix edition, turn the fucking thing off or turn the page.

Enough is enough.

A HERO FOR OUR TIMES

I'm Ross Sharp and I fully endorse and approve of this man's actions.

I HATE THE INTERNET

One last thing ...

News.com have just released their 100 most-clicked upon stories of the year. Here are the keywords from the Top 40 headlines ...

40. Racy Stephanie Rice
39. Bingle topless shots
38. Xbox
37. Schoolgirl raped
36. Named and shamed
35. Naughty Nikki
34. Brisbane Broncos
33. 19-year-old / Suicide / Webcam
32. David Brown / Sunrise
31. iPhone
30. Cosmetic surgery addict
29. Suicidal jumper
28. Girlfriend was a bloke
27. Stolen Generations
26. Orgies / Nude resort
25. Incest couple
24. Teenage / Orgy
23. Sonia Kruger
22. Sex act / Toilets
21. Lindsay Lohan / Lesbian lover
20. Mark Priestley
19. Porn
18. Ex-Idol
17. Penis
16. Sex / Video
15. Porn shock
14. Call girl
13. Google
12. Horrified
11. Jess Origliasso / Porn
10. Brendan David Dennison
09. Giant spider
08. Alien
07. Bigfoot
06. Patrick Swayze
05. Stephanie Rice
04. Pink
03. iPhone
02. Fishy-smelling
01. Heath Ledger

My natural inclination toward misanthropic nihilism just got a whole lot worse.

VIRTUAL LAY DOWN AND DIE FRIDAY

I’m in a murderous mood.

I will not go into details, but it’s a filthy, foul, hateful, horrible murderous mood, and if anyone so much as looks at me askance today, I will slit their fucking throats and shit down their fucking necks.

Understand?

Now, as the scummy, low-life, gutter-sucking thrush buckets at Universal Music Group don’t allow embedding of their fucking material, go here to see Richard Kern’s clip for Sonic Youth and Lydia Lunch’s “Death Valley ‘69”. That's where my head's at right now.

In a similar vein, what I wouldn’t give to see Siouxsie Sioux beat the crap out of shiny-faced, pump-titted scrags like Spears, et al with a nail-studded baseball bat …

I’d pay good money for it. Fucking lots of money.



From 1983, Siouxsie & The Banshees “Helter Skelter”

A PLAGUE OF JESSICAS

A few days ago I was lurking about the handsomely appointed lunchroom upstairs (handsomely appointed due to the presence of coffee and biscuits in it and a few chairs that don’t break when you sit on them), when I began to leaf through one of the many magazines that live there.

There's a truckload of these things laying about, some of them dating back to the days when Michael Jackson was still vaguely recognisable as a human being and Madonna didn't look like Agnes Moorehead from "Bewitched".

"Women's magazines", they call them, though no woman I've ever had more than a passing acquaintance with would be seen dead reading one of the things, and if I ever did have a passing acquaintance with a woman who admitted to reading such stuff, I'd probably shoot her in the face with a musket as an act of mercy.

These things have oodles of pictures, mostly of people I've never heard of who do things I've never been aware of, but by golly they must do ‘em well and do ‘em often cause their faces, their bums, their armpits, their blackheads, zits, nits and shaving nicks are plastered all over these magazines for the benefit of our viewing and reading pleasure.

There's not much text in these things, though if someone vaguely “known” has announced an impending pregnancy, these magazines will often run a photo of the person with a texta-like drawing of a little circle with an arrow from it pointing at the woman's belly, just as a way of reminding us (I guess) that babies come from women’s tummies and not from storks.

Fancy that.

Happily, the editors have refrained from adding little texta drawings of that thing that mostly enables a pregnancy to begin, but it's early days yet. So don't be too surprised if you pick up one of these magazines one day and find it full of little texta penises and little squiggly tadpoles heading off to party up some poor lass’s crotch. With an arrow to guide them on their way.

But on this particular day, as I was leafing through this particular magazine, I began to feel vaguely unsettled in a chilly “someone wants to eat my soul” kind of way.

For on every page I looked at, page after page after page, a JESSICA looked back at me.

There was JESSICA Alba. There was JESSICA Biel. There was JESSICA Simpson. There was JESSICA Mauboy.

There was a Sarah JESSICA Parker, too. She has a big spot on her face, did you know? It’s name is JESSICA too.

A veritable plague of JESSICA’s had taken nest in this magazine and I wondered if I’d accidentally stumbled upon a Stepford Wife conspiracy of sorts.

You see, JESSICA Alba looks like JESSICA Biel’s younger sister. And JESSICA Simpson looks like JESSICA Biel would look if you stuck JESSICA Biel in a bleach bath for a year and wrung her out with a white shagpile rug. JESSICA Mauboy looks like an "Australian Idol" contestant and, strangely enough, Sarah JESSICA Parker looks like a horse with a big spot on its face.

Also, they all have these blindingly white teeth. Or at least, I think they’re teeth. Every time one of them smiles, it’s like peering in at a bunch of enameled miniature Miele appliances and all you want to do is move in and set up house and whip up a stir-fry. Or a quiche.

Or, in Sarah JESSICA Parker’s case, hose the poop out of the stable and bring in some fresh hay.

And another thing. They’re all actors. Except for JESSICA Mauboy, who was an "Australian Idol" contestant, so we can stop mentioning her right now ‘cause the rest of her life is utterly irrelevant to any aspect of reality anymore.

Now, I’ve seen JESSICA Alba in some films, but I can’t remember a damn thing about her in any of them. She was in “Sin City”, a film I loved to bits, but as far as I can recall, all she did in that was go twirling around a pole in her underwear for a while. Not an entirely unpleasant thing to watch, but whether or not she can actually act has yet to be determined. She was also in a movie called “The Eye”, which I may have seen, but can’t really remember, though I think it was about a possessed eyeball doing whatever it is possessed eyeballs do. By the way, did you know that the name JESSICA is derived from an ancient Hebrew word meaning “foresight” or “clairvoyance”? Uncanny, what?

And JESSICA Biel was in the remake of “The Texas Chainsaw Massacre”, which I do remember because I liked it. But all she did in that movie was run around in a shirt that was tied off above her navel and ultra-tight jeans. I found it quite distracting. In a pleasing way, I guess, but I’m watching a horror movie and it’s beginning to resemble an episode of “Baywatch” gone feral, and I’m not sure that’s a good thing for a horror movie. By the way, did you know that the first noted usage of the name JESSICA was for a character from William Shakespeare’s “The Merchant of Venice”, a quite nifty and entertaining little play about paying debts with chunks of your own bloody flesh? Unsettling, isn’t it?

Unfortunately, all I know about JESSICA Simpson is that she once had pimples. She slapped her face with some acne treatment stuff and got rid of her pimples and decided to raise some breasts instead, which appears to have worked out quite handsomely for her. Lucky girl. By the way, did you know that the word “pimple” is derived from the Latin “papula” or “papilla” which means nipple? Are you getting chills yet?

As far as Sarah JESSICA Parker is concerned, she made a name for herself in a show about dildos and shoes, which must have been a novel experience for those who watched it, but I much preferred her early stuff. By the way, did you know that the name Sarah means “princess”, and that there was once a famous princess who wore shoes and died in a car crash?

So.

What may we glean from this plague of JESSICA’s?

If we …

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Um.

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I KNOW!

LET’S START OVER! …

A few days ago I was lurking about the handsomely appointed lunchroom upstairs (handsomely appointed due to the presence of coffee and biscuits in it and a few chairs that don’t break when you sit on them), when I began to leaf through one of the many magazines that live there …

…

…

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…

LISTEN! NO-ONE’S MAKIN’ YA READ THIS CRAP, YA KNOW!!

…

Leave me alone.

I’m unwell.

$!!!!##@!~!!! ...

So I wander up to the local Blockbuster on the weekend ... they've changed their system for television series rental. Instead of one disc at a time (3 or 4 episodes), you can now rent an ENTIRE SEASON for six and a half bucks a week.

WOO-HOO!

Having heard good things about it, but having not bothered when it was on free-to-air television earlier last year or whenever, because, when it comes to free-to-air television these days to do so is a waste of time, I rent season one of the “re-imagined” "Battlestar Galactica" ...

Season one, disc one, episode one ... it begins ...

"Previously on Battlestar Galactica ..."

Previously?

PREVIOUSLY?!

WHADDYA FUCKING MEAN, PREVIOUSLY?! THERE IS NO PREVIOUSLY!!!!

SEASON ONE, DISC ONE, EPISODE ONE!!

ONE!! ONE!! ONE!!!!!!!!!! O-N-E!!!!!!!!!

Oh, you mean you DIDN'T put the pilot episode on?

....

You miserable, tightarse, filthy little fuckers.

I hope you all die of cancer.

IS THIS A BLIND SPOT I SEE BEFORE ME?

There’s this movie, see? It’s called “The Blindness”, okay?

And look, Julianne Moore’s in it. Aside from being an exceptionally talented actress, Ms. Moore’s quite easy on the eyes too. Quite the stunner, in fact.

Here’s a pic to feast your optics on …

Now, that bats my lashes every time, whaddyareckon? Huh? HUH??

Anyway, this moving picture is based on the premise that some thing or other has caused the world’s population to go blind. Hence the title. “The Blindness”. Only, Julianne Moore’s character doesn’t go belly-up in the peepers, she can still see ‘round corners, up hill and down dale, a hunnert-an-twenny-twenny vision.

What? You want me to draw you a picture? Fuck off.

So, anyhow, when all these folks go dark in the head, they also go a bit whacky and start fucking each other about and gettin’ nasty an’ stuff.

Here’s a trailer so you can see for yourself …



What’s that? You can’t?

That’s a shame, ain’t it?

So. Let me get this straight. You can’t see the fucking movie, but you’d like to have a whine about it because it makes out that blind people like fucking each other about and being nasty an’ stuff?

IT’S A FUCKING MOVIE! IT’S MADE UP! IT AIN’T REAL! IT’S A PREMISE, A HOOK, A FICTION, A STORY! A METAPHOR IF YOU FUCKING WILL THANK YOU VERY FUCKING MUCH!

And you think you speak on behalf of some community? No, you don’t. You speak for your own self and a tiny, teensy-weensy noisy handful of other twitchy little fuckers simply because you’ve bugger all else to do with your time but root about trying to find stuff to bitch about. Like these retards over here.

What’s that?

“The National Federation of the Blind condemns and deplores this film, which will do substantial harm to the blind of America and the world. Blind people in this film are portrayed as incompetent, filthy, vicious, and depraved. They are unable to do even the simplest things like dressing, bathing, and finding the bathroom.”

Hang on a moment, sunshine. Read this … Some fella in Vancouver by the name of Pete McMartin wrote it. He thought the movie was crap, but …

“That, I thought, was over the top, if not just wrong. The public image of the blind, I'd say, is one of downright admiration and empathy. The blind are empowered in our society, not demonized. I also thought the federation's objection to blindness as a metaphor for depravity was silly because it had either misread it, or not read it at all.

Had she read the book, I asked.

No, she said, she hadn't.

Had she seen the movie?

"I personally don't want to see the movie. The idea of it makes me sick."

Big irony here, of course: The federations' protests will draw people into the theatres to see what all the fuss is about, whereas if they had ignored it, it would have, believe me, come and gone in a week.

But the book, I pointed out, has been around much longer. It was written in 1995, and translated into English in 1997. Why hadn't the federation protested against the book's publication then?

"That's a good question," Lalonde said, one she didn't quite have an answer to, though she thought a movie's ability to reach a larger market might have something to do with it.

In other words, a Nobel Prize-winning author's novel, which I have read, and which has been read all over the world, is so negligible as to be not worthy of the federation's scorn. It's just words, after all”

Did you read that?

You didn’t?

Well, maybe you can just feel your way through it. I’m sure you’ll get it eventually.

Mind you don’t hit your fucking head on your way out.

THE PITS

OH FOR GOD’S SAKE WOMAN, GIVE IT A FUCKING REST, WILL YOU?!

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?

BIG BOTHER

"Big Brother", after 8 years, is no more.

I have never watched a single episode of "Big Brother". Ever.

I have not so much as watched 5 minutes of any episode of "Big Brother". Ever.

There have been times when I have wanted to watch something that followed "Big Brother", yet, as seems to be the way of such programs, "Big Brother" inevitably ran over time. In which case, I chose something else or punched the mute button on the remote until it had ended and the program I wished to view began.

"Big Brother" was, essentially, a program about various groups of witless fuckwads sharing a house.

I shared houses with various people for about 12 years. Why I would want to watch a program about people sharing a house I do not know. The attraction to viewing such a thing eluded me then and it continues to elude me now.

I have done it in real life. And it was not like "Big Brother". Nothing like it at all. It was "real life".

"Big Brother" bore no more relation to "real life" than a wank can be equated to a really good fuck. It was about one thing, and one thing only - encouraging a group of retarded fuckwads to humiliate themselves and humiliate each other, and to encourage the audience of retarded fuckwads who watched this shit to regard themselves as being "entertained" by the humiliation on display. And so they were. I guess that’s the post-modern definition of success in today’s la-la land of commercial television.

"Big Brother" was, like all reality television shows, a program conceived by, produced by and presented by, middle-aged arrested adolescent dick-twiddlers possessed of not even a modest modicum of talent, creativity or intelligence. Not for them the intricacies of a script, of a story, of the development of characters in whom we may take an interest. Not for them such trifles as a plot, a purpose, or even a desire to inform, educate or enlighten on any particular topic.

No.

Instead, the best these utterly worthless and intellectually denuded little twats could come up with was, “Hey, I know. Let’s stick a dozen people in a house and film ‘em takin’ showers and shittin’ an’ sleepin’ an’ stuff! An’, an’, an’, hey, let’s make sure that a couple of ‘em got really good tits! Yeah?” “Fuck, man. That’s excellent! Wanna snort?”

And the retarded fuckwads who watched it are no better. In fact, they are worse, as they encouraged the candy-nosed dick-twiddlers who made this rubbish to make more of it and fling it onto our television screens at any and every available opportunity.

Every night for 8 years while this program aired, millions of these drooling, slack-jawed, monosyllabic fuckwads plopped themselves onto their couches and armchairs, mobile phones in one hand, jumbo packets of junk food in the other, as they shouted and screamed encouragement or disapproval at unremarkable strangers of remarkably unremarkable intelligence doing and saying unremarkable things for no apparent purpose or aim other than the fact that “I’s on der tee-vee! Lookee me! Lookee me!”.

So.

May I say to you if you were one of the witless idiot yokels who thought “Big Brother” worth watching for some reason ...

Kill yourself. Stab yourself now. Throw yourself off a fucking cliff. Take an overdose and go die in a gutter somewhere. Walk in front of a train. Play in the fucking traffic. Ask your parents for a retrospective abortion.

For your mere existence is an insult to the universe and its multitude of wonders.

And we need the space. With a few million less of you “Big Brother” fanatic fuckwits out of the way, just think of the savings in greenhouse gas emissions.

Go on. Make the sacrifice.

Knock your fucking selves out.

MARATHON WUSSMAN

9 a.m.

Tuesday.

Periodontist.

Sharp metal poking sticks. Sticks that scrape. Sticks that go “whirr”.

Poke. Poke. Prod. Scrape. Scrape. Scrape. Poke. Poke. Prod. Scrape. Scrape. Poke. Poke. Poke. Poke. Scrape. Poke. Poke. Pain. Ouch. Ouch. Ouch. Ouch. Pain. Stop. Pain. Ouch. Stop. Ouch. Pain. Please. Kill. Me. Now.

For 45 minutes. Feet trying to twist themselves off ankles. Hands grabbing armrests. Sweat through shirt in 22 degree weather. Finally. Over. Wobble off chair. Wobble out to reception. Extract debit card from wallet. In a wobbly fashion. Wobble off. Less 200 bucks.

See you again in 4 months.

Yeah. Good. Can’t wait.

Below - Chucking a wobbly ...

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... Wobbly chucked.



From 1986, Steve Martin “The Dentist Song” from “Little Shop of Horrors”

FREQUENTLY FUNDING

My published contribution to the letters page of today’s Sydney Morning Herald ...

Re the Senate inquiry into swearing on television, I am more than happy to help the industry "clarify what is meant by the terms "occasional, some and frequent" coarse language" for the benefit of Senator Bernardi. Occasional – Sometimes; Some - A bit; Frequent - Often. Can I have my cheque now, please?

BAD MOOD BUBBY PT.4

From “The New Yorker”, "One Angry Man" by Peter J. Boyer on Keith Olbermann ...

[Olbermann] wrote ...

"Mr. Bush, I hate to break it to you six and a half years after you yoked this nation and your place in history to the wrong war in the wrong place, against the wrong people, but the war in Iraq is not about you. . . . It is not, Mr. Bush, about your golf game! And, sir, if you have any hopes that next January 20th will not be celebrated as a day of soul-wrenching, heartfelt thanksgiving, because your faithless stewardship of this presidency will have finally come to a merciful end, this last piece of advice . . . when somebody asks you, sir, about your gallant, noble, self-abnegating sacrifice of your golf game so as to soothe the families of the war dead. This advice, Mr. Bush: Shut the hell up!"

Phil Griffin, the senior vice-president in charge of MSNBC ..., raised the matter of tone. Why did Olbermann need to end his commentary by telling the President of the United States to “shut the hell up”?

“Because I can’t say, ‘Shut the fuck up,’ that’s why, frankly,” Olbermann responded.

This pleases me. Mood improving. Time for food.

BAD MOOD BUBBY PT.3

I am fucking sick and fucking tired of CGI superhero and “epic” movies. They’re fucking crap, pretty much all of them. Slick, sleek, soulless lumps of shit shoved together by twitchy packs of arrested adolescent dickheads with bad skin permanently hopped up to the gills on a steady diet of Coke and triple-cheese, stuffed crust pizzas and Twinkies, their sweaty fucking hands forever fiddling about with their fucking joysticks and fucking function buttons ...

“Hey man, if you F8-Shift-Control-Alt then Left Open Square Bracket Close Right Bracket and hit Enter, you can make a Roman!”

“Way cool, dude.”

Go stab yourselves, the whole fucking lot of you.

I’ll take George Reeves’ “Superman” any day over Brandon or Brendon whatshisname.

And you can shove “Gladiator” up your fucking clacker as well and run “Spartacus” instead thank you very much. At least Kirk Douglas knew he was only making a fucking movie, unlike Russell fucking Crowe who thought he was starring in his own autobiographical adventures, the tedious little twat.

Happily, I find I am not alone in my views ...

Paul Byrnes from the Sydney Morning Herald on “The Incredible Hulk” ...

“These guys have crafted more movie superheroes than anyone would have thought possible, or desirable. I wish they would stop. I am sick of superheroes. I'd like to see a movie about an under-performing hero or just someone who didn't go weird on the full moon. Bruce Banner, Peter Parker, Wolverine, even Clark Kent just won't go away. They are a blight on the movie landscape: overblown, banal, numbingly noisy epics of emptiness aimed at the desperate American desire for righteous heroes.

The finale, in New York City - where else? - has two mutants duking it out, rather than one, just as in Iron Man (and 50 other superhero-mutant hero movies). lf there is anything duller than two computer-generated giants fighting each other, I have yet to see it. It's like two bags of marbles being thrown against each other for 20 minutes.

These movies are as tiring as kryptonite.”

Righteous!

And Peter Bradshaw from The Guardian is hilariously scathing about same ...

"Hulk. Smash!" Yes. Hulk. Smash. Yes. Smash. Big Hulk smash. Smash cars. Buildings. Army tanks. Hulk not just smash. Hulk also go rarrr! Then smash again. Smash important, obviously. Smash Hulk's USP. What Hulk smash most? Hulk smash all hope of interesting time in cinema. Hulk take all effort of cinema, effort getting babysitter, effort finding parking, and Hulk put great green fist right through it. Hulk crush all hopes of entertainment. Hulk in boring film. Film co-written by star. Edward Norton. Norton in it. Norton write it. Norton not need gamma-radiation poisoning to get big head. Thing is: Hulk head weirdly small. Compared with rest of big green body ...

... Critic remember Ang Lee version. Ang Lee version slagged off. Yet rubbish new Hulk film make that look like Citizen Kane. Critic exit cinema miffed. Film take away two hours of critic's life. Critic not get time back. Ever. Rarrrrr."

I know how he feels.

“Rarrrr” indeed.

God, I’m in a filthy frame of mind today. Did I mention?

BAD MOOD BUBBY PT.2

Here she fucking goes again, Miranda Devine, self-anointed spiritual leader of the sensible shoes, twin-set and pearls perpetual puritan practitioners of professional hysterics set, lurching back and forth, back and forth, back and fucking forth between her dual obsessions of the day – drugs and porn, drugs and porn, drugs and fucking porn.

Today, it’s fucking drugs again with Darling Devine whipping herself into another fucking snit over an information booklet for teens about illegal drugs ...

Let’s get something into your thick fucking head, you stupid fucking bint ...

No one in their right fucking mind wants their kids to be spending their time pulling fifty bongs a day behind the school toilet block or dropping a dozen ecstasy tabs during an early morning session of Video fucking Hits ...

... However, if a teenager, whether they be 15 or 19 or even 25, find themselves in a situation where illegal drugs are on offer and they choose to partake, it is far better for them that they be reliably and sensibly informed as to what it is they may be about to consume and what effects and potential dangers the consumption of said drug may produce than to be endlessly hollered at by a bunch of saggy-titted, dreary middle-aged ideologically-addicted irrelevancies furiously flapping about like so many whirling dervishes on a carousel in a fucking hurricane screaming, “Danger, Will Robinson, Danger!” ...

She writes ... "Among "a few tips that might help" in the brochure is advice to "use only small amounts and not too often" ...

Yeah, right. Shocking stuff. Like, totally, yeah, right, no, yeah, like, WOW, Miranda!

Fuckwit.

She goes on ... “To be fair, the brochure also states: "The best way to keep your head together is not to use drugs at all." But it immediately goes on: "BUT, if you choose to experiment …"

“To be fair” ... Well, that’s like, rooly, rooly generous of you deary. What part of “The best way to keep your head together is not to use drugs at all” hasn’t quite penetrated your thick fucking head exactly?

I tell ya what, you sensibly stylish little luvvie you, why don’t you send a copy to Glenn Milne ... I reckon he could do with a little helpful advice.

Stupid cunt.

Have I mentioned what a foul fucking mood I happen to be in today?