THE END OF TONGUES …

… At Google Blogger.

Smelly Tongues will now be over at Wordpress.

There’s nothing wrong with Blogger (not that I’ve experienced, at least), it’s just that it’s more convenient to blog through Wordpress. For various reasons … um, er, yeah.

So, will the three of you who read this blog kindly change your bookmarks and links and stuff. Thanks.

…

Flaps up and away!

(No offense, ladies).

NEW STUDIES REVEAL …

A new study has found that the number of Australians currently engaged in conducting new studies and compiling statistics about meaningless aspects of human behaviour, both personally and professionally, has ballooned by approximately 36.79% over the last 15.61 years and may be a leading cause of productivity losses over that time and a contributing factor to the current economic downturn.

Research conducted by The Institute of Studies into Studies Of Irrelevantly Random Crap has revealed that compiling studies about things whose conclusions would be blindingly obvious to the thickest halfwit on the planet consumes almost 17.825 million days per year as a nation and the resources of close to 47.3% of the current population.

Ross Sharp, the Director of the Institute, announced today that "if one were to take all the metal used in these studies from paper clips, staples, foldback clips, ring binders and those sliding metal paper binders that slice half your finger off when you try to remove them from a document, you could probably build a bridge between Sydney and Perth with it."

He added, "We have individuals engaged in compiling studies about the economic cost to the nation of people taking two toilet breaks a day during work hours and statistics about the impact on the national state of mental health caused by recalcitrant shopping trolleys with dodgy wheel bearings, and we feel this type of thing has now reached epidemical proportions and something must be done, and done urgently, to address it.”

Mr. Sharp also stated that, "if we were to take all these people conducting studies into things nobody could give a flying proverbial about and place them into some sort of productive work like the construction of public housing, we could probably solve homelessness in 37 seconds, build a couple of hundred new hospitals, some spaceships, cure cancer, and bring dinosaurs back from the dead."

"Unfortunately," Mr. Sharp added, "a vast number of Australians, rather than engage in some substantial form of work, would rather sit on their ever-expanding backsides, chew the rubbers off their pencils, and make studies about the impact on global warming from farting parrots who've taken one too many nips of over-ripe fruit and have then gone muscling about a public square making a racket at 5.00am in the morning squawking for a kebab shop".

In response, a spokesperson for The Institute of Studies Into the Effects of Fermenting Fruits on Native Wildlife rejected Mr. Sharp's comments as little more than the rantings of an angry and disaffected middle-aged man, and insisted that their research was vital in these times of global crisis.

Mr. Sharp replied that he couldn’t give a stuff about any of these stupid studies anymore and that he was going up the pub for a few beers and a monster-burger with double cheese and a side order of chips with gravy.

ARSEWIPE? ...

Use bumstick …



(Spotted on Slate.)

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.

CREEPY CRAWLY

When I first thought of the name for this blog, I realised it might, to some people, imply something weird, as in sexual weird. As in, some strange fetish or whatnot.

But it’s not that at all.

The name is the title of a song from the early 1970’s by San Francisco pop nutjobs The Residents and later covered by their frequent collaborator in crimes against music, Snakefinger (who is now dead, just in case you didn’t know).

It seemed like a good idea at the time, and I love The Residents to bits and have done for over 30 years now. And I realised that the name would allow me to do silly things with puns and plays on words and such, like Tongue-In-Chief and The Tongue Commandments.

Okay?

Fair enough.

But fuck me if some of the things people are looking for, some of the search terms people use that seem to bring them (very briefly) to this place are just plain creepy, in a chilly, shiver up the spine way. Variations on the two words in the title of this blog. That make me wonder, “These people should be in fucking jail”.

I’m not going to list the terms.

Use your imagination. Use your imagination in a way that you normally wouldn’t want to use it.

And then go a bit further.

Sometimes, it makes me want to give up the internet altogether, to shun it, and go back to entertaining myself by reading more books and seeing more movies and eating out more.

To stop writing this blog, and maybe try my hand at writing something real for a change. You know, writing something with an intent.

I thought all the stupid, creepy people were over here.

But no they’re not.

They’re every fucking where.

I suppose I could just not look at my blog statistics any more. I have no idea what half of them mean anyway (Bounce rate? Huh? Bouncing from, or bouncing to? Whyfore you bounce? Boing, boing. Honestly, the internet has some stupid bloody names for things).

Maybe I’ll just do that.

Or maybe I should just get a life.

THE CURIOUS CASE OF THE DISAPPEARED CAT

The next door neighbour’s cat has disappeared.

Its fate concerns me.

You see, over the last 18 months or so, the next door neighbour’s cat and I have become … friends.

This, despite the fact that I’m not overly fond of cats, having always regarded them as rather dumb and stupid. Dumber than a box of rocks, in fact.

Yet, over time and beginning from kittenhood, this creature has wormed its way into my affections, paying regular visits (morning and night) to demand my attention, to eat bugs from the balcony, and to play with my shoes, the latter being an activity that appeared to amuse it no end.

I have never fed the animal. It has an owner whose responsibility that is, and the cat always appeared healthy and untroubled. To feed it again would be an act of cruelty and negligence on my part. I did, however, leave a bowl of water on the balcony for it should it happen to be over my way and fancy a drink after a bug-eating banquet.

Wouldn’t you?

Anyway.

Over the recent Easter long weekend, the next door neighbour and her son went away for the break. I expect they made arrangements with some friend or whatever to have the animal fed and watered during their absence. I would hope so.

Wouldn’t you?

But the cat, confined to a limited area in which to roam (the neighbours flat and balcony and my own), has become a socialised animal and it knows only the company of other humans.

Therefore, its own humans being absent for an extended period of time, it sought my company throughout that weekend and spent most of the four days sleeping on the various chairs on the balcony or, when it was raining, coming inside to sleep behind the couch.

Very obviously, this is a people cat. And, being a people myself, and a people who has no objection to its presence and wishes it no ill will, it seemed happy in my world during that time. And I was happy for its company.

It’s a nice cat.

And then, when the owners returned from wherever it was they had been, the adult owner went out to her balcony and called for it.

But it was at my place.

Inside. Asleep behind the couch. And it didn’t so much as lift its head in recognition at its owners voice.

And so, I picked it up and put it out on the balcony so that it could go home.

It didn’t seem particularly keen at first, but eventually, off it went.

And I’ve not seen hide nor hair of it since.

Which is strange, don’t you think?

What has happened?

I would inquire of my neighbour as to the animals wellbeing, but I’d rather not. You see, she has one of those voices, those voices that seem always to be teetering on the edge of hysteria, do you know? As if, were you to inquire perhaps, “How are you?”, you would receive a catalogue of petty concerns and worries and problems that she feels she is besieged by in response. And, having thusly exchanged words, she would consider you a “friend”, or at least an “acquaintance” from thereon. And you would be bugged endlessly by this, that or the other thing from thereon. Good grief, no.

I live in a block of flats, for God’s sake. I do not want to get to know the fucking neighbours. To do so is to invite oneself into a world full of pain.

If you are my neighbour, mind your own damn business and I’ll mind mine. “Fuck off” in other words, got it? I don’t want to be your fucking friend.

Nevertheless.

Would I be far off the mark to assume that the owner, disturbed by the fact that her cat has been in my company during her extended absence, is jealous of this? And has confined her animal to quarters, has somehow managed to restrict its movements outside so that it can no longer roam of its own free will? This strikes me as cruel.

Or, perhaps, has she surrendered the animal to some pound, some refuge and that she did so due to some perceived infidelity on the animals part?

That would be extreme, don’t you think?

And disturbing.

Very disturbing.

It disturbs me.

Would it disturb you?

Yes. Yes, it would. Of course it would. Unless you are mad.

For it would seem I have lost a friend. And to what and why it has been lost, I do not know. I don’t have that many friends left to lose (refer attitude to neighbours).

This saddens me.

I even looked on a number of animal pound and refuge websites this morning to see if a picture of the animal in question may have been there.

No.

Nothing.

Where is it?

I am worried and I keep asking myself this question. Again and again.

Wouldn’t you?

And I don’t even know the animals name.

I used to call it “Cat”, as in, “Hello, cat. How’s things?”

He’s a cat, for Christ’s sake, why would he need a name?

But where has cat gone?

Cat?

Cat?

Hello?

Cat?

Come back, cat.

Hello?
…

…

…

…

…

…

Ah, crap.

I’m definitely going soft in the head.

Definitely.

Goddammit.

Goddammit all to hell.

THE MEANING OF IT ALL or THE PIG. THE POKE. AND SO …

So.

So I'm poking about this bookshop at lunch, do you see?

Just poking about. Nothing specific, do you understand?

This bookshop.

Something to do. There is always something to do. And so …

I pick up some books. To look at. To see. Are they worth the investment. Of time. Of money. Do you see?

So.

I look at this book by Alain de Botton, “The Pleasures and Sorrows of Work”. It is $45.00. This is money in the bank. From my wallet to their bank.

For a book about the “pleasures and sorrows of work”. I could buy this book. Yes. I could buy it because it is $45.00 less 20%. For they, the sellers, are having a sale. 20% off.

That is good. Do you think? Yes.

No.

Another time. Perhaps. The “sorrows of work”. I am acquainted with these. The “pleasures”? No. The pain? Yes.

I need a dump.

Fuck.

So.

I pick up another book. It is called “Handling The Undead”. The author is John Ajvide Lindqvist. I have read his work. I have read his other book, “Let The Right One In”. It was fine. Very fine. It was a good book.

Good.

Do you understand?

And this other book. It is $32.95. Less 20%. Therefore, $26.36. I could buy this. This thing.

And, upon reading it, I would place it upon a shelf. Next to the other book. And, after a period of time, a brief passage of time, I would dust it.

For that is what one does with things.

We gather them. In the grand and oft onerous traditions, the customs of old, passed down to us (why down? Can things not be passed up?) from our fathers and to them from their teachers, their fathers (perhaps mothers, if, perchance, the fathers are conspicuous in absence, and thus by their absence do they bring shame upon their forebears and all those who follow in their wake) those in whom wisdom resides (or so we can but hope, the vanity of hope in which we persistently, foolishly, if not impotently indulge ourselves), who have been taught well in the ways of this world, the expectation of consistency in the maintenance of stuff, things have always been gathered. Ordered. And so, arranged.

And thusly, having been so gathered, must they be dusted.

Swish.

Do you see?

Swish.

And so. Here we have what demands be called a “progression”. A “progression”, from one state, one state of being, of order, to the next. Hence …

To sneeze.

And to sneeze again.

Do you see?

We are all naught but trains.

Choo.

DISCOMBLOGUMALATED

It's not that I couldn't be arsed, it's just ...

Not having a computer at home, I write and blog during lunch or whenever I get the chance for a break. However, a whole bunch of things now appear to have been blocked for access and Blogspots are one of them, so I can't log in to Blogger from work or make comments on Google Blogspots anymore.

Which is fine, I guess. I don't mind. What am I going to do, complain? "Hey, let me log in to Blogger from work during lunchtime or whenever so I don't have to waste an hour reading the type of trivial drivel that passes for news these days".

I don't think so. I just couldn't be arsed.

Perhaps it's about time I did get a computer at home. Thing is, I can't see the point of paying close to a thousand bucks for a lump of machinery that becomes obsolete within a year of purchase. And then there's all the ancillary costs, such as broadband connections and software and shit.

I did have a computer at home when I first moved up to Brisbane, but it went belly up about 2 years ago. It was old. And I didn't really care when it went belly up. There was nothing on it of tangible worth. That's the thing with computers. We just fill them up with shit and think all the shit we've filled them up with means something.

It doesn't. It's just shit. Lots and lots of shit.

And I spend my entire working day staring at a fucking computer and I'm not sure I want the temptation of spending entire weeknights and weekends staring at a fucking computer when I could be reading a fucking book or watching a fucking movie instead. Or playing with the next door neighbours fucking cat. He can be quite the entertaining little feller, the next door neighbours fucking cat. He likes to eat bugs.

So.

I moved over here.

See? I can't decide on a template there, either. They have a limited number and they're all fairly static. Can't change colours and fonts and stuff.

And I sorta, kinda couldn't be arsed there. Not right now, anyway. Because I sorta, kinda grew comfy with the way things looked and felt here. You see? It's red and swollen here and if you stare at it long enough, it throbs. I like that.

So I'm blogging from the local internet cafe. Next to the train station.

Shit, eh?

I guess if I had a girlfriend, I'd be out doing useful things. Those useful things that couples do.

But I don't want a girlfriend. I'm old and tired and cranky and I have commitment issues.

George Clooney has commitment issues.

If I was George Clooney, I'd be fine with that. Who the fuck wouldn't want to be George Clooney? With commitment issues? So you're George Clooney and you have commitment issues? Such a life you have. I should have such a life, he writes with the slight, but distinct inflection of a Bronx mensch.

Did you know there’s a company in Michigan called “Mensch Manufacturing”. They make manure vacuums.

Shit, eh?

I understand women have problems with men who have problems with issues of commitment which must be a problem if you’re a woman looking for commitment. I guess if you’re a woman and you want kids with a man who has commitment issues, you’d have cause to have a bad case of the shplikes. Unless you’re a yutzi meeskite, in which case your lot in life is bupkis.

But I’m not a woman. So I don’t care. You think you have problems? Your problems I should have.

A klog is mir, you should try living with a shmeckle.

Feh.

A POST ABOUT NOTHING AT ALL

My father was admitted to hospital on Sunday, February 8th after suffering a minor stroke, no doubt exacerbated somewhat by the extreme heat of the day (43, 44 degrees in Sydney). He's been there ever since.

They run tests. Constantly. "How are you?", I ask. "They're running tests", he replies, barely able to speak through his horribly strangled breathing. "What tests?", I ask. "I don't know", he says, "they get me to swallow things and run tests and take x-rays."

I thought about flying back to Sydney for a couple days, but was discouraged from doing so, my mother thinking it would make him paranoid in an "end is nigh" type of way.

Fair enough.

And, no doubt many of his current health problems would be as a result of smoking cigarettes for most of his adult life (he gave up about 7 years ago) and I'm sure many snitty little twerps, the usual suspects, would take great pleasure in thinning their lips and narrowing their eyes to slits and bending over his prone body to mutter, "Serves ya right."

In which case, I would happily and most enthusiastically shove a chainsaw up the arses of said snitty little twerps and take them for a quick spin.

For he started smoking in an age (early 1940’s) where smoking was acceptable in all walks of life, in all professions and places and, as a commercial artist/signwriter, spent his entire working life in barely ventilated factories surrounded by wood dust and shavings, asbestos (very probably) and fumes from paint of all varieties, methylated spirits, turpentine and so on. Back in the days when "O.H & S" sounded like an honour dished out to the upper classes from a King. Or a Benson & Hedges knockoff.

I spoke to him this morning. He sounds awful. Not deadly, or quite knocking at that door, but not too good.

A friend of mine, someone I've known for 20 years now, had a friend of his die of lung cancer a few weeks back. He was 28 years old.

He'd never smoked a cigarette in his life, and worked outdoors, in the leisure industry, farting about on boats and such.

And he was 28 years old.

My father was born in 1928. He's 80.

What may we glean from this?

...

...

Nothing.

Nothing at all.

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 LETER TOO THE ARTHER

An actual letter (handwritten) addressed to a (former) political figure and author. This is an accurate transcription of the layout, spelling and rather odd little P.S. at the end …

I bought the your book, “- ------ -- ------” for 50 cents, a couple of months ago from the ---------- Library, -------- they bought it on Dec 2005 $33. and were getting Rid of It, in Setp./Oct, 2008, the Book was in pristine Condition, obviously not many people borrowed it, if any.
I myself read other books that I bought at the same time,
By looking at the Cover, it gave me the impression it would be a Boring Political Spiel.
However when I started reading it, I was Very Pleasantly Surprised, I am at Page 141 Half way In my opinion this is a TERRIFIC Book (“You cannot judge a book by its cover” applies here)
I want to THANK YOU for your contribution to Bettering the Lives of the Working Class of Australia, Especially when you being from a Middle Class family could very well Ignored the Issue as most people in your position do. (THEM I calling them) You are an Inspiration to me, you have Done, what I was thinking Should Be Done (But I was to Busy Working), but did not have the Knowleg to Bring it to Reality.
May I sugest that you reissue the Book, but with a Cover showing 2 Beatyful NAKED Women, (I am serius), People will them open the book (expecting something else) and some may get interested and get the Book and Read It, they Should.
Men will have the Book on their Desk, just to look at the Pictures but they will read some of it. (otherwise is a case of “out of Sight Out of Mind”)

Regars, Best Wishes to You and Your Family
J--- C------
----------, VICTORIA

2 Good Looking NAKED MEN for Women and Homosexuals

It will go very well with YOUNG PEOPLE today, (Sex, Drugs, Rock & Roll)

DO A SMALL RUN and see how it goes, (they will sell like hot cakes) if you are SCARED.

Scared?

Yes.

Very.

SLIMEY EGG WHITES?

Only $9.95 and you need worry no more!!! ...

(Sourced from Living in Cinema)

FROZEN MEAL IN BOX

I’ve never eaten “Frozen Meal in Box”.

Ever.

By “Frozen Meal in Box”, I mean those things that are tricked up to look like a full-fledged proper meal with a proper name and all the trappings and accompaniments. Like “baked potato” and “fresh peas” and “creamy sauce” and such.

I’m not talking about stuff like frozen fish fillets or frozen pies, both of which I’ve eaten on occasions and, especially in the latter case, have always wondered why on earth I bothered to put the stove on in the first place.

For frozen pies are fucking horrible. You’ll never eat a frozen pie and say afterward, “Damn, that was good”. It’s as if someone’s deliberately gone out of their way to present you with a pastry that has the consistency of a Gingernut biscuit which has been soaked in an unidentifiable meat flavour for a few seconds and then baked on the lip of an active volcano for a week or three.

And the packets advertise contents like “tender chunks” or “herbs and spices” being present in the foodstuff. If your definition of a “chunk” is something the size and shape of a toenail cutting and to you “herbs and spices” means a midget pinch of white pepper, you might find this type of mulch to your liking.

To me, however, “herbs and spices” means you add the spice to the fucking food, not wave the stuff about over the top of the pot for an eighth of a nanosecond.

Anyway …

“Frozen Meal in Box”.

Yesterday, I saw some “Frozen Meal in Box” advertised in a Coles or Woolworths brochure, and they were on special for four bucks a pop. I thought to myself, “That’s pretty cheap. Maybe I should buy some “Frozen Meal in Box” and give it a try.”

And then I thought, “Hang on. Is this an indicator of something? If I begin to eat “Frozen Meal in Box”, does this mean that I will have started an irreversible decline into old age where, by the time I’m 70, dinner will mean a slice of toast with half a tomato and a glass of milk, because I just couldn’t be bothered anymore?”

That’s what happens when people get old, isn’t it? And I’m now officially middle-aged, aren’t I?

And now, after 30 years of mostly making my own meals, I find myself at a point in life where I’m beginning to think “Frozen Meal in Box” may be a plausible option for food?

It presents me with a vision of my life 12, 13 years from now when (I hope) I’m retired …

Where every morning at about 9.56am I shall shuffle from my one-room bedsit above a bloodhouse pub somewhere in Deliverance country down to the scarred, piss-and-vomit smelling public bar (for that is all I shall be able to afford) there to sit for 8 or 9 hours grunting meaningless familiarities to the bartender, nursing 3 or 4 schooners of basic beer over that period of time as my brain slowly turns to blancmange from the constant hum and throb of Fox Sports on the 478cm holographic plasma television that hangs above the Kettle Chip rack.

And, at the end of the day, before the bar I have now come to call “home” will be invaded by loud, gaudily dressed, rude young things and their horrible music, I shall shuffle back to my tiny little nook in shapeless trousers and shapeless shoes, a shapeless t-shirt flapping about my shapeless frame of shabby bones to plop into a shapeless chair, the highlight of my day being the keen anticipation felt for the next 25 minutes as I patiently wait for my special weekly treat of “Frozen Meal in Box” to unfreeze …

“Ooh, look dear, you can get 4 varieties for 10 dollars at Aldi this week …and they have some very good generic denture solvent for only $1.75 too.”

It’s life Ross, but not as you’ve known it.

Yet.

HUH?

You're giving me money?

Shit.

It goes on the credit card.

Thanks.

UPDATE: Well, that was a short-lived hope. Thanks a bunch, Malcolm.

Cunt.

TONGUE-IN-CHIEF TURNS 50 ...

Shit.

THE 1ST ANNUAL SMELLY TONGUES "SNIFF MY FINGER" AWARDS ...

... For the relentless pursuit and presentation of random stupidities that will forevermore stand as a testament to how the human race eventually managed to devolve back into a puddle of pond-scum ...

THE "SOMEBODY FAMOUS FARTED" AWARD (or, "WHY THE FUCK IS THIS NEWS?") goes to ...

The Sydney Morning Herald for it's breathless report about how, when Lindsay Lohan's girlfriend Samantha Ronson arrived at Sydney airport in September, 2008, she exited the terminal and lit a cigarette.

As the story is uncredited, the award, a Vegemite jar of famous people's farts will be presented to former SMH editor Alan Oakley. What a whiffy way to go, Alan, old chap! Well done, what!

THE "PHILLIP TRAVERS" AWARD for incomprehensible chatterbot claptrap comments on the intertubes goes to ...

What a fucking field of worthy contenders, ladies and gentlemen, and my-oh-my-oh-my, did this one put our judges to the test this year! Two of them stabbed themselves in their eye-sockets, and another ripped his own face off in indecision, so I guess that leaves the choice of this year's inaugural winner up to myself. It was a last minute entry, but by God, it worked for me ...

From Scott Weinberg's Cinematical review of Frank Miller's film "The Spirit", "Serge G" had this to say ...

"I'd like inform you that Scarlett Johansson (actress)actually is a clone from original person,who has nothing with acting career.Clone was created illegally using stolen biomaterial.Original Scarlett Galabekian last name is nice, CHRISTIAN young lady.I'll tell more,those clones(it's not only 1)made in GERMANY-world leader manufacturer of humans clones,it's in Ludwigshafen am Rhein,Rhineland-Palatinate,Mr.Helmut Kohl home town.You can't even imaging the scale of the cloning activity.But warning,H.Kohl staff strictly controlling their clones spreading around the world,they're NAZI type disciplined and mind controlled,be careful get close with clones you will be controlled too.Original family didn't authorize any activity with stolen biomaterials,no matter what form it was created in,it's all need to be back to original family control in Cedars-Sinai MedicalCenter in LA.Controlling clones is US military operation.Original Scarlett never was engaged,by the way"

Congratulations, Serge! Your award is this very special lead coated space bar which will be presented to you in the form of a severe beating about the head. Enjoy your brain hemorrhage, Serge! You've earned it, baby!

THE "PIERS 'I CAN'T SEE MY PENIS FROM UP HERE' AKERMAN" AWARD for services to sexual hysterics, pedophile paranoia and moral panic about pretty much anything ado about fucking and genitalia goes to ...

Jesus Christ on a cross upside-down and split up the arse with a eucalypt log, people! Where the hell can we start with this one?! Ladies and gentlemen, this was a field stuffed to the stocking top with notable nominees and, to be fair to all, no one individual stood above any other. And so, in a historical first for award programmes across the globe, we are proud to announce that everyone's a winner!

Yes-indeedy-do, this year's award will be jointly and proudly shared by ... Family First Senator Steve Fielding for suggesting that adults should be banned from viewing adult material on the internet; Miranda Devine, Hetty Johnston, Kevin Rudd and Morris Iemma for having dirty thoughts about an image of a nude adolescent and thinking everyone else on the planet is just as obsessed with sex as they are (the dirty little fuckers); and Senator Stephen Conroy just because the dumb little cunt wasn't scraped, bagged and flushed into a toilet back when he was a zygote.

Our hearty congratulations to all! Your prize will be awarded to you backstage by forty-seven Masai warriors on ice, all of whom are right now feverishly working their sixteen-inch weapons of mass destruction into a lather of rhythmically throbbing gristle on your behalf and for your pleasure.

And remember, folks, bukkake ain't another word for a bridge-game! (Please remember to collect your super-size sponges from the stage manager afore you venture back to the green room, ta).

And, last but certainly not least! May I have a drum-roll and a boom-tish, please!

THE SNIFF MY FINGER "GOLDEN JACKBOOT" AWARD!!

Generously sponsored by Odour Eaters, Stormfront and the German National Democratic Party, this year's winner is ...

ANDREW BOLT!

For his inimitable irrepressibility, snide insinuations and suspect views about anything that ain't white, ain't right and ain't about 120 years old, Andy was always a frontrunner favourite for this award and, by dang and dagnabbity goshdarn, he deserves the recognition!

Andrew's prize will be a fully escorted tour (courtesy of the N.D.P.) to Passau where he will be encouraged to slit the throat of a police officer while uttering the words, "Greetings from the Herald-Sun and Rupert Murdoch, you left-wing police pig" ...

It oughta be a doddle.

Thank you all for your attendance and attention and we look forward to doing it all again next year.

Oh, by the way, if there are any footballers in tonight's audience, try to avoid raping the ushers on your way out, boys ... I know it's a party habit thing with you guys, but it takes a helluva long time to get the stains out of the carpet ... Why don't you just go home and shove a wine glass in your girlfriend's face instead, you gutless little fuckers? You'll get a talk show out of it, I guarantee ...

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.

NOSES OFF

I couldn’t be bothered for the rest of the week.

I’m on annual leave from Friday until early January, so there won’t be nothin’ going on here but spam and dust bunnies and virtual tumbleweeds.

So, have a happy whatever and a merry thingymawhatsit …



From ?, Jane Siberry “Love Is Everything (Live)”

SWOON

Yeah, I know it’s a lazy excuse for a blog entry, but whaddya think you’re gonna do about it, huh?

Swoon.