July 21, 2006
Happy Day!
Today was a day of drawing happy things. Here's the two I like the most.
July 10, 2006
July 07, 2006
Aca-dreamia.
July 03, 2006
June 19, 2006
Abandoned Career Ideas.
June 16, 2006
Say what?
Chairman Of The Bored.
Fever dreams. I'm sick.
February 06, 2006
Today.
I've not been feeling myself lately, because things have been weird here, with stuff and nonsense flying about in every conceiveable direction. Today, the weather was nice - with thick, soggy clouds hanging overhead, and raindrops falling - but only when they really wanted to. So, I sat outside and thought I'd draw for a bit.
I felt a bit sad, so I thought I'd draw something to cheer myself up. Here's a picture of me beating that dickhead from The Cure at a game of Virtua Fighter 4.
I felt much better after that. So, I thought I'd draw another one. Here's Fogerty beating Nick Cave at Tony Hawk 3. Even though Tony Hawk 3 is pretty old, Fogerty still likes it better than the last few that have come out.
That felt better. Then, I drew cartoon of how I look today - but that didn't make me feel so good. Oh well.
January 30, 2006
Big Day Pout.
So, I went to the Big Day Out. I'm not proud of myself - and you should not be proud of me - but I went, and that's that. Don't go thinking that my actions weren't unpunished, though - as a receipt for my purchase of some Pure Rock Fury, I endured sore feet, sunburn, blisters, dust in the eyes, deafness, and the feeling of my spinal column being slowly transformed into a tubular flesh sack, stuffed with broken glass and missing baby teeth. By the end of the day, I was a mess - jabbering pointlessly in my own mind, while becoming increasingly disturbed by the simple grunting sounds that seemed to be all my mouth was capable of producing. But, that wasn't the greatest pain of all. No, dear reader - the absolute acme of my skyrocketing torment came not via the utter destruction of my body - but by something far more sinister. More disturbing. A moment of realisation that will haunt me to the grave.
I am old. Yesterday, I officially turned Fucking Old. And I can't say I liked it.
Oh? Wipe that smirk off your face. Save your bullshit 'But you're ONLY TWENTY SEVEN' speech. I've heard it before. And, we both know that it's a bunch of shit - so knock it off. I'm sorry, boys and girls, but if you're over 25 - you're old. You're not a kid anymore. You have advanced beyond the JJJ listening demographic - and this aligns you with the colostomy bag and blanket-over-the-legs set. You're no longer represented by Michael Tunn and Miff Whateverhernameis. Your mouthpieces are Neil Mitchel and Stan Zemanek. You're old - you old fucking bastard. And it sucks.
It certainly sucked yesterday, as I cast my eye around the frolicking, devil-may-care inheritors of the Yoof Generation. As SMS's were wildly sent, and cans of Red Bull were gleefully consumed, The Kids truly embraced their Day Of Rock - shirtless young men cavorted at full arousal with firm-breasted jailbait in hotpants, while mirror-shaded females bumped elbows with overweight goth chicks, who tongued their lip piercings feverishly in the hot sun, yanking their AFI and NIN shirts out of their wetly folded bellies, while smiling knowingly at their knee-high leather boots, which only just managed to conceal a glimpse of fishnet, riding high upon grey, veiny thighs.
But, that wasn't all. Fauxhawks sat precariously upon bronzed skulls, glowing proudly in their blonde-tipped glory, while tattoos of chinese symbols adorned lower-back after lower-back. Every conceiveable body part was pierced somewhere on the grounds - organs both external and internal being forced to accomodate loops of silver and gold, while earlobes were stretched to comically exaggerated proportions by black plastic rings, the skin red and shiny. Bubbly blondes stood next to mopey brunettes, and mopey blondes stood next to bubbly brunettes, united by their Green Day shirts and genital-hugging hotpants, as their boyfriends Stevo and Wayne paid an entire month's worth of KFC earnings for a plastic cup full of beer each, which they tapped together in a show of rock and roll solidarity, their winning smiles sitting beneath their oversized sunglasses, shirts tied around their waists, as they chortled devilishly over the sex they were undoubtedly going to enjoy after dark.
And the lower denizens of the freak heirarchy showed their pierced and tattooed faces for their once-yearly trek out of St. Andrews, as wildly oversized plumes of thick, stinky dreadlocks exploded like phallic totems out of the backs of inked and shaven skulls. Beaded and plaitted ropes of tick-infested hair hung over the sweating, pimply shoulders of hemp-loving, VW Microbus driving, Ironically-Captioned-T-Shirt-Sporting advocates of the communal lifestyle, who rode the crest of acid that coursed through their veins, shooting up and down their arms and legs as it marinated their brains in a twisted ocean of colours and sounds, heightened by the cacophony of sound that erupted from the many stages. Eyeliner was thickly applied, encircling eyes that housed pupils that were either extremely dilated or extremely shrunken, floating like marbles in a fishtank over pierced and powdered noses. The ubiquitous Redder-Than-Red lipstick was painted over cracked and dry lips, and would undoubtedly leave telltale smears on the ripely-scented genitals of their dreadlocked partner - a partner that they knew they'd truly love, ever since spying each other at the Vegan Collective, while purchasing that month's mung beans.
And then, there was me. Broken, battered, smelly, ancient me. With my haggard hands - paper-like skin covering nets of blue and purple veins, wrapped around chalky, calcified bone. Pasty bulbs of blubber looped without dignity from my cracked and disjointed ribcage. My spine, long having left the inside of my body, exploded outward from my back, in a hair-lined festival of scratched, chipped bone, pus-filled, reddening flesh, and the occasional dribble of thick, syrupy spinal fluid. Eyes pale, hair awry, legs faltering, penis broken, and from my mouth - nothing but the smell of rotting organs, slowly transforming into sacks of purplish goo, combined with wordless squeaks and squawks - shapeless sounds having long since taken the place of words. I was a shambling, depraved parody of humanity - and on top of all this, it was hot. And I was thirsty.
I want you to cast your mind back ten years ago, and consider a time when I wasn't so bitter and twisted by self-parodying levels of 'Is He Serious'-esque hatred and snotty egocentricity. A time before university. Before 'writing'. Before anything. A time when I was nothing more than a little nobody - a worm writhing helplessly on the belly of the beast known as the Alternative Nation. These were trying days, friends. Kurt Cobain was now nothing more than a headless corpse, a few of his perfect teeth embedded in the wall of his Aberdeen greenhouse, surrounded by a Rorschach-esque splatter of blood, blone, brain, and hair. The Spice Girls were riding high on the charts, with their zippy brand of effervescent, ironic pop propelling a marketing machine modelled largely on the success of KISS. The alt-rock phenomena had come to a close, with the shuddering, heaving bowels of MTV finally managing to excrete a few final lumps of musical effluvia in the form of Angsty-Teen mainstays Nine Inch Nails and the Smashing Pumpkins - both of whom were enjoying mainstream success as they taught middle-class white kids the most important lesson of all - if you have nothing to be miserable about, make something up.
But, I wasn't part of any of it. Not for me, the joys of late-night JJJ sessions around the wireless, in a room covered in posters of Rage Against The Machine and The Crow. No, I was too busy beginning my secondary career as a truly obnoxious musical snob. I spent months practising my perfect 'Tch!' sound in the mirror, and listening to Led Zeppelin. Somewhere over the course of this period, someone took a look at one of the little stories I would write from time to time, and said 'These are pretty good. You should study english.' Of course, to my ears this was nothing but queer shit, and I was going to let nothing put me off my chosen career - that of an international mercenary and soldier of fortune.
My point, presumably bored reader, is that I felt a great amount of self-pity as I stared across the Big Day Out festival grounds. I wished that I was 17 again, and that I'd had that kind of lifestyle. I may have just spent the last few paragraphs taking the piss, and shamelessly making fun of the Yoof, but I can admit that it's only because of complete and total jealousy. There are moments, dear reader, where I think about how awful my time as a late-teen was, and how I knew literally nobody - I never went out anywhere, I had no friends, and I barely left the house. Of course, that all changed a few years later, after I met a sheep-haired A/V technician named Iain - but that's a story for another time.
Sitting with the unstoppably flamboyant KathyrnOh, I felt a sting of jealousy. Looking around at these young boys and girls - with their mobile phones and their band shirts, all hugging each other and pouring water over each other, and getting into typical teen hijinks, I became thoroughly depressed - and unnerved by the fact that as a crusty old coot, I even care. After all, we're talking about ten years ago. I don't really have an excuse. I know that it's sad and pathetic - but, who cares? I found myself lamenting the passing of a youth I never enjoyed. I just hope that these kids can look back fondly on 2006, after they begin their Business Administration degrees.
What? Oh, the music.
Sleater-Kinney were great. Edgy, chick rock - with the guitarist pulling out the leg kicks and other Jimmy Page-inspired tomfoolery. Not being the owner of a vagina, I am incapable of maximising my enjoyment of a band like this - but, dear reader, I assure you that I tried my best.
Henry Rollins was Henry Rollins - and Henry Rollins is great. Although there was a brief spike of idiocy as he explained to us that the Ramones can bring about world peace, I found his set oddly moving. With his clumsy elegance, Rollins speaks from the heart - to the mind. Unfortunately, the crowd were less than accomodating, and I wished that Rollins would jump down and start punching people in the face - but it wasn't to be.
The spirit of Nick Cave used the vessel of Tex Perkins to fill the RRR tent with bluesy, heroin-laced toasts to self-destructive hedonism and degenerate idolatry. The Beasts Of Bourbon are a great band - I'd never seen them live before, and I was amazed at how powerful they were. Their sound is incredibly muscular, and Tex Perkins fills the role of the front man with aplomb, providing a central image to the performance that maximises the sexuality and sense of theatrical danger that his sensually elastic body is capable of generating. He even made fun of the death of Michael Hutchence, which I was hugely appreciative of after spending the last few weeks revisitng the INXS back catalogue and coming to the conclusion that - with the exception of a few tracks - they were uniformly fucking shit. How Tex Perkins never became an intenational star, I'll never know. He is like Jim Morrison with testicles.
It was at this point that my spinal column was sending urgent messages to my brain, informing it that where bone and flesh once sat, there was nothing more than a jigsaw puzzle of shattered body parts, floating in a dirty, diseased sea of gelatine and broken glass. To add insult to injury, I was thirsty like the wolf - so, I sent my faithful Girl Friday KathrynOh to fill up my water bottle while she filled hers, so that I could collapse pathetically against a cyclone fence.
But, I was about to be blessed. For, as I stared up and through the clouds of pain, what did I see grinning down at me?
Why, could it have been Desci? Blogging uber-celebrity and reticent figurehead of the gothic lifestyle?
It absolutely was. And I felt a little bit ashamed of myself. After all, we are talking about a winner of "BEST BLOG EVAR!!1!" or some shit, and I had neither gold doubloons with which to pay homage to her, nor rose petals to sprinkle on the ground beneath her feet, as she observed the 'rock combos' with regal authority.
So, I called her a nerd for winning blog awards, and then KathrynOh returned, and they talked about something or other - by this point, I was barely conscious, and I was busy stocking up my mental and physical energies for the gruelling brutality that I was about to endure.
It was time to bid adieu to Australia's official 'bestest bloggar lolz', and it was time to come face to face with one James Jewel Osterberg - better known to posers like yourself as Iggy Pop.
For those of you who don't know about this most sinewy of rock icons, Iggy Pop and The Stooges are one of those bands that cunts like Thurston Moore really, really like. Their music is loud and primitive, a sort of proto-punk cacophony that sounds very, very good when you're wasted. In recent years, The Stooges have deposed The Velvet Underground as the ultimate in hipster masturbatory icons - and are now enjoying a resurgence as 'Band Most People Own The T-Shirt Of While Never Actually Hearing Any Of The Albums'. The Kids love The Stooges because they are told to, and The Adults love The Stooges because they were told to - years ago.
So it came to pass that the ampitheatre was packed to the gills with rabid, out-of-control Yoof, slavering madly and chomping at the bit to get a glimpse of the one man who can make all their Hip Credential dreams come true. And then, he was there - the man who would be Pop - dancing and shucking and jiving, howling like a reject from the island of Dr. Moreau - a composite beast, with lungs packed full of a catalogue of animal sounds that could be blended into new, terrifying sculptures. He danced. He swore. He did 'I Wanna Be Your Dog' twice. The girl behind me with the large breasts went apeshit, screaming like a maniacal banshee, and pressing her hot, sweaty body against me - causing my penis to rocket back into pathetic life. Fortunately, even at full arousal, I am so unimpressive that even as I ground my pelvis against the back of the guy in front of me, he noticed absolutely nothing. The blood was sucked out of my genitals, however, when the redhead announced that she'd just pissed herself, and I returend to my normal, near-invisible flaccid state.
The White Stripes appeared to play us some music to go home to - but it would only have been appropriate if 'home' was a place that involved by anally raped by a horse. The White Stripes are fucking horrible - a truly incompetent, pretentious joke of a band. Nice tits on the drummer - that much is a given - but from a musical standpoint, they are the sonic equivalent of an overweight drunk holding me down and moving his bowels into my ears after a night of beer and curry. By this point, my pelvis had torn itself free of my body, dashing away across the grass - and was last seen attempting to pick up a chick at the slurpee stand. My feet were nothing more than lacerated chunks of blood and raw meat, gore literally flowing over the lip of my Blundstones, leaving a snail-trail of crimson in my wake. The White Stripes droned on, their bassless drivel causing a latent anureyism in my brain to explode, and I fell to the ground, screaming as blood spewed out of my nostrils. I felt myself losing control of my bladder and bowels, and I howled in shame and agony - yet, still, the band wouldn't stop playing their horrible, horrible music.
And then, it was over. A gaggle of girls were pulled off a stand by security, and were dragged away screaming and clawing the earth. A young bogan ran a hand through his frosted hair, and yanked his wraparound shades from his face, sucking the last few drops of beer from the plastic cup, which he crushed and tossed over his shoulder. A vegan girl threw a heavy dread over her shoulder, her Clockwork Orange-inspired eye makeup having long since been rubbed away, and she took her boyfriend's hand in hers, squeezing the dirt on the skin between them, as he dropped the last few embers of their roach on the ground, grinding it beneath a filthy Converse one-star. A group of teenagers talked about how tired they were going to be when they returned to Box Hill North Secondary on Monday morning, and Mazzy texted Scotty, because the Mars Volta were fully sick.
In the distance, a single, solitary goth girl pulled her black backpack on, as her thick legs sweated inside their black lace stockings, and she fingered her lip piercing nervously, looking over her shoulder, and wondering if Jameo - that surfie looking boy who spent the day with Chrissie and Cindy - could ever see through her thick mascara and black lipstick, and could ever truly love her. She lit an Alpine and headed for the train station. This was a question that only her Livejournal could answer.
And I? I headed back to the Torana with KathrynOh. But, she looked different, somehow. Younger. Happier. A a woman riding on a wave of euphoria, who gushed and jabbered about the virtues of the Stooges, in a voice that made her sound like a teenager again. It was the effect I had desired, so badly, but I couldn't quite grasp. For KathrynOh, the day had energised and reconfirmed her love of live music, and of the spirit of Rawk that so infects us all. I felt it too - particularly when watching Tex Perkins - but, at the same time, there was a sense of melancholy there, as I watched the kids having their minds blown for the first time, and I wished that I could go back in time and be one of them.
But, for KathrynOh - the day had turned her into a teenage girl, effortlessly gushing and gleefully grinning through a sermon on the glory and majesty of Iggy and the Stooges. And it was a nice thing to listen to on the way home.
January 28, 2006
Goose Rider meets Chainsaw.
Goose Rider, from Marvel Tails #1, meeting Chainsaw. Chainsaw assures the Goose-Creature that he will soon meet his doom.
January 03, 2006
Photographs And Memories.
Tonight, Bronnie jumped up on the couch and put her head on her paws, looking up at me with her big, sad eyes.
"What are you doing?" she asked, as I pulled the quilt up a little further, covering my feet.
"Nothing." I said. But she knew I was lying.
"Come on, David. There's something wrong. I can always tell when there's something wrong. I sleep under your bed, for chrissake. You can't forge a tighter bond between man and hound."
"Well.. I don't know if I should tell you.. you might think I'm going a little crazy."
Bronnie smiled, twitching her ear softly.
"I already think you're crazy. You might as well tell me."
I shrugged, pointing at the mantlepiece.
"Look at that."
"Look at what?"
"The photo."
Bronnie squinted in the direction of my finger. In the distance, sitting proudly up on the mantlepiece above the fireplace, in our little house in Greensborough, was a photo. It was my mother, sat next to my grandmother, who peered groggily out of the frame.
"Do you see it? Look closely."
"It's a photo." Bronnie said, tilting her head slightly to the side.
"It's faded."
Bronnie rolled her eyes.
"Photos fade, David. There's nothing strange about that."
I rose and took the photo down, bringing it over to where we sat.
"Look closely. It's not just that it's faded. Can't you see?"
Bronnie peered at the picture, then her eyes grew wide.
"Only your grandma is faded." she said quietly. "I can barely see her."
"Exactly. Yet, Mum looks the same as always."
Bronnie gulped.
"It's got to be a freak. I'm sure that it is nothing to worry about. The photo must have been printed badly."
I shook my head.
"I don't think so. It's happening everywhere."
I stood and walked around the house, picking up a bunch of framed photographs. One from the kitchen, hanging on the wall. One from the stand in the hallways. All of them with Grandma.
Bronnie watched me closely as I sat down next to her, and laid the photos out in front of us.
"Look. See? It's the same everywhere."
And, sure enough, it was. A photo of my cousin and my grandma from her last Christmas - with her sad, lost face almost faded from view, leaving nothing on the print but a few wisps of colour, inside a white sihlouette. Our family, standing in their kitchen, were just as they were in 1985 - except for the familiar white sihlouette where my grandma once stood. And, sitting with my Mum in our back room, the same again - my mother's arm was draped around a white apparition, laced with flakes of colour where Grandma once sat.
"I don't know what to say." Bronnie breathed, shaking her head. "I've never seen anything like it."
"Neither have I."
We rose and wandered outside, sitting on the warm, wet grass of the back garden. I looked up, pointing.
"Look at the moon."
Bronnie looked, and smiled.
A beautiful, glistening crescent moon had risen gracefully into the sky over Greensborough, hanging in the cobalt blue background like a hooked jewel. And we sat there, with the flickering of our neighbours party lights behind us, staring quietly into the starless space.
"Grandma died two years ago - today." I said.
"Oh."
We didn't say anything for a while.
"I'm sorry." Bronnie finally muttered, pawing a stick.
"For what? You didn't kill her."
"I know. But, still. I'm sorry."
I shrugged.
"I've noticed it for a while. But, I didn't want to say anything. About the photos."
Bronnie nodded.
"After all," I continued, "I don't want to sound crazy. It's pretty weird, isn't it?"
"Sort of. I guess so."
I wrote about Grandma, on this very site last year, but that was a long time ago. A year is a lifetime, even though it will slip by in a snap of the fingers. Could it be two years already?
"Do you know what's strange about people dying?" I said, leaning back on my hands.
"What's that?"
"You think people only die the once. They don't. They die over and over and over again."
"How do you mean?"
I sighed.
"They die the first time. And then, as time passes, first their voice dies, then their body dies, then their face dies. In the end, it's like they were never born. There's nothing left of them. Just a white space in a photograph where they used to be."
Bronnie sniffled. "I never thought of it like that."
"I can't remember what she looked like with the same clarity. I think about it, and even though I knew her for years and years and years, it is harder and harder these days to conjure up a picture of her in my head. Memories are like icicles - and over time, the heat of your body simply melts them away."
A cloud bobbed gently through the sky, and Bronnie pointed at it.
"Look up there. What do you see in the clouds?" she asked, grinning.
I squinted, rubbing the lenses of my glasses with balled fists.
"I see a dragon. His jaws are open, and he's breathing fire."
Bronnie flinched. "I don't see that at all."
"Well, what do you see?"
"I see a devil, with horns and a fork. Can't you see him? Right there."
It's not that I didn't want to see it. I just couldn't. I saw my dragon, and that was that.
Bronnie shrugged. "It's funny how we can look at the same thing, but see totally different things, isn't it?"
"I guess it is."
We sat for a while.
"It's not fair, is it?" Bronnie exclaimed jarringly.
"What?"
"It's not fair that people leave the way they do. You put so much effort and energy into them, and they just up and vanish. One way or another."
She was right, of course.
"I suppose so, Bronnie. It's funny - I feel like this about a lot of people."
"You do?"
"Uh-huh. I used to have friends from uni that I was close to. They've all gone now, though. I think about them sometimes."
"Where did they go?"
I snorted. "Who knows? I think they just found me difficult to be around, eventually."
Bronnie rolled her eyes. "Surprise, surprise."
"Watch it." I growled, glaring at her. She giggled sheepishly.
"The point is - a lot of photos are fading. Of people I used to know. I can't say I like it very much. I miss people, sometimes."
Bronnie stood up, pawing a bug gently.
"Nothing stops pictures from fading, David. And nothing lasts forever - not friendships, nor relationships, nor people."
"I know that." I said, "I just don't think that it's fair."
"It isn't."
I reached over and began to scratch behind Bronnie's ears. She slumped downward and closed her eyes.
"Mmm. That's nice."
"I just wish there was a way I could fix it, Bronnie. I wish there was something I could do."
"Go and get a photo." Bronnie said dreamily, "Bring it out here."
"What for?"
"Just do it."
I shrugged, walking inside - up the steep, wooden steps, and beneath the decking, wrapped in blinking christmas lights. I returned with a photo of Grandma, faded and blotchy.
"Sit down." Bronnie said.
So, I sat down next to her, with the photo in my hands.
"Two years ago today, huh?"
I nodded.
"I can fix your photo for you."
"You can?" I said.
Bronnie nodded her head, reaching up and resting her chin on my knee.
She closed her eyes, and sighed deeply.
"Tell me about your Grandma."
I looked at her for a moment, opening my mouth to speak. But, I didn't know what to say.
And then, without even thinking, I did as I was told. I told her about what a funny, clever, passionate woman my Grandma was, and how sometimes - late at night - when nobody was around, I really missed her.
And as a beautiful crescent moon hung over Greensborough, in a cobalt sea of blue, we watched the photo being restored to colour.
Scared Single.
Here's another thing that's getting on my nerves lately. Predatory, lizard-lipped women seem to be swooping down left and right and are dragging my soldiers away to new, terrifying picket-fence lives.
Yeah, you know what I'm talking about. I'm talking about the Big R. Relationships.
People in relationships are always smug. There's a completely simple reason for this - and don't you go thinking it has anything to do with 'love' or 'contentment' or any hippie shit like that. The reason that people in relationships suddenly develop the world's broadest shit-eating grins is that when they're sitting in front of the wireless of an evening, and they start to feel that rumble in their trousers when an AAMI commercial plays, they don't have to scuttle away to their lairs like horny sea snakes. They simply have to turn to their significant other, grab their crotch, and yell 'How's about some of this, then?' Invariably, their needs will be serviced, and they won't have to waste time trying to get the damned internet to work properly in their pursuit of pornography - leaving them with plenty of latitude to finish watching T.V.
Smug wankers.
After all, every relationship in the world is phoney. We are not meant to like anyone as much as people profess to. Listen, I know a lot of people in 'relationships' at the moment - and the one thing none of them are willing to admit is that, deep down, they like a whole lot of other things a lot more than their partner. Like their T.V, for instance. Or the unopened bag of Twisties that's in the pantry. The difference is, you can't fuck either of these things.
My mother has been on this rap as of late. Every time I let my guard down and speak to her in a language that doesn't involve grunting, she starts in on me:
'So, when are YOU going to find a nice girl?'
'I don't want a nice girl.'
'Oh, come on. Yes, you do.'
'No, really. I don't. I hate girls.'
'You're not turning queer, are you?'
'No. I hate everybody. I hate you. Fuck off and leave me alone.'
'Aww. Isn't he cute? So, when are you going to meet a nice girl?'
Variations of this take place until I can stand it no more, and I roundhouse kick her in the face with knives strapped to my foot.
People refuse to believe that not being single is disgusting. They freak out and begin to urinate uncontrollably if you tell them that you'd rather eat mule shit than have to listen to someone yammering in your ear all day and all night about your 'feelings'. Jesus. Shut uuuuuuup. I have known the acid bath of the relationship - and every time, it becomes more and more obvious to me that I should dig a moat around my house and fill it with pirahna-infested diarrhea.
You know those movies from the 80's, where they took a bunch of kids from da ghetto, and they sent them to prison for a day so that a huge guy with a pack of cigarettes in his sleeve could yell at them until they cried? They were called 'Scared Straight', and they were designed to teach da yoof that prison is not cool, yo - no matter what Tupac thinks. I'm gonna produce a video along the same lines, and I'm gonna call it 'Scared Single'. Here's what it'll consist of:
The first scene will involve a broken, pasty-skinned shell of a man, lying in a double bed, weeping because he hasn't watched any decent T.V in twenty years. We'll pull the camera back to reveal his wife shouting at him about her feelings through a megaphone. Then, he'll pull out a revolver, and will shoot himself.
Next, there will be a time-lapse sequence of an awesome house being transformed into Girlfriendland. You will see, over a sped-up one year period, as the dirty calendars, inflatable dolls, rotting bits of pizza on the floor, and piled up slasher/porno flicks on top of the T.V are slowly replaced by attractive drapes, reupholstered couches, photos of inanely grinning family members, and copies of 'Beaches' and 'Steel Magnolias'. The final shot will be of the house exploding in slow motion, a'la 'Zabriskie Point', with the burning symbols of emasculation sailing through the air.
Next, there will be a montage of our 'partner', as he wanders the streets, looking at the things life is denying him. To the tune of 'Everybody Hurts', he will walk past the MCG - as a group of young animals drunkenly stumble past him, vomiting on his shoes. He'll walk sadly past a titty bar, and will wipe a tear from his eye. He'll look up at a theatre marquee showing 'BRUTAL DEATH MASSACRE WITH NUDITY PART VII', and will bump into a crew of gnarly men stumbling out drunkenly, who will vomit down his back.
Then, we will see him eating vegetarian food and drinking non-alcoholic wines, while his girlfriend tells him about how Mandy the new girl at work really doesn't look good with her hair that colour, and blah blah, I don't think much of that, blah blah. He will look out the window at his neighbour, who is in his underwear, flipping a pepper steak on the bar-b-que, while a pair of hot lesbians writhe in a pit of jelly. The neighbour will give him the thumbs up, and he will respond by staring past his wife's head, to the bottles of sleeping tablets that sit in front of the knife rack and the clown photos.
A soft-focus montage will follow, set to 'The Way We Were', as he looks back over his life. The shots will include:
1. His girlfriend yelling at him.
2. His girlfriend pointing at the toilet and yelling at him.
3. His girlfriend hitting him with a rolled up newspaper.
4. An elegant night-shot of him standing in front of a burning steel barrel, with tears running down his face, as his girlfriend throws his dirty books into the flames.
5. A time-lapse shot of his skin visibly aging and his hair turning grey and falling out as he spends every weekend being dragged around the shops.
6. His girlfriend yelling at him some more.
7. Him, sitting atop a craggy mountaintop, like the majestic creature of prey that he is - with the rain lashing his face, and a determined look on his brow - until his girlfriend passes a jar of pickles to him from out of frame and yells at him to open it. When he takes more than two nanoseconds, she hits him with a shovel.
8. His tears, pouring from his eyes, as he watches 'Ghost' again. They are both crying - but obviously for different reasons.
9. Him, crawling across the floor to the toilet and vomiting, after selling himself out for the sex that he thought he so desperately craved. When some puke splashes on the floor, his girlfriend throws a brick at him, which bounces off the back of his head.
10. A long shot of the two of them walking down the street, arm in arm. She runs off to press her face against the glass of a jewellery store, while he pauses - looking up. He is standing in front of a gunsmith's. He smiles to the camera, for the first time, and nods.
The final shot will be framed with monolithic simplicity, in the best Kubrickian mode, as we fill the frame with his crazed, penetrating eyes. We hear him being screamed at to come and listen to his girlfriend talk about her feelings, but instead, he places both barrels of a shotgun in his mouth, and pulls the trigger. Blood and brain splatter across the wall behind him. Cut to black.
I do this to help - rather than hinder - the happiness of people everywhere.
Dudes get all lame when they're going out with some broad. It's totally pathetic. How many times have you wanted to cut off some moron's head when he gushes about how he 'loves his girlfriend', and how 'she is so perfect for me'. Jesus, how lame. Do you see me saying shit like "I love my xbox so much. It is modded. It is so perfect. I love it."? Of course you don't. I have too much self-respect for such asinine behaviour.
Chicks get freaky when they find out that some dude is willing to sell-out his wiser principles for a slice of poontang, as well. They start referring to their 'Boyfriend' constantly. Holy shit. It drives me up the fucking wall. Ever had a conversation like this?
"So, I went out the other day, and I threw a brick through this dude's window, and -"
"My boyfriend says that the windows in my house are beautiful."
"Uh - yeah. So, anyway - I jumped inside and pulled out my butterfly knife, and -"
"My boyfriend says that I'm beautiful like a butterfly."
"Right. So, I scream out "Everybody get on the fucking floor, or I'll -"
"My boyfriend says that I floored him the first time we met."
"Yeah. Ahuh. So, this guy gave me attitude, so I punched him in the nuts, and -"
"My boyfriend says that his nuts are for me to play with - and nobody else. Tee hee!"
"I see."
And so on, and so on, and so on. It's like, when someone is in a relationship, they have a deep desire to remind you of that fact every fucking second. Every motherfucking thing they say has to revolve around their insignificant other, as though the fact that you've managed to slap your genitals against another living thing is something we should all give a shit about. Fuck you, and fuck your genitals. Nobody cares.
People think that couples are 'cute'.
'Oh, don't they look cute?'
No, they don't fucking look cute. They look doomed. I hate it when people start waxing romantic every time they see a pair of the walking dead shambling down the street, rubbing armpit sweat all over one another. I see a couple, and I don't think 'Aw, ain't that cute?'
I think 'Single file, you selfish cunts. Other people need to use the fucking footpath - and I'm a big fat fuck, so I need more space than usual. Out of the way.'
What these morons fail to realise is that single life is fucking awesome. Not for the world would I give up being single. I don't care that I don't get to thrust my deformed genitals against anything with a pulse - the multitude of other cool things I get to indulge in far outweighs the benefits of your so-called 'orgasm'. For instance, when I go to bed at night, I don't have to be in total silence - or, at best, listening to new-age relation music. I can crank up the stereo and kick out the jams, unconscious-style, to Blue Oyster Cult and Warrant. I can wander around in my semen-encrusted underpants, blowing my nose on my hands and wiping it on the furniture, and nobody's going to stop me. I can vomit on myself and go to bed without a shower with no complaints. I can drive like a moron on the freeway without some nagging voice going 'You're not impressing anyone, you know.'
Endless, endless pleasures - a dizzying cornucopia of sensual delights which overload the brain. And - best of all - they can all be done alone. Yeah, you heard me. Alone. Alone, with a copy of 'Razzle' and some pumping tunes.
So, for 2006, everyone just shut the fuck up about their 'relationships'. Nobody cares. Don't write about 'your boyfriend', don't talk to me about 'your girlfriend', and if at all possible - do the silly dance at the end of a rope. Nobody cares 'how well it's going'. Nobody cares about your pissy little 'anniversaries'. Nobody gives a wet shit about 'your first fight'. Dear god, nobody cares about your sex life. Basically, nobody cares about you - so shut up.
Fuck your relationships. Single life rules.
January 01, 2006
New Year's Grieve
Like a drunken farmer squeezing off a load of buckshot into the dying brain of a sick cow that he never particularly liked much anyway, 2005 was put out of its misery last night, with the screaming, afterbirth-encrusted foetus of 2006 emering from between the spread, blood-smeared thighs of Mother Time. Somehow, the little maggot managed to dodge my coathanger, broken bottle, and rubbing alcohol - and instead of the apocalyptic vortex of biblical fire that I have so been praying for, instead, 2006 saw a beery entry into our collective chronology, and I saw myself at the Tote - with the ever-lovely, ever-faithful, ever-dependable Jazzy Kath on one of the hottest days yet recorded - sweating and sweltering and swatting and swearing as I was enveloped in a crowd of nasally pierced, hard rocking freaks.
Because, after all, The Spazzys saw me through 2005 - as Van Halen was my soundtrack for complete and total mental collapse in 2004, The Spazzys chronicled my phoenix-like ascention out of the flames of my own ennui and self-loathing, as I soared across the skies of Greensborough, trailing fire and ice from my razor-sharp talons. Yes, in the post-banged up fender-era, The Spazzys were constantly to be heard wafting from the windows of the old Torana, as I lumbered painfully across the shattered-dreams wasteland of Melbourne, my prow pointed determinedly towards an uncertain future. Yet, despite all common sense suggesting that it is ludicrous for me - beautiful, cosmopolitan, educated, cultured me - to be listening to such trivial nonsense as The Spazzys, I couldn't help but submit to their passionate siren's song of Phil Spector-meets-The Ramones postmodern goodness.
Then again, that's not to say that I don't resent The Spazzys. I remember seeing them, so many years ago, at the Big Day Out - and in my deranged, sunstroke-addled haze of kaleidoscopic delusions, I managed to hobble beneath a table in the very salubrious beer garden at the Melbourne Showgrounds, and in a shaky hand, I wrote very simply on a sheet of notepaper:
I then folded said piece of paper up and hid it in my shoe for many, many months. The Spazzys are one of the finest bands that this loathsome, self-fellating city has ever produced, and 'Aloha! Go Bananas!' is undoubtedly one of the finest albums that this country has ever produced. That being said, I can't help but shake the feeling that the girls would probably be complete and utter bitches.
There's nothing wrong with that. After all, Roger Waters is a complete and total shithead, but that doesn't always detract from my admiration and love of the man.
Oh, fine. I'll come clean, and I'll tell you a story.
So, I ended up at a pub on Brunswick Street one night - I can't remember which one - and The Spazzys were hosting a night of Rawk Trivia. This sounded like the shit, so I scraped old Ellie Mae up off the floor, and bundled her into the Torana. I loved 'Aloha! Go Bananas!', but I was somewhat reticent to get quite as up close and personal with the girls as I was about to. After all, people in bands are almost universally human trash of the worst kind. Exceptions to this rule include Bruce Springsteen, Grace Slick, David Lee Roth, Bruce Dickinson, and that guy from Dokken. Everyone else sucks. And, the odds were certainly stacked against our Spazzy heroes. We entered the pub, waited for the night to begin, and - do you know what? Imagine my complete and total surprise when...
... they really hated me. See, the room was full of hip, swinging, rock and rolling kinds of Brunswick Street cats - who all have seen a member of the opposite sex naked in the last five years, and who all wear Ramones shirts, and who all thought 'The Proposition' was a good movie, instead of a steaming lump of self-indulgent shit. I was completely and totally out of my depth, socially, and my young charge Ellie Mae did as Ellie Mae does, which is to make a beeline for the bar and begin chugging as much red wine as the bar has stocked. The Spazzys, though, couldn't have been less impressed if I'd shown up, taken a dump on the floor, and proceeded to put a leash on it, taking it to the bar for a drink and a bowl of pork rinds. As I crashed about gracelessly in my capped workboots and smelly overcoat, strings of thick, cloudy saliva hanging in ropes from my blubbery, cracked lips, they looked at me as though I was nothing more than an overturned bucket of discarded genetic material, harvested from a sick, cancerous billy goat. The Spazzys wanted me to die with total and complete zest, even after I got an obscure question about P.J Soles' role in 'Rock And Roll High School' right - which I thought would earn me at least a few brownie points. When we won our round, our round simply ceased to come up in the official evening's records - making space for hairier things to come, in the form of bearded, deeply trendy boys in emo glasses, who held court with zippy quips and deft displays of their knowledge of popular culture, while I stood in the corner with a glass of flat coke and tried to look inconspicuous. And then, it was over - and I slinked away into the cold night air, carrying the wildly jabbering Ellen Mae, who blasted me with gusts of boozy breath, and rattled on about her 'sexual needs'.
As each year passes, I can feel it. Can't you? Just beneath the skin. A twinge. An itch. Something you can't scratch - but if you could, you'd scratch it until your fingernails were worn down to the stumps. Do you know what it is? It is your bones slowly calcifying as the days, and months, and years, and decades rack up, leaving their scars on your clock, and bloating your body with a disease - the disease of festering age. And last night, as I stood in front of the stage at the Tote, and I watched The Spazzys playing such a wonderful, potent set - above the din of the crowd, and the slashing guitar chords, and the traffic, and the fireworks, I could still hear it. I could hear the sound of my bones changing. Deep inside each bone, I could hear the crackling sound, as spiderwebs of hairline fissures exploded from the core, spreading their fingers outward, and clawing determinedly to the surface. As I looked around at the pulsating whirlpool of sweat-drenched bodies, I could feel each sliver of bone peeling away from the root, spearing into the soft honeycomb of flesh, causing pinprick rivulets of blood to blossom out into the liquid internals of my body. I could imagine my eyes filling with blood, as the band thrashed away madly - they would eventually explode outward, drenching the punters in front of my in a shower of blood, jelly, and shredded eye matter. I could almost taste the geyser of blood and stomach acid that would vault up my oesophagus, drenching the people in front of me, as the band played, waist-deep in an ever-rising ocean of blood, gore, and fragmented bone - courtesy of my slowly disintegrating body.
I don't want to meet The Spazzys. I don't want to know what they think of me, or how I may or may not repulse them. It is a difficult thing for a lad of my age to acknowledge his age - as I whirl around and around on the ball of my heel, screaming wordlessly with tears in my eyes, I see nothing but doors shutting where they once were opening, and so, I envy the youth and vitality of The Spazzys. The road in front of The Spazzys is one full of sunshine, and the endless expanse of tarmac that allows one to - as Jackson Browne once said - 'look out at the road rushin' beneath my wheels, I don't know how to tell you all just how crazy this life feels'. While I, on the other hand, leave nothing but an endless litter of twisted, rotting corpses in my wake, their flesh shredded by the beaks of the buzzards that swoop down, feasting on rotting, bloated entrails of the fallen and felled.
This year has been a fucking bastard of epic proportions. While not being as laced with insanity and mind-numbing loathing as 2004, it has been a year which sank down, down, downward, like a boulder chained to the feet of Jeff Buckley in deep water - and then, suddenly, at the last moment shot upward. 2005 was truly 'The Empire Strikes Back' of the 2004-2006 trilogy. It was a year that had no end, and it was a year that ended in a squirming nest of cliffhangers. It ended with my hand cut off, rescued by Lando Calrissian, after finding out that Darth Vader was my father, while drawing a lot of pictures of my dog.
I like The Spazzys so much because they're a great band - which is evident to anyone who has seen them play - but, I also like them because there's something unashamedly joyous about them. I am sick of listening to pasty-faced losers whining about how nobody likes them. If I want to hear that shit, I'll record myself talking at any given moment of my life. The Spazzys counteract the noxious bile that I generally like to gargle - both aurally and spiritually - and they do it while managing to sound like a cold winter's day in Melbourne.
So, The Spazzys hate me. That's okay. Roger Waters hates me, too. In this respect, they're in good company. But, I don't hate them - and that is the painful thing about fandom. At some point, the object of your fanlove will reveal themselves to be an autonomous creation, which - in all likelihood - will see you as nothing more than a snivelling sycophant, deserving only of the most fiery and savage death. Again, that's okay. They don't have to like me. From my perspective, I only have to like them - and, last night, I liked them a whole lot.
2005 is no more - the grey flecks of shredded brain matter are now attracting flies in the centre of the Rorschach-esque blood splatter that surrounds them, the farmer having long since swung his shotgun over his shoulder, and wandered drunkenly back to the dairy to see if that bottle of scotch he was given last year is still under the sink. The body won't be cremated - instead, it will rot in the blazing, abnormally potent sun of Melbourne, and the foul, gut-churning stench will permate 2006, just as 2004 did in its following year. But, it is a smell which I'm trying to clear.
So, onward - to 2006, and 'Return Of The Jedi'.
Happy New Year, boys and girls.
December 28, 2005
I Want To Cut Your Face Off.
Well, 2005 isn't even finished yet, but it has already become shatteringly clear that the revolution that we have all been so desperately praying for isn't even close to coming to fruition. It will be a bloody revolution - a revolution in which the war for the soul of western society will be waged in a savage face-off between the forces of good and evil, leading to a truly apocalyptic finale - the details of which I daren't reveal to you at this point.
But, with the year slowly limping to an anticlimactic grand finale, the one thing that becomes painfully apparent to me is that I am truly sick of the one salient constant in the physionomy of all western culture - I am sick and fucking tired of having to see - and hear about - good looking people.
This might sound petty - but, frankly, fuck you. Everywhere I look, I am taunted by sets of perfect, gleaming white teeth, winning smiles, firmly separated abs, enticingly auburn hair, well-defined cheekbones and eyes, and a seemingly endless parade of Frankenstein-esque body parts, which have been surgically altered to fit in with the airbrushed fantasies of the terminally adolescent twentysomething male.
I probably reveal nothing when I admit this to you, loyal reader - I am one ugly fucker. Nobody can ever accuse me of moistening the loins of the fairer sex - at least, not without Rohypnol and a super soaker. I am so hideous to the eye that when I drag my oozing, pustulent carcass out of my sweaty, dank hovel in the northern suburbs, women are heard to scream and drag their children indoors, while grown men - tattooed, bearded, and recently released from prison - fall to their knees, losing control of their bowels and vomiting over themselves in twitching spasms of fear and repulsion. I have rarely had an intimate experience with a woman that hasn't ended with her vomiting uncontrollably through the nearest window, and spending many, many hours in the shower, scrubbing at her skin with steel wool until she is a shredded, bleeding mess of ragged epidermis, hollering at the seemingly uninterested gods about how she will never be clean again.
But, listen up. I come not to seek your sympathy - nor your pity. I have found solace and wisdom in my physical decrepitude. Like Samson, I draw a seemingly endless supply of power and strength from every open, weeping sore and bulbous, misshapen bulb of veiny, glistening fat that hang from my carcass-like body. This power comes in the form of my sheer coolness, but also in the clarity that it provides.
Because, after all, good looking people are total a-holes. You know that, and I know that, and I'm fucking sick of people telling me off for pointing this out loudly in pubs. We're taught from a fairly early age that there is some strange connection to be drawn between having piercing blue eyes and a muscular, sculpted body - and being really cool. The truth is, people who don't look like deformed mutants are almost always boring, annoying turds. You would have to have the balls of a jackass to take a person seriously who has never known the sting of a coke bottle bouncing off the back of his misshapen head. The only people in life who are ever truly cool are laced with skin diseases, and have exposed bones of their spinal column bursting out of the skin of their hairy back. I can categorically state this as something that is irrefutably true. I go out, after all, from time to time. There are those in this life who take pity on the beast, and poke me with a stick until I slither into a car, leaving a shiny trail of thick, propulsive mucus in my wake, at which point, I end up on Brunswick Street, watching the people walking by and trying not to stare or vomit. And, I meet friends of friends of friends. But, the one thing that remains true is this - any of them who are lucky enough to resemble human rather than beast are always screamingly tedious, self-obsessed bastards. If you go through life with a winning smile, and a set of sexy pectoral muscles, doors are opened for you, and the entire planet engulfs your throbbing manhood, with lips covering teeth, staring up at your steely blue eyes with a look that asks sensuously: 'Am I doing it right?'
After all, I was always one hideous fucking bastard. Even as a young boy, before I began the process known in my family as 'The Diseased Chrysalis', I always had to watch other dudes getting by without having to do homework, without having to clean the chewing gum off the undersides of desks, and without having to suffer the punishing indignity of anal rape - simply because their teeth hadn't been stained by the vomit that spurted from their throats at the sight of a reflective surface, and because their bodies weren't jigsaw puzzles of ill-fitting flesh, muscle, and bone. I have documented the kaleidoscope of violence that my younger years saw on other parts of this site, but - I assure you - those who deemed it appropriate to chase me into my swamp, throwing rocks at my gills and white, scaly underbelly were almost always far better looking than I.
Of course, you don't even have to actually BE good looking to THINK that you're good looking - which means that you'll behave like a complete and utter cocksucker anyway. I'll give you an example of what I'm talking about. An old, estranged friend of mine genuinely thought that he was some hot shit - while, in actual fact, he looked like a smelly, beady-eyed weasel - yet, he would stand in the mirror and wax messianic on the subject of how awesome looking he was, and how Tha Chicks were desperate to drain a little love sap out of his throbbing pink sex truncheon. Then, he had the audacity to let me know that I was a fat, sad, sexless creature - borne of a unique fusion of mollusc, cripple, and aborted foetus.
But, he was wrong. For, I rise - like the phoenix - from the ashes of my own status as a shambling, diseased parody of humanity, and I am suddenly aware of one truism - I am cooler than everyone else in the world. I have achieved this level of coolness because of - not in spite of - my total and complete physical deformity. And, that's awesome.
I forsee a future - fuelled by the glorious reality of nuclear assault - in which humanity will have been reduced to an amorphous blob of pulsating flesh, with brains and eyes bobbing along the surface. We will all be a gestalt entity - a sloshing ocean of veiny, sweating flesh that fills the streets and roads and parks like a pink blanket, with the screams and protests of the former physical elites ringing hollow as we feel the soft sprinkle of fallout on what remains of our bodies. We'll be a single beast - molten skin with spine and brain visible beneath the surface of the skin. And, I will be the ruler. I will assert my place as the ultimate conquerer of the galaxy - with humankind having already sacrificed their bodies to me in homage.
There is something satisfying about the thought of violent disfigurement of the attractive and privelaged.
December 25, 2005
Anakin Skywalker - The Teenage Years.
One day, Anakin Skywalker was walking through the corridors of the Jedi Academy. The sun on Coruscant shone down brightly through the massive windows of the cylindrical building, and Anakin was mindful of his thoughts. He'd caught himself - just the other day - staring at another young boy in his form. The boy's smooth, brown skin and piercing blue eyes were things that Anakin could simply not force out of his mind, and the stirrings that he felt beneath his robes were a constant reminder of the dark destiny that awaited him.
He was thinking about the dreamy young man, imagining him whispering softly in his ear, caressing his broad, hairless chest - raking his fingernails across the smooth expanse of muscle, stopping only to tweak the nipple, drawing a gasp of breath -
- when, out of nowhere, a foot lashed out, tripping Anakin over. He crashed to the ground, skidding across the polished wooden floor, and skinning the palms of his hands. He immediately felt tears stinging his eyes, and he leapt to his feet.
'Who did that?' he demanded angrily, 'Who?'
A group of boys standing to the side shrugged, giggling all the while.
'Which one of you was it? It had to be one of you. Tell me!'
'It wasn't us, dude. You mustn't have been looking where you were going.' a swarthy young Padawan announced, snickering.
'Oh, yeah?'
'Yeah.'
Anakin looked at the ground. He sighed. Maybe they were right.
For the rest of the day, though, he felt troubled. As though everyone was looking at him. Master Yoda chortled to himself - which was something the old Jedi rarely did - but Anakin surely sensed it in the force. Every time he turned his back, he felt Master Yoda's mocking thoughts.
By lunch time, things were simply out of hand. Anakin wandered away to the Jedi Cafeteria to buy a cheese and vegemite roll, a carton of strawberry milk, and he planned to sit - as usual, on his own - and read some Sylvia Plath.
Just as he sat down and pushed his straw into the milk carton, he felt a boot on his back. He flew forward, his face landing next to the glad-wrapped roll which sat on the desk.
Anakin spun around, and saw a chuckling Padawan. He was big - not as big as the young boy from his dreams - but intimidating just the same. Anakin pointed at him angrily, wiping a tear away with his other hand.
'You have just made me very grumpy.' he said.
'I was just doing as I was told, Faggakin.' the boy laughed, picking up Anakin's roll and unwrapping it.
'Give me that!' Anakin snarled, feebly snatching at the roll - which was dangled just out of his reach. 'That's my lunch!'
The boy laughed, and booted the roll across the Jedi Cafeteria - as a hundred pairs of Padawan eyes locked on Anakin, who cringed in shame as their laughter began to swell.
'Why are you calling me Faggakin?' Anakin said gloomily.
'Because.' the boy replied, matter-of-factly. 'Because, you're a great big homo.'
Anakin gulped. Could the boy have been right? He thought back to the previous evening's restless sleep - how he had clutched at the sheets, imagining the feelings surging through him, as he was filled up again and again with the love of his fantasy man. How he had woken Obi-Wan, who ran into his room with worry, because he'd been moaning with such passion and fervor.
'Anyway, Faggakin. I was just trying to help. So, I kicked you.'
'I don't understand.' Anakin said, scrunching up his nose, 'Who told you to kick me?'
The Padawan laughed.
'YOU did.'
He reached over Anakin's shoulder, and peeled a 'Kick Me' sticker off his back, holding it in the air for all to see. The other Padawans burst into spontaneous applause, whooping and jeering wildly.
The boy picked up Anakin's milk, and - calmly - tipped the carton into Anakin's lap, causing an even louder frenzy of applause.
Anakin had simply had enough. He stood up, and picked up his book of Sylvia Plath, his lower lip quivering, tears running down his face.
And, as he walked away, he sensed something. In the force. He whirled around, and faced a thick, pink finger - pointed at his crotch.
'Look!' another young Padawan screamed, 'He's PISSED himself!'
Anakin looked down at the strawberry milk dripping from his crotch. He sighed, and began to brush it away.
'And now he's trying to JERK OFF!'
The force was strong in Anakin, and he closed his eyes - reaching out through the force. His pants slid slowly down, travelling towards his ankles, and sliding out from beneath his feet. They floated in the air in front of him, and he clenched his fist, using the force to wring the milk out onto the floor.
Anakin's eyes were closed, so he had no idea that just as he began to wring out his trousers, his fantasy Padawan - the erotic golem of his dreams - had entered the room with a comically-oversized loaf of french bread. He paused in front of Anakin, and grinned.
'I don't mean to be forward, dude.' the boy said, as Anakin was startled from his trance, the pants dropping from mid-air to the floor, 'But, I'm not sure Master Yoda would approve of pants-free eating. That is.. not the Jedi way.'
Anakin winced, feeling the cold winds of Coruscant whipping around his bare legs.
One day, he would be the most powerful Jedi of all. And they would pay for this indignity.
Merry Christmas, Mr. Plod.
It's just like Jesus Christ to listen to me slagging off His official holiday and respond by requesting the facistic services of The Man to teach me a lesson in biblical justice, courtesy of the Victoria Police. I was innocently driving to Jazzy Kath's place, for an evening of festive pornography, when I suddenly noticed the telltale red and blue lights flashing behind me. I pulled over, and a jackbooted thug shined a flashlight in my car, before tearing the door open, and yanking me out by the throat.
"Freeze, perp!" she screamed, pulling the hammer back on her sidearm and grinning darkly.
I gulped and threw my hands in the air, a tear already beginning to form in the corner of my eye.
"Good evening, officer." I said quietly, "What can I do for you this evening?"
"We're asking the questions here, fatbody." the cop shouted, pulling my head back with a fistful of hair, while her partner swaggered over to where we stood. She punched me in the back of the head, and I heard the two of them laughing.
"Put your FUCKING hands on the roof of the car and spread your fat fucking legs, perpetrator."
I did as I was told, my cheek pressed against the hot steel of the Torana.
"Is something wrong, officer?" I bleated, "I don't think I was speeding, and I -"
My words were cut off as I felt the nightstick being plowed into my kidneys. I fell to my knees, and began to vomit in the gutter, the laughter ringing in my ears.
"Get up, you fat bag of shit." the cop managed to spit out through his laughter, "Get up and face justice."
I was weak. So weak. I wanted to cry - I wanted to call out and tell the world that I was a victim of brutal justice, but I had little time to think about it, as I felt the two cops hauling me to my feet, and slamming me against the side of the car.
"Got something to say now, perp? Got something to say, you fuckin' piece of shit? Give me your fuckin' licence, fat boy."
"It's in my wallet, Sir."
"I don't care where the fuck it is. Just get it."
I reached into the torn, wet fabric of my corduroy pants and began to slip my wallet out - and that's when I felt the cold steel pressed against the back of my neck, and the telltale signs of a hammer being drawn.
"That's the kinda place a fat bloke - a clever fat bloke - could hide a weapon. You got a weapon there, fuckface?"
"No, sir. You just asked me for my licence, and I -"
The butt of the pistol slammed into the back of my head, and I felt a warm trickle of blood coursing down my neck. I howled, falling to the ground.
"Give me your FUCKIN' wallet, you fat sack of donkey shit. Or, I swear by Jesus fuckin' Christ himself, I will blow you so full of fucking holes that it'll take until NEXT Christmas to put the pieces of your fat fuckin' face back together so your ugly mother can look at you before they throw you into your fuckin' grave."
He paused, aiming the gun at me, and drawing a bead on my forehead.
"Now." he said, a thin rope of saliva hanging from his lower lip, his eyes wide and crazed, "Give me... your FUCKING LICENCE."
I reached down and plucked the card from my wallet, and the woman officer snatched it from my hands.
"You still live at this address?"
I nodded.
"Who with?"
"My parents."
They both exploded into laughter.
"Your PARENTS?" the male cop shouted, "You some kinda fuckin' MUMMY'S boy? Huh? Is that what you are?"
"No, sir. It's just that I was at uni for a long time, and I -"
"UNI boy." the woman cried, kicking me savagely in the ribs, "You think you're fuckin' smart? Is that what you think?"
I held up my hands, shaking my head.
"No, ma'am. No, I -"
"You think you're smarter than us, fat boy? Is that what you fuckin' think?"
"No!"
The male cop began to squeeze his crotch, bucking his hips towards me .
"You think you're smart, doncha. You fuckin' piece of shit. You think you're fuckin' smarter than this?" he spat savagely, clutching his obviously aroused crotch.
"No, sir. No, I -"
I was stammering, my eyes locked on the bulge in his pants in fear, as he wiped the drool away from his lips, and the female cop leaned against the bonnet of the Torana, her breath ragged, coming in heavy sheets.
"Do it!" she hissed, "Let's do it. Right now. There's nobody around..."
The cop nodded.
"Get on your fuckin' feet, fat boy. We've got a real sweet Christmas treat for you. You're gonna like it."
"Oh, he's gonna like it." the female chimed in. "Oh, let me watch. Let me watch this time.."
The cop swung around and caught her on the chin with a balled fist.
"YOU shut the fuck up. We do this my way. My way. Go and open the back of the van."
He looked at me, and grinned, loosening his belt with one hand, the other keeping the handgun pointed firmly at my head - shaking imperceptibly with anticipation.
"You're gonna like this, fat boy. Oh, you're gonna love it. You're gonna have a nice Christmas story to tell your Mummy when we let you go. Oh, I bet you can't wait..."
I heard the sound of the van doors being opened, and the crunch of the woman's heavy jackboots on the ground. She pointed her pistol at me.
"Get up!" she screeched, "Get up RIGHT NOW, you fat fuck."
"You heard the lady." the cop chortled, rubbing his crotch, "You'd better do what she says, or we'll blow your fucking brains across the door of your piece of shit car."
"And he's got brains, boss. He's a uni boy."
The cop chuckled, and leaned into my face, so close that I could smell the whiskey and dramamine on his breath, and could feel the droplets of spittle flecking my face as he spoke in a low, husky whisper:
"You're a uni boy, aincha? Oh, we're gonna be good friends before the night is over. You hear me? We're gonna be the best of friends. You're gonna like me, fat boy. You'll do just as I say. And you'll love every minute of it. If you don't, I've got something waiting for you. I'll wipe that fucking smirk off your fat face, and I'll plant it on the wall behind you. Don't think I won't. Don't think I -"
A car roared past us, as I felt the vomit in the back of my mouth. The woman cop raced over to us.
"Did you see that? Did you see that shit?"
"What?"
"That guy just flicked a cigarette out the window."
The cop looked at me. Then at the car that had stopped at a train crossing.
He let me go, and I sank to the floor.
"Let's roll." he muttered quietly, returning to the van and sliding into the driver's seat.
The female cop walked over to me.
"Now, David. We saw you travelling without a seat belt. Do you have a reason for that?"
Ashen faced, I shook my head wordlessly.
"This is for your safety, I'm afraid. You're going to be issued with a $140 fine. If you want to contest it, the details are on the back of the ticket - fill them out, and a summons will be arranged."
She dropped a ticket, which fluttered through the air, and landed in my lap.
Winking, she holstered her pistol.
"And, have a merry Christmas."
I sat, slumped against the Torana - and I wept. I don't know how long it was, but as I sat there, I realised just how annoying it is to be ticketed for what is - essentially - a victimless crime. There are people speeding, and driving drunkenly, and being yahoos out on the roads - yet I get a $140 fine and three demerits because I forgot my seatbelt.
And at Christmas too.
Merry Christmas, everyone.
December 19, 2005
Christmas is a pile of fucking bullshit.
The noxious stench of the twin evils of modern life - consumerism and religion - are never far away at this time of the year, causing my tongue to clack in my mouth, twisting uncomfortably as it is tickled by lashings of glutinous vomit that piston up and down my oesophagus during the season of giving. To anyone who has ever had a single sentient thought in their head, Christmas is nothing more than a deviant annoyance, geared towards the celebration of sadomasochistic imagery, via the medium of grotesque, obscene consumer gluttony. Every time I see a Christmas tree, I literally have to stop and force myself to fight the urge to light it on fire, and dance around it naked, while carving satanic logos into my naked flesh with some kind of rusty farming implement.
If we're to believe the official story, several thousand years ago, some cunt got born in a stable. Big deal. Happens all the time in south Gippsland. There was a star or something overhead, and that meant that he was the son of god. His tart of a mother got shagged by a ghost, and her moron husband bought it when she told him that she was still a virgin. Then he grew up, and became - basically - Charles Manson. He told everyone that he was the son of God, grew a beard, and probably spent a lot of time with the Beach Boys. Then, a bunch of dudes got sick of this nonsense, and they whacked him. Because of this, I have to spend heaps of money buying people shit they don't fucking want or need.
Christmas stinks like yesterday's sloppy diahhrea. People sing those lame songs all the time, and wander around the shops with these stupid, shit-eating grins on their empty, pale faces, shoving things into trolleys and racking up credit card debt. During Christmas, I listen to nothing but satanic doom metal. I spent last night listening to Mercyful Fate, and swearing my allegiance to the dark lord, because at the end of the day, his music rocks far harder. 'Welcome, Princess Of Hell' shreds like a motherfucker, while 'Silent Night' is for pussies. Only total losers would rather listen to 'Away In A Manger' than 'Sabbath Bloody Sabbath'.
You know what else sucks about Christmas? Christmas humour. I bet, as we speak, there are about a million people with 'humorous websites' who are writing bullshit about 'Santa breaking and entering', or some bullshit like that. Fuck off, you bastards. There's nothing funny about Christmas, except for the amusing sight of people choking on the sarin gas you've just released into a packed shopping mall. People are so fucking stupid. Last night, they had a Christmas special of some music game show on channel two, where a bunch of incredibly unfunny Australian comedians answered hilarious questions about Christmas music. It was about as funny as pissing in my own face. The worst part is that Rove was on it, and he is just as much of a cunt on the ABC as he is on commercial TV. His wife was on it as well, for some fucking reason - for god's sake, will someone just kill her? She looks like she's on her last legs as it is. Surely the Christian thing to do would be to put her out of her misery by bursting a paper bag behind her head, and giving her weak, emaciated heart a quick coronary.
It was really depressing, and really annoying. Australian comedians are for shit. That fat fuck Dave O'Neil showed up, and I started kicking myself for not telling him what a no-talent shitbag he was, back when I used to call him up on RRR in 1994. There was some other slag there called "Miff" or some shit, who is obviously down-diggity with tha yoof, but she was about as funny as cancer of the arsehole, and I vomited on the floor after each of her 'jokes'.
For some reason, Australian comedy involves saying something really moronic and trite, and then having a bunch of other people laugh at it as though someone just blasted them in the face with a hoover full of nitrous oxide. And, it all seems to revolve around what a prick Howard is, how superior and condescending being 'left' allows you to be, and how all Australians are basically fucking stupid. I saw 'The Glass House' a few weeks ago - god, it was a pile of shit. I just wanted to throw my television through the fucking window. That Wil Anderson guy may be the most talentless bastard I have ever seen. Fuck me, what a smarmy cunt he is. I'd like to rip his fucking spine out. And, just to make life even more disgusting, that hag Corinne Grant was there, alongside professional shitkicker Dave Hughes. Talk about your trifecta of evil. Who the fuck decided that these people were talented and funny? Who? Corinne Grant is like a giggling salamander with the brain stem removed, and Dave Hughes is like some kind of SuperBogan, made from the bits of dead bogans.
What was I saying? Oh, right.
Christmas movies are for fucking douchebags, too. What kind of complete arsehole can actually sit through "Miracle On 34th Street"? The only miracle I can imagine would be if 34th Street was nuked from orbit. Anyone remember that 'Santa Claus' movie with Dudley Moore? Jesus, what a pile of steaming shit that was. Then, there's all those artsy Hollywood Christmas movies, like 'Prancer'. If I watch a movie called 'Prancer', it had better open with one guy cleaning some other guy's swimming pool, and end with the two of them licking each other's faces clean. You know. If I was going to watch a movie called 'Prancer'. Which I wouldn't.
The only Christmas movie I can stand is 'Silent Night, Deadly Night' because it involves heaps of people being brutally killed. This kid watches a guy in a Santa Claus suit rape and kill his parents, and then he grows up in an orphanage, where the nuns give him a sound beating on a regular basis. He grows up and works in a toy store, and they make him be Santa Claus that year, and he totally wigs out, grabs an axe, and starts hacking people to pieces. It has heaps of naked chicks getting their tits out, and lots of people being killed. Good. That's what I want to see.
Oh, there's also 'Black Christmas'. That's about what happens when you make dirty phone calls to Margot Kidder, then start killing her friends with a plastic bag. Har! Oh, and it has Olivia Hussey - but she keeps the funbags in her shirt this time, so it doesn't really reach full and complete artistic maturation.
Christmas seriously blows. I hate the whole concept of Santa Claus. What a lame fucking idea. It's just such fucking pussy shit. If real men were designing the holiday, do you know who the kiddies would be drawing pictures of?
Ronnie James Dio. That would be awesome. Kids could leave out a bottle of Jack Daniels and a whore for him, and he could just walk into their room, scream in their faces, and leave in his limo. Dio rules.
Oh, or maybe this would work:
King Diamond is the fucking man. Christmas should be about him. Think about this, you arseholes, have you ever seen Jesus OR Santa with fucking FIRE shooting out of their hands? I bet to fuck you haven't. That's because they're both little girls. Fuck that shit. Gimme the King! King Diamond knows the power of awesome doom metal, and that's cool. There's not even a mention of doom metal in the bible - I did a search on the internet. No mentions of 'King Diamond' or 'Metal City' either. Luke 23:54, however:
"It was Preparation Day, and the Sabbath was about to begin."
Awesome! Dio was in Sabbath! And Sabbath rocks like a whore.
The other awesome thing about the King would be that he hates Christianity, because he serves only the one true ruler - the dark lord Satan. Cool! Satan rules, and so does King Diamond. It's like, kiddies could leave bloodstained rags out for King Diamond, and he could visit them on Christmas night and.. well.. kill them. It would be totally fucking sweet.
The other thing that sucks dick about Christmas is that you have to see your fucking family. I hate my family on the grounds that they are a bunch of polesmokers, and I care not one whit for spending a single second in their company, unless it involves me shovelling dirt onto their coffins while laughing. Fuck them, the bastards. And, to make shit worse, this year they're coming here. Fuck! I begged and pleaded with my father to tell his inbred family to go back to Shitsville, but he laughed at me and told me that since his loser son lives at home still, he has no right to be dictating the nature of the seasonal festivities, so I kicked him right in his fucking ballbag. But, he still wouldn't change his mind.
I hate my fucking family so much that I still haven't decided whether to use a hatchet or a speargun to kill them one by one upon arrival. Do you know what it's like being related to the world's most filthy human trash? Let me tell you something, it isn't fucking pretty. They are gibbering, drooling white trash, and they hate me because I've never raped a family member. They don't understand me because I read books and other elitist things, while they are still trying to master the art of taking a shit in the back garden without tracking mud inside their hut. God, they are depressing. Toothless, hee-hawing motherfuckers. They call me 'Uni Boy' because I went to Uni. See? Get it? That's pretty funny. Nearly as funny as the piss I took on the salad, you fucking bastards.
So, I hope you have a shitty Christmas, just like me. They say that this is the season of giving - I want to give everyone the experience of being a miserable bastard. I bet on Christmas morning, I'll wake up, and I'll unwrap my present, and it'll be an empty box. Then, my Dad will go 'Oh, I forgot to put your present in.' and he'll take it to the toilet. He's a bastard that way. Still, he'll enjoy the jar of vomit and mucus that I've made for him.
Christmas blows the donkey's festering mansword. I can't fucking wait for it to be over.
December 15, 2005
Friday The Geekteenth.
I've been up to no good.
http://www.metalcity.org/friday/friday.html
Be amazed. Be excited.
December 06, 2005
Don't Fear The Reaper, Much.
So, I hate. A lot. And, after all, why not? As 2005 slowly vomits up the first staggering moments of 2006, the world seems to be more depressing and irritating with each ticking second of the clock. As a forthright, university educated intellectual, it is difficult not to wake up of a morning, gently ease onesself into blossoming consciousness, and suddenly be struck with the terrible realisation that 99.9% of the population should just be fucking killed. At night, I kneel before my bed in my flimsy, silken nightgown, and I pray for total nuclear armageddon, because I know in my heart that although I'd be incinerated in less time than it takes me to have one off the wrist, I'd be taking a lot of total and complete a-holes with me on the big black choo-choo train to hell.
Unfortunately for us (read: me), total and complete annihiliation of the human race isn't possible - especially without access to large scale weaponry. Hans Blix came to my house last night and stated, categorically, that my parents house poses no clear and present threat to anyone but our neighbours and our postman, so the only viable option is to get cracking, and do the job one person at a time.
But, where to start? After all, there are so many who deserve to feel their flesh being ripped from their faces as I blow the smoke from both barrels of my shotgun - but if I'm going to take a chance on incarceration, or worse, becoming somebody's boyfriend, it had better be for a goldurned good reason.
I know you feel the same, so - with a view to making 2006 the best it can be - here's a brief list of people who should simply fucking die. Using a special scale that I've devised, I will rate each one according to the probability of their death, allowing you to make informed decisions as you load up the stolen Datsun, and head towards the Gulf of Carpenteria, with thoughts of illegally-imported firearms dancing in your sexy little minds.
Rove McManus
Okay, Rove. Now, even channel 10 has acknowledged that you're a no-talent moron, who seems totally oblivious to the fact that everyone in the civilized world knows that you steal every segment of your crummy show from Dave Letterman. Your wife looks like she really DID cark it, and every time you step out in public, it's like 'Weekend At Bernies', only at the end of the night, you bang the corpse.
Likelihood: 2 out of 5.
Doesn't smoke. Doesn't drink. Doesn't do drugs. Probably gets to bed by 10pm every night. Our only hope is an out-of-control driver bisecting him with a speeding Cortina. Failing this, he has generated enough hatred in the wider community for someone crazier than me to take an axe to his grinning, vapid cranium.
The Bali Nine
Oops. Sorry, guys - you snooze, you lose. You should have strapped something else to your bodies - perhaps some kind of plastic explosive. I hear that's very popular in the region.
Likelihood: 5 out of 5.
Tick tock, tick tock.
Big Kev
Guess he got a little bit TOO excited.
Likelihood: Dead.
Your stuff never fucking worked, anyway.
U2
You bastards. You were never any fucking good. Your music attracts only the most utterly worthless members of humanity. Yesterday, because I'm better than everyone in the world, I went to buy my tickets for the Aunty Jack Show, and I had to fight through a line of slavering, mouthbreathing U2 fans. They were all desperate to bathe in the glory and majesty of Bono. Fuck Bono. The man is such a cunt that I almost can't believe it. He wears stupid glasses, prattles mindlessly about the worst kind of pseudo-leftie nonsense, and his music is utter shit, excreted from the bowels of the sonically bereft. Just because you worked with Eno, it don't make you good. Fuck you, and fuck your fucking fans. Go back to Ireland and get blown up, you piece of shit.
Likelihood: 1 out of 5.
Not a chance. He's probably had himself cloned so that when Bono #1 dies, his brain can be implanted in his new body, so that he can terrorize future generations with his vapid, middle-of-the-road shit. Oh, and anyone who calls themselves 'The Edge' is just begging to be shat on. The only thing that guy is on the edge of is Sissy Cliff.
Anyone Who Says Mean Things About Other People's Dogs
Aunty Kathy's coming for you, bitch.
Likelihood: 5 out of 5.
Not gonna be pretty.
Anyone 'Creative'
God, you make me sick. Your stories, your poetry, your 'novels in progress', your short films, and your abstract artwork can all go and get fucked. You have no idea how sick I am of listening to the mindless ravings of 'creative people'. For fuck's sake. You know who I'm talking about, too. I'm talking about those utter arseholes that you see flocking around Brunswick Street and Smith Street, with their fucking pinstripe pants, and their fucking vests, and their fucking ruffled shirts, and their fucking copies of 'Henry Miller's Guide To Batting Off On Your Missus'. Every time I end up there for a bevvie, I find myself surrounded by 10 guys all called Stuart who want to talk about Proust and modernism and Leonard Cohen. Fucking bastards. Just once - just once I'd like to be out in public at one of those places, and I'd like to see someone telling dirty jokes about blowjobs, while wearing a blue singlet and tipping beer over the guy next to them. I'd like to go somewhere and hear a rock band consisting of drunken losers from the suburbs singing about the places they like to empty their balls, instead of the fucking Viennese mandolin trip-hop that I have to put up with every time I want a fucking Melbourne Bitter. And if they LIVE in the inner city, they can get DOUBLY fucked - if you live in the inner city, you are a pervert and an arsehole by definition, and you have already developed an attitude which suggests that just because you sleep in your own piss and shit in a dirty, sweaty shitbox on Gertrude Street, you are somehow more Street and Real than my Dad, who sleeps in his underwear in a weatherboard house in fucking Greensborough. Fuck you, you cunts.
Likelihood: 5 out of 5.
If the drugs don't get them, the influx of hooligans to Brunswick Street will.
Harry Potter
Is there anyone in the world who isn't sick of this fucking shit yet?
Oh, I know. The moving tale of a humble schoolteacher who conquered the literary world with her lyrical tales of a young wizard, and his cheeky monkeyshines is something we heard about roughly every 3 minutes back in 2003, but surely the world has grown up by now, and we know that J.K Rowling is a no-talent hag with a big schnozzola, who writes derivative, hackneyed nonsense? She wouldn't irritate me so much if I didn't have to hear about her and her 'journey' every time I turn on the fucking wireless. Hopefully, her journey will end in 2006 at the most appropriate point of all - beneath the freshly turned dirt of her grave.
Likelihood: 1 out of 5.
It won't happen, but her next book should be 'Harry Potter And The Rotting Corpse Of J.K Rowling'.
Nu-Metal
Look at me! I'm scary! I sing in a sissy death metal voice about how I'm gonna rip that bitches heart out and take a bite from her shit-encrusted ventricles! I jump around and pull intense faces, and sometimes, I sing in a gentle, soft whisper about the pain I feel within.
Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, SHUT UP. Take all of them - Slipknot, AFI, Limp Bizkit, Linkin Cunting Park, and anyone else you care to name. They are about as metal as my grandfather. I remember a time when rock bands understood the simple truth that nobody gives a fuck what they have to say, unless they're talking about the pearl necklace they gave to some skanky groupie last night, or about how their rock is the most rocking of all. Somewhere along the line, rock bands decided that they ALL need to be Nick fucking Cave, and need to blather at length about how back in 1987 their Nintendo broke and that's why they can never truly love a woman. Fuck off and die.
Likelihood: 5 out of 5.
Oh, come on. You know it had to happen sooner or later.
Bloggers
"Today, you won't believe it, but Crag SMS'ed me from Poly and told me that he'd been thinking about me. I didn't know what to say, but I SMS'ed him back and told him that I'd been thinking of him too - and we organized to meet up. Well, I just got back from that meeting - and let me tell you all - it was just... amazing. LOL. We sat and really talked, and I think I really got to know him. He's sooooo different when he's not around his mates. He asked to see a copy of the vampire novel I'm working on for my writing course, and I told him I'd send it to him. I'm pretty nervous, tho - LOL - after all, blah blah bullshit bullshit waffle blah blah"
Of all the evils that the internet has spawned, blogging has to be the worst. Suddenly, almost overnight, every web-toed retard in the world decided that they were a 'writer', and initiated their campaign to convince the rest of the world's population that their most asinine thoughts are of deep significance, worthy of study and consideration by the finest minds in the known galaxy.
This is, of course, pure shit. As anyone with even 10% of their brain stem remaining knows, almost every blog in the world is a spouting sewer of unstoppable bullshit. From the mouths of losers, into the ears of retards, the blogging world continues - with blogs falling into two categories:
Fuckwits who write about their stupid, worthless day-to-day lives, trying to convince themselves that anyone gives a shit.
And...
Fuckwits who write 'political' material, whether they either rail against the facist evils of the Bush/Blair/Howard trifecta, or they rail against the relentless lunacy of 'the left', and the hilarious, misguided things that they do and say.
Both are total rubbish. I am hopelessly addicted to blogs, and I read them every day, scoffing at the cornucopia of worthlessness that they provide.
Except for, like, mine.
Likelihood: 1 out of 5.
They are unstoppable, and they are multiplying. And we all think the Muslims are our enemies. Ha! Think again, motherfuckers.
People Who Think They Are Funny, But Just Suck
The next a-hole who yells out some hilarious observational quip about some meaningless bullshit or another is going to get my foot through their fucking pelvis. That horrible, disgusting show 'Seinfeld' made every douchebag in the world think that making hilarious observations about The Man In The Fridge Who Turns The Light on, and Male Nipples, and How Do They Get The Tea In The Teabag is good - nay, great comedy. They think observational humour is funny. I'll tell you what's funny. Observing me shattering their fucking teeth with a spanner is funny. I can't stand it anymore. I saw some DVD the other day in Sanity, with this bald-headed cunt on the front, claiming to be 'The Master Of Observational Humour'. That is much like being The Master Of Taking A Piss Without Ending Up With Wet Shoes. For fuck's sake - it doesn't take a mind that hums with comedy genius to stare at a wall and suddenly shout 'WALLPAPAER! So, what's that all about, huh? There's a wall, and there's paper, but you don't write on it!'
Likelihood: 3 out of 5.
I dunno. K-Mart had lots of unsold copies of the 'Seinfeld' boxed sets today. Hopefully, people shouting out things like 'Potatoes! What's THAT all about? I've never seen a pot with toes before!' is over, and we can return to what we REALLY crave - the comedy stylings of Mr. Andrew 'Dice' Clay.
Australian Idol
Take any of them. Shannon, Casey, Guy, Anthony, the silly bitch who won this year - any of them. They suck the life out of the planet with their very existance. I saw Shannon Noll being interviewed on Bert Newton this morning, and had I been a little less conscious, I surely would have accidentally jumped into the set and bitten out his throat. Listening to that no-talent shitkicker yammering on about his fucking 'journey' was almost more than I could bear at 9 in the morning - and hearing even 10 seconds of his inspirational new track, where he waffles on about 'shining' or some such bullshit really made me want to vomit my own entrails into my lap. My hate for Shannon Noll intensifies with each passing millisecond - although, it is shared amongst the 'winners' of the stupid fucking show. A special seat in the hottest flames of Hades, however, is reserved for that Kyle Sandilands motherfucker. Holy shit - I have never seen such a sad, pathetic loser in my entire life. What a fucking tosser. His idea of a creative and witty insult is telling journalists to 'go suck their own vomit'. What in the fuck is that even supposed to mean? You stupid bastard. Watching him abusing a bunch of stupid 17 year olds made me long for the days of public executions. I want to tear his still-beating heart out of his chest and urinate on it in front of his dying eyes.
TOUCHDOWN!
Likelihood: 5 out of 5.
Ratings and record sales don't lie, sweeties. See you in hell.
Paris Hilton
This vapid, worthless whore is the ultimate celebrity of our time. Completely and totally bereft of any recognizable talent, she absorbs the fibre of western society through her very presence. Every time I see her on television, I just want to hack her stupid head off with an axe. Not only is the loathsome bitch the star of The World's Worst Porno Ever, but she continues to pollute the minds of Mother Earth with her nauseating show 'The Simple Life'. I assume the 'simple' part of the title refers to Ms. Hilton's brain power, since it is clear to me that I could disconnect her brain at the base of the spine with a scalpel, and she would still function at roughly the same level. She has a fucking autobiography out. What in the fuck could POSSIBLY be in that book? The stupid cow hasn't actually DONE anything with her life, except be photographed by every retard in the media. She truly is the world's appendix - a useless, confusing organ, which could be removed on an operating table with absolutely no harmful side effects to the patient. Metaphors aside, I'd like to cut her in half with a shovel.
Likelihood: 0 out of 5.
She ain't going nowhere. Dammit.
Metal City
Oh, look at me! I'm so intense and confrontational! Oooh! I hate! Hate, hate, hate! I threaten people, and talk about killing them - while in REAL life being the biggest pussy who ever lived. There are little girls, currently playing in sandpits in sweet, woolen pullovers knitted by their grandmothers who could kick the shit out of me if I looked at them the wrong way. I'm such a fucking posuer, that you should have covered your monitor with puke roughly halfway though this post. Look back at my archives. Oooh, I'm so artsy and intellectual - yet I rail against fuckwit poets and writers. Aren't I clever? I'm so complex and confusing! I'm just a big question mark! And I'm just so insecure! All I need is the love of a woman! I need to be held! Oh, me! The pain of the brutal childhood! Sob, sob, wah, I got beaten up a lot! I'm such a complete and total sissy boy. But, look at how witty and confrontational I am! Look at those really difficult targets I attack, like Shannon Noll and Rove! How clever! You have no idea what a pose this is - and I can't even use the old 'It's to impress the chicks' ruse, because the chicks ain't impressed. What am I, an arsehole?
Likelihood: ?
November 25, 2005
I'm Alive.
What? Oh.
No - I know nobody asked. I can't say I blame you. After all, the former greatness of Metal City has slipped in the latter half of this year. I've been working on other things, and I just haven't had the desire to spill my guts on the internet, for the benefit of the zero readers that come here. But, for old time's sake, I thought I'd post something for anyone who still remembers your old pal Dave.
It has been a strange few months. All of my months are strange, and they seem to become progressively stranger, but as the months have lurched onward towards the year's undoubtedly anticlimactic conclusion, things are changing all over the place. Everyone's changing, and all sorts of new rule books are being written.
And, of course, I'm no exception. The firm policy of hiding out in my house like some stinky hermit has meant that I've got a lot of work done. I know that a lot of you out there are interested in 'writing', and that you'll wax philosophical on the subject in hilariously overblown fashion when given even a nanosecond of an unsuspecting victim's attention - but the truth of the matter is this: if you want to be a writer, boys and girls, the berets, the readings, the references to Leonard Cohen, the endless postulations on the nature of creativity, and the relentless 'blog posts' that your shitty little friends suck your dicks over don't amount to a hill of shit. If you want to write, dammit, it is no different to becoming anything else - it takes bucketloads of... what? Work. Forget about this 1000 word bullshit - if you want to write, and I mean really write - do some work for once in your sad, asinine, art-student lives. Bastards.
So, anyway - that's what I did. I can be really, really fucking smug about it, too. I can be reeeeeally fucking smug about it, because - listen up, you fucking turkeys - your old buddy Dave made a breakthrough.
I've had jackasses like the very sensual Kathryn, and the very enticing Ellie Mae giving me all kinds of lectures about all kinds of bullshit that I've been espousing over the fifty years that have passed since some moron told me that my scribbled ramblings were worth more than ten points when launched at a bin.
"Dammit, David!" they would scream at me, their voices shrill and manic, "Get your shit together, you lazy bastard! Quit fartarseing around and talking a load of bullshit about how everybody sucks and nobody loves your Aaaaaaaaaaahrt, and do something about it."
I've got enough bitches in my life who won't stop yelling at me to cut the shit, so I figured that if shutting them up would cost nothing more than a jiffy bag and a print out of my epic cornucopia of childish nonsense, 'Bronnie The Dog And The Horror Of Sleepy Rock' - a book which conclusively proves that chronological age is meaningless when considering the psyche of the idiot manchild - it was more than worth it.
I printed that shit out, then realized that I'm broke. So, like all good mooching losers, I went to my Dad.
"Dad!" I said firmly, wrinkling my nose as I noticed that his hand was down the front of his pants as he watched NASCAR. "Gimme a bunch of fucking money, you old bastard."
"What?" he screamed, "What do you want money for? I give you enough money. If it wasn't for me, you little bloodsucker, you wouldn't be kept in videogames and pornography to the level at which you've become accustomed. No, I shall not give you any money. Now, get out of the way before I shove my fist up your anal passage so far that it will be way fucking far up there."
"You old knave." I snarled, stepping forward and seizing the old fool by his blue singlet, his grey chest hairs tickling my muscular knuckles, "Give me the money. It's important. It is imperative that you hand over your Visa card and account details to me. Immediately. Do this thing, and I promise that my repressed memories will surely stay that way. It could mean the difference, Julian, between life in prison - and the chair."
The old swine scoffed and drew back, launching a gob of green phlegm directly at my face. It splattered against my glasses, and he let out a shriek of glee, bringing his leg up and driving his foot squarely into my nuts. I fell to the floor, clutching my crotch, my jaws dripping with foam - pointing angrily at him.
"You dirty old bastard! Give me the money!"
"What do you need it for, anyway?" he laughed, bringing the heel of his shoe down again, crushing my testicles against the cold, wooden floor, "Haven't you downloaded enough pornography? Don't we allow you to spend all day masturbating as it is? What could you possibly need more of my money for?"
"For my art." I wept. "Do it for art. For the future of literature. For the future of this country. I have a gift, father. A gift which I want to share with the people. I want to give the gift of words to the children - to lift their spirits, and elevate them to a place far above this world gone mad. Give me your Visa, father. Give it to me."
He considered this for a moment, and - silently - handed over the card, his face shuddering almost imperceptibly in a most familiar tic.
For all you douchebags who aren't down with the biz, like myself, there's this thing called 'manuscript assessment' which all 'writers' have to go through before anything gets published. See, Allen Unwin, or Doubleday, or whoever - they are wise to your jive, you turkeys. They know how talentless and awful and annoying you are, and rather than having to waste valuable cocaine-lunchbreak time sorting my wheat from your stinky, stinky chaff, they want YOU, the starving artist, to pay for the privelage of having some anonymous stiff read your crazy shit. They'll write a four page report on how much of a loser you are, and how it should be made a crime for you to be let loose near a word processor, and how they sincerely hope that wolverines tear off your balls and spit them into your mouth.
All of this sounded simply awesome to me, so I stuffed a jiffy bag full of this weeks magnum opus, went into stamp-licking overdrift, and shoved that sucker in the nearest post box.
In the meantime, I paced, and I fretted, and I wanted to go wee wee because the whole concept of having some anonymous bastard - some emo-glasses wearing, Nick Cave worshipping, poetry-reading fuckwit - reading my work, and JUDGING it, was almost too irritating to bear. And, as that sand sat in my oyster, the weeks ticked by, and it slowly became a pearl. Hee. That's a 'metaphor'. That's how come I'm so fucking clever.
So, this package shows up one day - the postman shoved it through my door, and I stood there with my balls hanging out of my ill-fitting boxer shorts, breathing my filthy morning breath in his face.
It was the package! Awesome!
I ripped that bastard open, preparing to cover the floor in shit as I lost control at the sight of my career, my hopes, my dreams, and my ego being torn to shreds in the space of four A4 pages.
But, do you know what happened?
Do you?
Those cretins fell for my nasty bullshit, and they gave me a glowing report. They praised me for my 'beautiful imagery' and my 'quirkiness' and my 'wit'. The 'sensitivity' struck them, as did the 'poignant, moving' ending.
Haa, fuckers. I always win.
But, what does this mean?
What it means, turkeys, is that I can now sell the book. Don't you see? I can get out of here! I can escape this prison! I have a positive manuscript assessment. People literally kill and rape each other over positive manuscript assessments - they lie, cheat, and steal from one another to get a simple 'that wasn't total shit' written on a piece of Victorian Writer's Center stationary. I, however, was fellated with both sensuality and genuine love by the mind-rapists who work for the VWC - they lovingly caressed my tumescence, occasionally giving me a little slap on the face for being so cheeky. And then, afterwards, I kissed them on the forehead and told them to fuck off to the bathroom to brush their teeth.
Tossers.
Oh, that's the other thing.
So, I did my TAA cert, which means that I could be raping YOUR mind in the near future, if you're enough of a balls-out retard to want to 'study writing' because you think it would 'enhance your skills', or some such fucking bullshit. Since my addiction to pornography and slasher movies won't pay for itself, I figured that I'd better get motivated and get some kind of motherfucking job. Time to get PAID, mofoz - I want the things that money can buy. Like, pornography and slasher movies.
So, I went for a job interview - and while I was sitting in the office - another dude came up to me and asked me for my backstory. Sheet, homes - I told him a whole litany of ridiculous nonsense, designed to make me sound far better than I actually am. After all, just between you and me, I'm a total suburban knucklehead - and, as we all know, the suburbs FUCKING SUCK. Grr! Down with the suburbs!
The next person I hear bag the suburbs is going to get my fist through their fucking spine. I don't care how cool and hip and leet you think you are, cunt, just because you cruise Brunswick Street looking for some fine canoli and a good prole red. You are a complete arsehole by definition, and I want to cut your balls off. I read a post on one of these so-called 'internet weblogs' that the kids are so fucking in love with these days, and at first I thought the author should be given a kerosene bath followed by a flicked match, then I thought he should have wild mules tear his scrotum away from his worthless body with thick ropes, but now I'm pretty sure that any kind of death is appropriate, as long as it is drawn-out and excruciatingly painful. The post dealt with the autho