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TOUR OZ BUT DON'T STOP. 18/08/2009

I’ve been touring Australia, what a wonderful experience, especially the east coast, filled with its magnificent ocean views and abundant, creatively placed, ‘NO CAMPING’ and, ‘NO DOGS ALLOWED’, signs. Apparently, if you have a dog, and like camping, you can go and f%*k yourself?

Alternatively, you can pay to go camping and set up your very own tent slotted into a little tent-suburb located in some arsehole’s caravan-park full of rules while your dog runs around free, in its dreams, while tied on a short leash. Enjoy breathing-in the clean country-air filled with the rich aroma of diesel fumes as bus-generators sing their sweet grating-music until 9pm curfew at which time every sign of life and every light in the park goes out.

Or, if you’re an extreme tight-arse with a good set of nerves and a strong sense of adventure, why not pull up at one of the wayside rest-areas, usually situated next to a trucking route, railway line or, in some cases, both, and spend the night dreaming you’re taking a nap in the middle of The Battle of Midway.

I’m lucky because I’m travelling in a van. This allows me to camp at some of the most beautiful beach camping-areas where camping isn’t permitted. When any rangers or appointed-harassers of alleged-campers approach with a negative attitude, I can simply state, “I’m not camping, I’m parking.”
Other conversations can involve explaining to the appointed harasser that “I need to be parked and asleep here inside my van because driving while asleep or when tired is an illegal offence constituting culpable driving.” When they ask if you were tired before you pulled-over, categorically state you weren’t tired before pulling over because driving while asleep or when tired is illegal so you decided to pull over to park and sleep, at this particularly beautiful beach, before you got tired. If they try and move you on tell them how tired you are of being moved-on, then go inside your van and have a sleep.

A good point to reinforce to yourself and others is, if you’re not tired, and you’re driving, make sure you pullover as soon as you see a good non-camping area because the simple frustration of driving past a beautiful campsite that has been vandalised by ‘No Camping’ and ‘No Dogs’ signage could well tire you and that is illegal.

I recently saw the results of illegal activity while visiting the tiny township of, Tinaroo Falls, in Far North Queensland. Apparently, a few years ago, some mischievous people came along and decided they’d block the river. This made the river flood, which destroyed the surrounding land, the river, and the actual Tinaroo Falls. Amazingly, no one arrested these people and so they continued their blatant crime spree by planting ten billion acres of pine trees around and above the flood zone. Then, in a thinly veiled cover-up, they named it Tinaroo Dam, put up a heap of signs and declared the whole lot a National Park!!

So there you have it, if you want to cause a permanent flood, totally destroy a river and plant foreign trees where tropical rainforest used to be then go right ahead mate... but, for f#*k-sake, don’t park and take your dog there for a walk or you’ll be in more shit than an epileptic plumber.

Cheers, Vic :-D


G’day, it’s been about 6 months since I wrote a blog coz there’s been a bit of stuff going down, i.e. my home was burnt to the ground, actually it was blown apart and then burnt to the ground by the firestorm that raged through on ‘Black Saturday’ February the 7th 2009.

I was renting on 35 acres surrounded by forest in Strathewen next to Kinglake National Park. Believe me, those National Parks are dangerous. The bark and leaves and twigs etc are simply left to build-up and up over the years and next thing BANG!! There’s a firestorm raging up the mountain at a ridiculously incomprehensible speed, creating its own weather conditions, it’s like a cyclone at midnight and, before you know it, the shed has crumpled and blown over with the impact, the roof of your house is 100 metres down the paddock, the horse, in a futile attempt to escape amidst blinding smoke, disembowels itself on a fencepost and life in general is a little bit different for everyone in the area.

Since then I’ve been living in my car, which luckily is a van, and travelling around Oz trying to figure-out where I’m going to live. I’ve never been real keen on Melbourne winters and I’ve definitely had enough of Melbourne summers. However, I thought I’d let you know what I’ve been up to coz the last blog I wrote (Cockatoo Concerto in F#) was back around New Years 2008 just a week before the fires

I’m currently in Far North Queensland. As you may know, for the last few years, I’ve been the voice of the ‘Rusty the Home Hardware Dog’ (woof!!) and since travelling Oz I’ve performed voice-overs in Sydney, Brisbane, Cairns and, soon, Darwin. Where? Home Hardware.

I probably won’t do much more writing until I get settled somewhere but at least I’ve done this blog update. Hope all’s well in your world and see you when you’re reading.

Cheers, Vic

Cockatoo Concerto in F-Sharp (30th December 2008)

A few of days ago I had a couple of thousand drinks with friends in celebration of the Lord Jesus Christ’s birthday, the next day was Boxing Day and over a few more drinks we celebrated the birthday of boxing. The next day we celebrated the amazing fact we were still able to celebrate and, again, after a few too many celebratory drinks I took myself to bed just before the sun hit me and turned me into dust. When I woke, about noon that very same day, I felt crooker than a 2-headed Irish wino after a Saint Patrick’s Day weekend and I realised I had a 3-day hangover to deal with, which was when a mate of mine, who’d come down from Brisbane for Christmas, rang and told me he was at my local pub and wanted me to come down and celebrate with him. I told him I’d already been celebrating for 3 days straight and, if I kept it up, the next time he’d be celebrating with me would be at my funeral unless they cremated me in which case he’d be joining me in the afterlife after the alcohol-fuelled fireball sent us both to our great reward. He sent a couple more text messages stating I was weak and how I probably didn’t have a hangover at all and that I was probably just tired from taking knitting classes. I responded that he was correct in that I didn’t have a hangover I, in fact, had 3 hangovers and explained how I wished I had taken knitting classes instead. He sent back another humorous text message and that’s about the time I contemplated heading down to the pub to have a few brews with him, which was about the time my liver moved into a separate bedroom, which was when I knew it was time to get the hell out of Melbourne.

I was in an alcoholic Christmas rut and needed to go ‘walk-about’, or, more to the point, ‘drive-about’, so I packed my Toyota van, which comes with a double bed, oh what a feeling, and headed north to the river Murray, which is Australia’s longest river and one of the best because, although it looks like the type of river where you’d find Tarzan swinging and crocodiles lurking, there’s no crocodiles anywhere near it and I haven’t yet seen Tarzan swinging... or lurking. I headed for a massive eucalypt-forest I’d been to a fair few times before, on the Victoria-New South Wales border, it’s the biggest river-red-gum forest in the world so I knew I could find somewhere to be alone. I realised there’d be a few scattered Christmas campers here and there but, because there’s only a rough dirt-road going into the forest, the further you go into the forest the less people there are. Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against people and, in fact, some of my best friends are people but I needed time-out so I went deeeeep into the forest, about one hour up the bumpy dirt road full of large holes, and selected my home for the next week or two. It was a beautiful open-grassed-space, roughly an acre, surrounded by towering shady river-red-gums and set at the top of a huge, horseshoe bend in the river. It had the perfect swimming spot where you could swim against the current and stay in the same spot, which was just the therapy I needed because I’d fractured the right side of my rib cage a few days earlier while riding my pushbike, with no hands, down a hill alongside 2 magpies who decided not to land in their designated trees every time I squawked loudly and sharply clapped my hands. I’d managed to stop them from landing in 2 trees and was going for a 3rd when I accidentally landed in one myself. A branch had fallen over the road and as I untangled myself from it I heard 2 kookaburras laughing loudly... but I swear it was the 2 magpies. I won’t be tormenting magpies again... not till I’m better anyway.

Here I was at last, at the Murray, I sat on the riverbank and took it all in, the river was wide and flowing like molten chocolate, the sunlit leaves glowed and glistened and waved at me as the warm breeze caressed and cooled my forehead. The flies too were extremely friendly but they weren’t pushing me to have a celebratory drink and, besides, I was miles from any pubs. Before long a Superb-Blue-Wren started dancing around a tree beside me, it whistled and I responded. Its head feathers stood up like a sulphur crested cockatoo, or like hair on an angry dog, but because these critters are only as big as a large thumb it just looked cute. He whistled again and so did I. It was very confused as to where the whistle was coming from and he hopped frantically up and down a tree-trunk looking for another wren and when I whistled a third time his head went from side to side like a confused puppy. I was having a bit of a giggle to myself until I remembered the magpies and then I stopped immediately.

By this time it was even warmer and the flies were getting even friendlier and had invited their friends and family along to welcome the new, big, 2-legged, wingless fly sitting and whistling on the riverbank, so I decided to escape them for a while. I got my pushbike out of the van and went for a ride down the bumpy dirt road for a couple of hours to check out some of the tracks. On one side of the road the tracks lead to prospective campsites along the river and the tracks on the other side are mostly used by pig shooters although the road and all the tracks, as far as I know, were originally put in for timber cutting. The first track I found was very narrow with mini grand canyons to manoeuvre around along the way. I followed it for about 5-minutes and as I saw the river up ahead I also saw a tent, a 4WD and a very athletic pit-bull terrier that, I reckon, hadn’t seen fresh meat in days. It was a scary looking dog that came charging at me, scary enough to send the flies packing with me close behind. I heard a bloke scolding the dog but with the tone in his voice of “Good doggy, come to daddy and I’ll give you a good pat and some beef jerky.” We made it back to the road, me and the flies, and everything was going smoothly until I went down another track where a fisherman-person had left a lead-sinker attached to 20-feet of fishing line, which in turn attached itself to me and got tangled around my bike. Luckily the fisherman wasn’t there because it would’ve been very embarrassing being seated on my bike while he held me up by the scruff of the neck to take the photo. I was hot and sweaty but got busy with both hands untangling the line, which took about 5 minutes, which was excellent because it gave me and the flies a better opportunity to get to know each on a whole other level. Finally I was free of the fishing line and down the road again we went. The corrugations and bumps in the road were causing quite a bit of pain to my ribs but I thought I’d be ok and that’ll teach me for thinking. After being chased by another dog, which was much less scary but much more (yap-yap) annoying, we turned around and made our way back to the camp, just me and my 40,000 new, over-friendly, flying friends.

After arriving back at camp I sat my weary ribs down on a chair in front of the sparkling river. The flies were exceptionally grateful that I’d taken them out for a long ride and they thanked me by dive-bombing my face and eyeballs with wet kisses and by flying back and forth against the inner-walls of my nostrils and ear-holes. I’d had friends before who were annoying but these guys you couldn’t shake. It wouldn’t be long before the sun would begin to set so I took the opportunity of daylight to get out my guitar and play some songs by the river. The guitar was out of tune so I unpacked my electronic guitar tuner, which is highly sensitive, much more than my ears which were now like amphitheatres filled with an excited, vibrating audience eagerly buzzing in anticipation of their first song. I plucked the first string and tuned it to the key of ‘E’ when, out of the blue, home to roost came 27,000 large white sulphur crested cockatoos all screeching in ‘F –Sharp’. I know it was “F-Sharp’ because my guitar tuner said so just before the casing cracked and springs shot out of it. I’d heard cockies squawk before and I knew they were loud and raucous but so many of them had landed in the trees above me and the noise was so intense that even the flies stopped for a second and poked their heads out of my orifices to see what the racket was. Their shrieking-screams were so harsh it brought tears to my eyes and I apologised to the flies for thinking any less of them, then checked my ears for blood and unintentionally tuned every string of my guitar to ‘F-Sharp’. As the cockies fought and battled for their hierarchical positions in the trees their screeching just intensified but only to the stage that would make a deaf-mute vegetarian Christian-hippy drop to their knees, cover their ears and yell, “Christ on a bike, get me a gun, it’s dinnertime!!” It was hell on Earth but then, quite amazingly, just as I was throwing the noose over the tree branch, the cockies, having finished battling for their positions in the trees, began to quieten down and, even more surprisingly, the flies decided they’d given enough love and left me in peace. It was like a miracle from the bible. The plagues were over and there I was, alone at last, seated in front of the mighty majestic Murray River, taking in its awesome energy and watching the sun set over the magnificent radiant river-red-gum forest. It was too good to be true and then the sky turned black.

It was only a rough estimate but going by the sound of the ever increasing hum and the ever blackening sky I reckoned there would’ve been between 25 and 30 billion mosquitoes descending upon me and upon anything else that may have contained even a drop of any life-sustaining fluid; and it wasn’t even dark yet. I stood up from my chair and saluted the brave men and women of Pearl Harbour and Darwin and apologised to the cockies for thinking any less of them. Oh how I missed their ear-shattering, blood-curdling, screeching shrieks. Oh what I would now give to sit and play my guitar in ‘F-Sharp’ while my old mates, the flies, filled my holes with ever-loving bizz-buzzing. Oh just to be able to enjoy what I was now considering peacetime with my previous flying friends again and avoid the horror that was about to reign down upon me. As I stood at attention, alone for the last time, I now understood why the flies had left in such a hurry and why the cockies had fought so aggressively for the best position in the trees. They knew what was to come. They simply wanted to fly away, again to fly another day... and so did I.

The humming of the mosquito squadrons was now so loud it put the cockies to shame and, with only precious seconds left, I about-faced, withdrew my salute, cried out feebly for my mother and raced for the safety of the van. The vehicle was only a couple of metres away and I must’ve killed 5000 of those wretched bloodsuckers before I even got halfway. One metre to go and the loss of blood was taking its toll, I was weakening but somehow managed to take-out another five or ten thousand of those flying filth before making it to the vehicle. These callous creatures of the night hadn’t seen fresh meat for longer than that pit-bull whom I’m sure was now either hiding in the river and breathing through a piece of bamboo or stopped dead in its tracks halfway to the river like a deflated football. I desperately reached for the door handle but barely had enough strength to open it. It was, now, do or die. I was fading fast and I knew if I didn’t make it inside the van I was done, these vampires were voracious and I would be their venison. With every last fibre of my body and soul, and with every last ounce of strength, I heaved the door open but the sheer vacuum of air sucked-in a couple of hundred thousand with more flying in every second. I had no choice but to dive inside the van, close the door and take my chances. Better to try and fight off a couple of hundred thousand inside the van than stay outside with billions of them and be sucked drier than a pharaoh’s mummy. I slammed the door shut, turned on the ignition and set the fan to ‘flat-knacker’. It was going to be a rough night... but I had no idea.

The next morning I woke to find I hadn’t slept all night. I’d managed to kill a large percentage of the parasitic pirates but there were always ten or 15 taking bad violin lessons in my ear while the others put-down mine-shafts around my ankles. The pain in my fractured ribs had gotten worse from my long bumpy bike ride, which in turn had caused severe muscle cramps in my upper spine. Standing upright wasn’t too bad but laying down and then trying to move was as much fun as asking your dentist to kick you in the balls during a root-canal operation, so to even thinking about swatting a mosquito made me shudder and it was at about that time they started open-cut mining. By the time they finished with me it looked like I was wearing Red-Rocky-Road ankle bracelets and when I opened the van door next morning the mosquitoes were so bloated they floated out the door and up into the sky like party balloons. I gingerly removed myself from the van and took a look in the driver’s side mirror, I was as pale as a quadriplegic alter-boy at a Christian brother’s nudist camp and when the sun hit me I ran for the shadows.

The cockies were already awake and practicing their screeching shrieks for the coming sunset and my furry, flying friends from the bike-ride the day before were back and buzzing with excited anticipation of another trip. My ribs and back-pain, which were throbbing all night, had now magically disappeared and the 8-mile line of marching ants who were dutifully soldiering in and out of my sugar container didn’t seem to worry me a bit. Some campers named, ‘The Grizwalds’, arrived and put-up their tent so close to my van that when I farted I cooked their toast. They were going into town to have a meal before sunset and said they’d be back after dark to avoid the mozzies. “Smart idea,” I replied, “try the steakhouse in Echuca, they’ve got the most tender steak around. And oh...” I said as I put-on my sunglasses from the shaded side of my van, “...you’ll find it’s best eaten rare.”

Happy New Year

Cheers, Vic

The Climatic Climactic Cycloonacano (19th Dec 2008)

I’ve always wondered what the difference is between a Tropical Cyclone, a Typhoon, a Hurricane, a Tornado and a Twister; so I checked my dictionary and here’s what I, honestly, got...

Tropical Cyclone: an area of low pressure with heavy rain and circular winds, up to 350 kilometres per hour, around a central area of about 30 kilometres in which the air is relatively calm.

Typhoon: a word, which originates from two Chinese words, meaning, ’Big’ and ‘Wind’. See Tropical Cyclone.

Hurricane: a strong wind of at least 120 kilometres per hour. See Tropical Cyclone.

Tornado: an extremely intense tropical cyclone with a strong spiral upward force, which follows a narrow track and is caused by the meeting of two air masses of different temperatures.

Twister: an unreliable, tricky person.

I reckon he must be a very unreliable and tricky person because he stole Dorothy’s house and moved it from Kansas to Oz. Australia had an horrific tropical cyclone named, Tracy, that wiped out Darwin city in the Northern Territory at Christmas time in about 1974. When everyone sobered up they wondered what the hell had happened and put it down to the evils of mixing beer and rum.

Australia also experiences a much lesser known phenomenon called, Willy-Willies. These are a great deal smaller than cyclones and don’t get the honour of being given a name such as, Tracy. The only name they get is, Willy-Willy, because they’re very-very small-small and, once up and spinning, are no threat to anybody.

Some people chase tornadoes, and the like, in order to study and film these climatic events, others chase them simply for a free adrenalin trip or because they can’t afford an overseas holiday. Experts advise, if you’re ever caught in a cyclone, you should place your head between your knees and then kiss your ass goodbye.

Cheers, Vic

Excretion Completion (18th Dec 2008)

Dung beetles are amazing little critters mainly because they mould pieces of discarded poop into little balls and then roll them along the ground and back to their nest to feed them to their young. Keeping in mind I don’t really know of any poop that isn’t discarded once it’s been discarded, except, of course, if you’re a dung beetle, in which case you’ll un-discard it and roll it back home to the kids and when they complain, “I’m hungry mum...what’s for dinner?” You can cheerfully say, “Poop on toast.” Yep, that’s right kids, it’s the same ol’ shit again, and that’s what makes them amazing little critters.

I wonder what dung beetles do when they have a poop? By that I mean, if we humans were to sit down and eat a T-bone with chips and a side-salad we’d eventually poop out poop, but dung beetles eat poop, so after a dung beetle sits down and tucks into a nice hearty meal of poop with poop and a side-poop do they eventually poop out a well-done steak with chips and a salad? Crikey! Even a cow or a horse, who only eat grass, will poop out poop, so what the hell does a dung beetle poop out? It reminds of the bloke who went to the doctor and said, “Doc, I’m have a problem, every time I eat carrots...I poop carrots and every time I eat peas...I poop peas, what can I do?” The doc thinks for a second and says, “Eat poop.”

Australia has its own native dung beetles but inevitably foreign dung beetles were imported because the introduction of sheep and cattle meant the local dung beetles couldn’t keep up with demand, they were literally up to their necks in poop. They were being overloaded with work and, even with overtime, were running behind, literally, and, even to a dung beetle, the words ‘running’ and ‘behind’ are not a pleasant thought. It’s hard to roll a ball that isn’t, if you know what I mean. So now Australia has foreign dung beetles who prefer to eat common farm animal’s poop as opposed to Aussie dung beetles who prefer to eat the likes of kangaroo, koala and wombat faeces and I don’t blame them, there’s no accounting for taste.

Cheers, Vic

The Magical Blue Psychic Mountain Parrot (17th Dec 2008)

Have you ever tried contacting the dead? It’s not easy because they’re usually not alive. There are different ways of contacting the dead, one way is to use a ouija board, which is a board marked with letters, words and symbols over which rests a planchette or a small glass which, when touched with the fingers, is believed to supernaturally move and spell out words and replies etc. I’ve been told that doing this can result in your body and/or soul being taken over by evil spirits, which is something I’d much prefer to have enter my body in liquid form from a bottle or can and why, whenever I find myself amongst a bunch of ouija-board-people who are trying to contact the dead, I forcibly make the glass spell out, ‘I’m sorry our lines are busy at the moment but your call is important to us, in the meantime may I suggest a game of scrabble while I find Satan... I mean your deceased loved one.

Chinese whispers is good game and, I believe, was created to show us how much a story can change if heard-second, third or fourth-hand and, thus, why we shouldn’t listen to gossip. For example, a group of people sit around in a circle and the first person might whisper into the second person’s ear, “The magical red goblin ate 100 blue mushrooms on a green hill covered in bright yellow flowers.” The second person would then try and remember what the first person said so they can whisper it to the third person, which may end up changing slightly to, “The magical forest goblin ate 99 mushrooms on a red mountain covered in bright green flowers.” I like to teach people that gossip is really, really bad so when it was my turn I’d whisper something like, “My bright white ass is going numb, let’s go to the pub and get some evil spirits into us and, by the way, Mary, who is sitting opposite us, is a heroin addict.”

Yes, you can have a bit of a laugh with Chinese whispers but it’s not a very good way of contacting the dead although some might argue that any group of people over 18-years-old, who are suggesting playing Chinese whispers, may well be already there. ‘Googling’ the Internet is another way of contacting the dead and I proved it possible when I found Elvis in cyberspace, the only problem was I couldn’t communicate with him because, again, he was dead, and that’s where psychics come into play. Paid psychics don’t seem to communicate with people who have died, instead, they speak with people who have ‘passed-over’ and, frustratingly, once these passed-over-people get to ‘Never-Never-Land’ they can’t figure out how to spell anymore.

After a lifetime of living on Earth these now ex-alive people seem to have trouble getting more than one-letter-out at a time, which is why these alleged paid psychics will often sit in front of an audience and say, “I’m picking up on the letter, ‘D’... I think it might be the name, Don? I think it’s the letter ‘D’? ‘D’ for Don... does anyone know a Don who has passed over? Maybe your name is Don and someone is trying to contact you in the audience? Is there a Don in the audience?” (The audience quietly sit and stare) “I’m sure it’s a ‘D’ for Don, or Donald... ok, maybe it’s David? Dave? Davo? How about a Douglas? Or a Doug? I think it’s a ‘D’?” (The audience quietly sit and stare) “Ok, maybe it’s an ‘M’? Does the name, Michael ring a bell? Mick?? Macka??? Ok, how about a Mary???? Finally a woman seated in the back of the audience hesitantly raises her arm and says, “My mum had a talking parrot and his vet’s name was Michael?” “That’s great!!” says the excited psychic, “And what was the parrot’s name?” “His name was, ‘Dave’”, says the woman, “but we always called him, Michael Douglas because he always whistled when Michael Douglas appeared on the telly.” “That’s him!” Says the psychic, “The letter, ’D’, is for Michael Douglas which is really, ‘Dave’. Your mum’s talking-parrot, Dave, is trying to communicate!” I can hear him... he’s trying to say something... something starting with the letter... ‘F’, does that ring any bells?”
“Yes,” says the woman putting her hands to her face, “I can’t believe it, Dave’s trying to say either of 2 words.” “And what would those 2 words be?” says the psychic?” “Well”, says the woman, “considering my mum never owned a pet in her life and I made-up the whole story, I reckon there’s a damn good chance he’s trying his best to say, either, ‘Fake’ or ‘Fraud’.”

“Oh,” said the paid psychic, “I didn’t see that one coming.”

Cheers, Vic

Let Me Say This (16th December 2008)

Ok, here I am again, how many more of these blogs can I write? That’s a good question. Have you ever noticed that good questions are usually good because the person who says that it’s a good question is usually saying it because they don’t have an answer to the question, which you’d think would make it a bad question but, because they want to stall for time while they think of an answer, they give you a bit of praise and self-assuredly say that it’s a good question when in actual fact they’re thinking to themselves, “This question sucks big time... I better make something up and keep sounding confident or they’ll realise I’m dancing in the dark!”

Politicians are experts at it. They can answer a question without even answering the question and instead talk about a completely different subject that makes them sound like they are the best thing that ever happened to the planet, for example, if a politician is trying to hide something the interviewer will ask, “Foreign minister, isn’t it true you lied about the amount of boat people entering this country?” POLITICIAN: “Well Kerry, let me say this unequivocally and without prejudice, these accusations are can be attributed to the fact we have brought unemployment to an all time low.” etc, etc. The interviewer then repeats the question and the pollie repeats his answer using different words but always pushing how much good work the government has done and are doing. The same question is repeatedly asked until the frustrated interviewer realises the answer is a constantly moving target and so moves on to the next question, which produces the same results.

Most politicians are so slick that when they’re dealt a ‘good-question’ they’ll rarely say, “Hmmm, good question,” because they’re always armed with ‘good-answers’ not the right answers but good enough to eventually make the interviewer give up and move on. Sometimes it’s the interviewer’s fault that they don’t get the right answers, for instance, when ex-president, Bill Clinton, was asked if he’d had sex with Monica Lewinski he categorically stated, “I did not have sexual relations with Miss Lewinski.” But if he had then been asked the follow-up question of, “Ok Bill, but did she perform fellatio on you?” I have no doubt he would’ve answered, “Hmmm, good question!”

I don’t understand how reporters and journalists can stay interested in politics because they always get dodgy answers and must end up frustrated. I suppose they’re so interested in politics they can never be bored because it’s what they love. It’s a bit like sports journalists, you constantly hear the same questions and answers, but because they’re doing what they love it keeps them interested, like when a football team loses to another team the reporter asks, “You’ve just been beaten, what happened?” And the coach always says something like, “Well, Lang and Walton were injured early, we were weakened up forward but basically they were the better team on the day, we tried our hardest but it wasn’t good enough.” And the reporter says, “What are you going to try and do next week?” And the coach says, “We’ll try and strengthen the forward line and interchange Thompson and Castle, move Murphy to the back and hope Tanner is over his groin strain and fit enough to play.”

Just for a change I’d like to see a TV sport segment go something like this...

REPORTER: “You’ve just been beaten, what happened?” COACH: “We lost.” REPORTER: “What are you going to try and do next week?”
COACH: “Win.”
REPORTER: “Is there any chance you’ll try and strengthen the forward line and interchange Thompson and Castle, move Murphy to the back and try and get Tanner back in to play?”
COACH: “Yes.”

Yep, sport’s reporters love what they do and that’s why they can ask the same questions over and over again. Coaches also love what they do but unfortunately for the sports reporters being interviewed isn’t what they love. Then there are sport spectators, they also love what they do and what they love to do is watch people doing what it is they love to do, which is playing sport. Being a spectator is a bit weird when you think about it because instead of having the love of playing a sport they, instead, love to watch people who love to play the sport they love. For example, golf spectators love to watch golfers play golf because golf spectators love watching golf players doing what they love to do, which is playing golf. These golf spectators, very often, also love to play golf but their truelove is watching golfers doing what it is they love. The scary thing is, if this insanity continues could we soon see a new breed of spectators who love watching spectators who love watching golfers who love playing golf? And, then, could it be just a twisted step away from there till we see spectators who love watching spectators who love watching spectators who love watching golfers who love playing golf? Now there’s a question for you.

Cheers, Vic

Oil Drink To That (15th Dec 2008)

Solar power. Wind farms. Yes, climate change means alternative energy is on the way and I’m sure that’s a good thing for chickens because battery hens will be replaced by solar powered ones, which is good, but it’s going to be a pain on cloudy days because you’ll only be able to watch TV if it’s windy.

News reports keep stating that the planet is in trouble but the planet will be fine, it’s we humans that are in trouble because we’ve been very, very naughty. For a start we’ve put a hole in the ozone-layer and if the hole gets any bigger all the pollution, and all the air mixed with it, will get sucked out into space and then we’ll have to go and live on the moon, which isn’t much fun because it’s a bit like Central Australia, heaps of sand dunes and not a beach in sight. The moon is barren and there’s no Internet up there... just a rubbish dump and a 7-11.

Lightening produces ozone gas so maybe that’s why there are more storms these days because perhaps the planet is trying to heal itself? It’s almost like the planet knows that humans are the cause of it’s failing health and it seems to know that most of the little-parasite-people polluting it are very reliant on water and so live around the coast where rivers flow and all it has to do to get rid of us is get angry, heat-up, flood us out and let the mozzies do the rest. I’m doing as much as I can to help, my car runs on LPG not petrol, I only use natural non polluting soap products and whenever I light the gas cooker with that little blue-spark ignition clicker-thing I obsessively click it 400 times per-gas-jet because I know that lightening produces ozone gas.

They should make a giant 10,000-ton blue spark ignition thingy, as big as the Empire state Building, that runs on wind and solar power, then we could stick it on top of a mountain and fill-up the ozone hole but then we’re still stuck with the pollution. Maybe we’re underestimating ourselves and humans will adapt by evolving lungs that capably breathe pollution. It might get to the stage where there’s no clean air to breathe so we’ll have to walk around wearing necklaces with miniaturised car engines hanging off them with an exhaust hose that attaches to our mouth so we can breathe? Then once we’ve evolved even further we won’t need lung transplants, instead we can simply drop a reconditioned engine in our lung cavity instead.

Whatever is going to happen will happen so don’t get yourself down. In fact hold on because I think it’s already happening. Right, wrong or indifferent, we are meant to be here, we are a part of the planet. The food that grows from the dirt gives us life and makes more sperm and more eggs that makes more people so look on the bright side, when there are way too many people living on the planet you’ll always have someone nearby to complain to.

And it’s not all bad anyway because before my grandfather died, he told me something, which is a lot easier than telling me something after he was dead, he said the next world war would be fought over water so, there you go, if you’re a thirsty young person looking for a good reliable job with plenty of water in difficult times, join the navy.

Cheers, Vic

Party Till You Drop (12th of December 2008)

I remember someone, somewhere, once said something, which could’ve been anywhere and anything that that someone said and even though I don’t remember the why and the who I do remember the what because, at the time, I thought it was really something even though they weren’t anywhere memorable or really anyone to speak of but what they said was, “If you didn’t die, you’d have nothing to live for”. I immediately disagreed and thought, “yeh but Friday nights would be looking pretty damn good and I reckon New Years Eve 2999 would be worth hanging around for. “

I think what they meant say was if you know you’re not going to live forever it should give you a push to enjoy and make the most of your limited life while you can. I don’t want to end up in an old people’s home, especially if they’re not home because when they come home and find me watching their TV and eating their biscuits they’ll call the police and I’ll end up in a jail cell and I don’t want to end up in a jail cell at the end of my life pondering why I didn’t do all, or at least some, of the things I wanted to do, like travelling the world’s casinos, yachting around Riviera and... robbing a bank.

Imagine if you did live forever, it would eventually get a bit dull, fair enough, the 2999 New Year’s Eve party would rock-your-socks-off and the 3999 party wouldn’t be too bad either but if you were still alive for the year 50-million AD New Year’s Eve party it would be a bit dull because there’d be no human life left on the planet, just mosquitoes, cockroaches and you. Even the sun would’ve burnt out by then so by the time you’re celebratory sparkler burnt down to its end at midnight, at the 50 millionth New Year’s Eve celebration, you’d be alone in complete silent darkness except for your feeble echoing questioning cry of, “Happy new year?” followed by the frail thin discharge of your rollout party horn, the scuttle of a cockroach and the sound of a whining mosquito being slapped.

You’d also be very cold because there’d be no sun to keep you warm, so try and enjoy the now and be content that we don’t live forever because forever is a long time. In the meantime, here’s another poem by someone who, I believe, said something...

Let it go, let it out, let it all unravel. Let it free and it will be, a path on which to travel.

Cheers, Vic

A. E. I. O. UGG (11TH DEC 2008)

Sometimes I sit down to write a blog and that’s because it’s easier than standing, in fact I always sit down to write a blog but I don’t necessarily stand to stop. What I was intending to say (write) was, sometimes I sit down to write a blog and I have trouble getting started with the first word, which in this case was ‘sometimes’, which wasn’t too much trouble because I simply wrote what was going on in my life at that very moment and that’s a great way to not only get-out your first word but, obviously, a whole heap of other words as well, which, in this case, end with the word, ‘well’, but, because I’m going to keep writing, the last word, ‘well’, has been taken over by the word, ‘word’.

Here’s another word for you, so is ‘another’, ‘word’, ‘for’ and ‘you’... but now it’s clearly getting trippy. I’m sure the first word ever created wasn’t written, I reckon the first-ever word was spoken and would’ve simply been, “Ugg”, which is, logically, a grunt. It would’ve been expelled by a primitive male, let’s presume a Neanderthal male, and would’ve been accompanied by a suggestive, intimate, physical motion in order to signal intense interest to a Neanderthal female standing nearby. There’s another strong possibility that the 1st second-word ever spoken was also, ‘Ugg’ but had a completely different meaning as, on this occasion, the second ‘Ugg’ would’ve been expelled by the male Neanderthal a split-second before the female Neanderthal removed her ‘Ugg-Boot’ from the male’s nut-sack.

Writing, on the other hand, evolved later. The first word ever written would’ve been a simple scoop of dirt or sand scraped from the ground leaving a small hole and would’ve been more like a symbol directly relating to the second word ever spoken as the male Neanderthal dropped to his knees and fell forward onto the ground closing his hand in agony. And so, logically, we can say that the first word ever written was the second word ever spoken, neither of which were really words but grunts, leaving us to ponder that the first grunt ever written was the second grunt ever grunted.

Next in line were the first people to read. They were, understandably, the furry folk standing around watching the first, un-pleasured, pain-filled person to ever write when he wrote the second-grunt ever to be grunted, which they clearly read and understood. Ironically the first person to ever write couldn’t read what he’d written because he was feeling way too rotten to read his own writin’.

From there evolution took us to the first sentence ever-written, which was also the first blog ever written, when, an instant later, the male Neanderthal unconsciously closed his other hand in agony thus leaving 2 small holes in the ground and which read, ‘Today I asked a hot hairy woman for a hug, unfortunately she misunderstood... and gave me an ugg.’

Cheers, Vic.

I Thing Therefore I Thing (10th of December 2008)

It’s a funny thing getting older but you’ve got to have a really good sense of humour. For a start you start repeating words like I just did with the word ‘start’ and then you start (there I go again again) forgetting words, for example, at the start of this blog I wrote, ‘It’s a funny thing getting older’, when in actual fact I should’ve written, ‘It’s a funny experience getting older’, but as you get older you start forgetting things... I mean words, which can be annoying without even mentioning I’ve used the word, ‘start’, 7 times in one paragraph.

Then again, I don’t think it’s a big thing replacing a word you can’t think of with the word ‘thing’. Everybody knows what you’re talking about anyway, like, if I’m going shopping and I ring home and say, “It’s me, I’ve left my thingie list on the kitchen thing can you please read-out what things I have to thing.” Everybody knows what you’re talking about anyway so it’s no big thing, especially for people who know you, because they can figure out what things you’re talking about, for example, instead of saying, “I’m taking the dog for a walk, have you seen his lead?” in the early days of forgetfulness you’d say, “I’m taking the dog for a walk, have you seen his thing?” and at a later stage it would end up as, “I’m taking the thing for a thingo, have you seen his thingie?” Or if you got really forgetful you’d probably say, “I’m thinging the thing for a thingie, have you thinged his thingo?” Which isn’t a problem because anyone close to you will know exactly what you’re talking about and probably respond with, “Yes, it’s thinging over the yellow-thing behind the thingo cupboard-thingie.” And you’d know exactly what they meant.

After a while you start thinking about other things like songwriters; for example how forgetful was the person who wrote, ‘All Things Bright & Beautiful’? For all we know they could’ve simply been forgetful and the song was meant to be entitled, ‘All Wings Bright & Beautiful’. Obviously they weren’t too forgetful or it would’ve been called, ‘All things thing and thing’. Louis Armstrong’s, ‘What A wonderful World’, could well have been entitled, ‘What A wonderful Thing’, ‘Happy Birthday’ would’ve been ‘Thingie Thingday’, Jingle Bells would be, ‘Thingle Things’ and the lyrics of, Don McThing’s song, entitled, ‘American Thingie’, would’ve ended as, “And the three men I thinged most, the father, thing and the thingie ghost, they caught the last thing for the thing, the day the thingo... thinged.”

Then there are movies and TV shows that could’ve been ‘thingied’. Movies like, ‘Something About Mary’, would be entitled, ‘Something About Thingy', ‘Superman’, would be, ‘Thingman’, or ‘Superthing’, ‘I Dream Of Jeannie’, Would Be, ‘I Dream Of Thingo’, ‘Bewitched’ would be, ‘Be-thingoed’, ‘Batman’ would be, ‘Bat-thing’, ‘Gilligan’s Island’ would be, ‘Gilligan’s Thing’ or, ‘Thing Island’, ‘Jackass’ would be, ‘Thingass’, ‘Dr Phil’ would be, ‘Dr Thing’, ‘Oprah’ would be, ‘Thing’, ‘The Late Show With David Letterman’ would be, ‘The Late Thing With Thing Thingerman’, ‘Gone With The Wind’ would be, ‘Gone With The Thing’, ‘Days Of Our Lives’ would be, ‘Days Of Our Thingoes’, ‘The Bold And The Beautiful’ would be, ‘The Thing And The Thingie’, ‘Home and Away’ would be, ‘Home And A Thing’, ‘Myth-Busters’ would be, ‘Thingbusters’ or ‘Myth-thingers’ and ‘CSI Miami’ would be, ‘Thing Thing Thing My Thingo’. I could go on changing names but I’m just about over the whole thing.

Sometimes when walking along a footpath you’ll trip over some thing and you’ll look back to see what it was and there’s not a thing there and that’s because sometimes things just don’t turn out your way but don’t let things get you down, you can’t change every little thing because some things never change. As far as I’m concerned there’s not a thing to worry about unless you forget the word, ‘thing’. The real problem begins when you can’t remember the word, ‘thing’, because if you forget that word then you’re really up thing-creek in a barbed wire thingo and that would definitely be a difficult... thing!

Cheers, vic

Surprisingly Amazing 9th December

If you ever think the world isn’t a strange and amazing place then listen to what my friend Lillian told me last night, she said she once went into a dentist’s and came out with a toothache. Another time she said went into an optician’s and when she came out she couldn’t see properly. I’ve since advised her never to go and see a male escort or she could come out with a terrible headache.

Speaking of amazing, in the news today I was informed that a 70 year old Indian woman has fallen pregnant, I don’t know who she fell-on but I reckon he should be the news story. I’m more concerned about the pregnant woman’s poor mother because if the daughter is 70-years-old the mother could well be hitting 100 and simply asking her if she could mind the kid over the weekend, while her and the bloke she fell-on go out clubbing, could well possibly kill her.

There was a news story a while back about a woman who went into a doctor’s surgery to have a sex change into a man and then got pregnant. Immediately after hearing the news I rang my friend Lillian and asked if she was just on the news but she couldn’t answer me because she’d just been to the doctor’s to get her earwax cleaned out and couldn’t hear properly.

Albert Einstein, the world famous genius, once said, on a number of occasions, but who’s counting? ‘You can either look at everything in the world as amazing or not amazing at all.’ Some people think what Einstein said wasn’t amazing at all and people who think nothing is amazing really amaze me but that’s not surprising in fact it’s predictable, which I surprisingly find to be quite astounding but that’s not amazing just astonishingly beyond belief.

I myself believe that nothing is amazing because the sheer fact that nothing can be something is undoubtedly amazing. If nothing was nothing then we wouldn’t have a word for it but because we have the word ‘nothing’ then nothing is automatically something but not everything because everything is obviously something else.

Before the universe was created there was, ‘The Big Nothing‘, which, when you think about it, is really something and that something was nothing and nothing was something that was just about to start ending only a split second before the start began beginning. In the beginning there was the start and it went bang. What made it go bang is anyone’s guess but it was a very silent bang because you can’t hear anything in space, so technically ‘The Big Bang’ was really just, ‘The Big’. Directly after, ‘The Big’, flaming balls of fire went shooting through space along with asteroids, dust and God knows what and even he, she, them or it’s probably not too sure either and if that’s not amazing then why is my head spinning enough to, not surprisingly, stop myself writing.

Cheers, vic

National Benign News 8th December 2008

How do TV news programs pick what stories they do? Lets face it, there are so many stories happening everyday but there’s only so much they can fit into half an hour. So how the hell do they pick what stories they’re going to put on and what order they’ll put them in? I always watch the start of the news because, lets face it, if there’s going to be a major event I should know about, like a world war or a radioactive meteor plummeting at light-speed toward planet Earth, then it’s obviously going to be at the start of the news... unless Australia just won the cricket in which case the story about the radioactive meteor would be on after the cricket story unless it’s a lotto night in which case the lotto numbers would be on after the cricket story and the meteor story would be on after that by which time the meteor would’ve struck the planet and the lotto numbers would be interrupted with a news-breaking story about a radioactive meteor that just struck planet Earth instantly killing 250 million people and sending life threatening radioactive gases around the entire planet ultimately destroying the night’s victory celebrations for the Australian test cricket win against England.

On the weekends I’ve noticed the stories are very cutesy and light because all the hardcore news reporters have the weekend off and the trainee reporters are made to work the weekends doing stories about a bunch of community minded souls who are snorkelling around the local bay identifying fish species. These are the future hardcore reporters in training and I’m sure after these fish filing fanatics have been interviewed and the camera operator is filming them paddling, heads down, in the water, any self respecting future hardcore news reporter would be silently praying for a speedboat full of escaping cocaine smugglers followed closely by the coastguard at breakneck speed to accidentally drive right over the top of them, their propellers turning them into instant seafood and a school of ravenous Great White Sharks finish them off so they could be recognised as serious reporters, not the sharks, the reporters. But that’s not very likely to happen so these trainee reporters are sent out to report on a little milk bar that caught on fire or Margie Thornton who turned 100 years old in the Sunny Hills Retirement Village where upon the reporter’s arrival she crankily complains, “Haven’t you people got something better to do?!”

During the week, on the other hand, the main news content is all about suicide bombers, wars in Africa and water shortages usually ending with a happy story about a cat stuck up a tree who had to be rescued by fire-fighters who obviously didn’t have anything better to do and which is probably why the milk bar burnt down? Sometimes they do stories about a dog stuck in a drainpipe and we see pictures of the fire brigade rescuing the dog from the drain but what the news story should really be about is why the hell are all these fire-fighters rescuing dogs from drains and cats from trees when they should be out fighting fires? If a cat’s up a tree call a painter, painters have got ladders, and if a dog’s stuck in a drain call a plumber. It’s getting to stage now if a building catches on fire you’ll have to call a vet.

Cheers, vic

The All New Ageing Youth Powder Dec 5th 2008

Meth amphetamine is a bad drug. Young people have it and end up with brains the size of a 70-year-old’s brain, which I think is amazing. I don’t think it’s amazing that drugs can shrink your brain to the size of a 70-year-old brain but I do find it amazing that a 70-year-old human brain is smaller than a 20-year-old brain. Imagine if you had meth amphetamine when you were young and then lived to 90 years old! You’re brain would be rattling around your head like a dried pea in a umpire’s whistle or like a dropped plectrum inside a guitar-body, and if the doctors wanted to check your brain size they’d either have to blow very hard into your nostrils or pick you up and shake you until your brain fell out of your hole.

I’m glad meth amphetamine wasn’t around when I was a young person because by now I’d be spending every morning wandering around the house looking for my brain, which would again be lying on my pillow but I wouldn’t have thought to look there because I would be out of my brain, and it out of me, and then shortly after replacing it I’d have to call the plumber because I’d yet again forget to put flywire over the plughole before I did the dishes or had a shower, not that I shower in the sink but I sometimes do the dishes in the shower and, let’s face it, if I had a brain shrunken that bad from meth amphetamines I’d probably be happily doing a load of dishes in the washing machine, washing my clothes in the toilet and taking a dump while pegged onto the clothesline but only until the smoke alarm went off after my socks popped up from the toaster at which time I’d kick-back for a couple of hours and watch the microwave.

No, I don’t have to worry about the effects of meth amphetamines because it wasn’t around when I was a youngster and there’s no way I’m gong to waste precious drinking time by smoking an insidious, brain-shrinking powder... that’s what cigarettes are for. The good thing about the old drug called, alcohol, is that it’s legal and, if you drink enough of it, it will pickle and preserve your brain and then you can quietly sit and watch it watch you from inside a jar on the windowsill of your ward. The downside is I’ve drunk so much alcohol my liver has moved into a separate bedroom and my heart is taking rumba-lessons to get its timing right... but as long as it’s legal, it must be doing us good. So, 3 cheers for alcohol and let’s all drink to that, but make sure you don’t drive... unless you’re under 70... or you’ve run out of cigarettes.

Cheers, vic

ELECTRICKERY 4TH of December 2008

I’m sitting here typing another blog but because the electricity has gone off I don’t know how long I’ve got till the battery in my laptop runs out so I’m writing this blog as fast as I possibly can, which isn’t very fast because I can only type with one finger but luckily that one finger is on both hands and on this desperate occasion I’m also using one toe so there may be a few seplling miskates?

It’s amazing how much we rely on electricity but, then again, if we didn’t have electricity we wouldn’t be able to rely on it and that’d be better than relying on electricity and then having the power go off leaving you sitting and staring at a cold can of baked beans unless you like cold baked beans in which case you’d be non-reliant on electricity until you decided to write your blog and then you’d realise the electricity was off and you only had a limited amount of power in your laptop battery so you’d type as fast as you could with 2 fingers and a toe and then end up with even more ridiculous slelping meskaits.

When I was a kid, and the power went off, my mum would light some candles and we’d all huddle together and wait for my father to come home from the pub and tell us spooky stories about what he’d do to us if we knocked any candles over. Then we’d play ‘Eye-Spy’ but not for very long because everything started with the letter ’C’ and it was always ‘candle’. Sometimes the power would go off very early in the morning but you wouldn’t realise because back then all the clocks were wind-up clocks so everything would seem normal until you poured yourself some cornflakes and sat down in front of the telly and watched a documentary about an hibernating, deaf, mute black bear who lived deep inside in a cave, with the narrator, whom he’d just eaten.

Computers weren’t around when I was a kid although I think the government had one but it was as big as the Pentagon and you had to pull a rope to get it started and then feed coal into it, and if you wanted to send a file to ‘My Documents’ you had to call for a CIA agent with a forklift license. The computer monitors were good though, every Friday night all the CIA agents would drive their cars into the middle of the Pentagon with their girlfriends and put their seats back and eat popcorn while watching all the data on a giant white screen, and if the power went off back in those days they always had a back-up steam engine, which also ran on coal, so they’d end up playing “Eye-Spy’, which was they were trained to do anyway.

It’s amazing how soft electricity has made everyone these days. People today have lost that wild outdoors fortitude and resilience. They have mobile phones they can play with when the power goes off, they heat their baked beans, they don’t have to wind their clocks everyday and I’ve got to go, the power’s just come back on and so has my electric blanket.

Cheers, vic

3RD of DECEMBER 2008

The Allusive Deluded Illusion People used to think the world was flat and some people still do. Some people think the Christian bible should be taken literally and some people think the daily newspaper should be taken literally. My great grandfather, who was pretty good, so good in fact he was great, used to say, “Believe half of what you see and none of what you read.” And considering you had to see this writing to read it means what you’ve seen is at least half believable, but which half is the believable half? That is the question, but because the question is written it means you had to read it and that makes it a question not to be believed. How do you answer an unbelievable question? With an unbelievable answer. There you go, I just answered an unbelievable question with an unbelievable answer and I know it’s unbelievable because I can’t believe it.

When my great grandfather advised me to believe only half of what I saw and none of what I read I wondered why he never mentioned of how much of what I heard I should believe. If I should only believe half of what I see then surely I should only believe half of what I hear, and that leaves 2 halves of truth and 2 halves of fiction, which leaves you with the dilemma of figuring out which 2 halves are truth and which 2 halves are fiction. If you get it right you’ll end up with either a total truth or a total fiction unless you get the wrong half of what you heard and the right half of what you saw then you’re back where you started.

Nonetheless, that’s what I feel but that’s a whole other sense that I'm not going to touch on and a complete other question without even venturing into smell because I’m afraid this blog already stinks and that’s the truth as I see it and you can have that in writing, if my instincts are anything to go by. I could go on... but I already have.

Cheers, vic


So the depression has finally caught up with the rest of the world. I’ve been depressed for years but it never made the news, now, after finally breaking free of depression, the rest of the world is going into depression! It reminds me of a relationship I was once in, whenever I was happy she was miserable and inevitably I’d get depressed from her being depressed and then she’d be happy. Technically you could say I was a negative influence in her life but at least I made her happy.

The first bad world-depression was in 1929 and apparently heaps of rich people jumped out of buildings to kill themselves because they were depressed because they weren’t rich anymore... or alive. I always feel if you’re able to get yourself up a building and onto a ledge you’re capable enough to figure-out something a bit less un-positive to rectify the situation, although I got so depressed with my previous depressive relationship that I jumped out of the my bedroom window, which was only 2 feet of the ground... now that would’ve been depressing but my waiting cab driver laughed so hard it ended up being embarrassing.

I had a mate who drove himself into the middle of a huge forest, taped up the windows of his car and gassed himself while he washed down a heap of sleeping pills with a bottle of whisky. He eventually woke up coughing his lungs out after the car ran out of petrol. He told me he thought half a tank of petrol would’ve been enough. He said the most depressing thing about the whole attempt was he had to walk for 5 hours to get some petrol so he could get his car out. When I asked him if he’d ever since thought about attempting suicide again he said he tried not to think about it because it was all too depressing.

An economic analyst said on the news the other day that fixing the current world depression is like trying to change a punctured-tyre on a moving car. Now I don’t know about you but the concept of trying to change a punctured-tyre on a moving car is simply ridiculous, there’s no way in the world you could possibly do it, I know I’ve tried it, the wheel keeps spinning around and the wheel brace flies off and hits you in the wrist. Maybe they should sack the economists and get a mobile mechanic on the job, or get the police to pull it over.

Whatever happens with this world depression I’ll always remember what my great grandmother used to tell me, she’d say, “Money won’t make you happy darlin’, but by God it helps.” She knew an investment banker who ended up jumping out of a skyscraper back in 1929, apparently his famous last words were, “I’d rather be rich and miserable than poor and miserable.” I wonder if he changed his mind on the way down? Now that would be depressing... but not for long!

Cheers, Vic



I hope you've all been good this year or Santa Claus won't be coming to your house, but if you're lucky, Father Christmas might drop in instead? I've been very good this year because I don't have a chimney and I'd like to see him pop out of my heating duct. To tell the truth, I don't even have a house so I'll be a bit on edge during Christmas Eve.

Why has Santa got 2 names? One is Father Christmas, which seems to be the more logical name for a jolly, bearded, Christ-inspired man who gives toys away to children who have at least one 'cashed-up' parent, and his other name is, Santa Claus, which sounds like a movie-title for, Edward Scissor-Hands 2.

I don't have any kids so I tend to celebrate Christmas Day on St Patrick's Day. It's a much better day to celebrate because you can go to the pub and get out of the house, which is handy if you don't have one. Come to think of it I celebrate St Patrick's Day every day. I have a mate who has a house and he says, for him, every day is bin day. I asked if that was because he filled his rubbish bin every day and he said no it's because he can't remember what day the bin goes out.

The Germans have a day that is so popular they celebrate it for a whole month. They have a national beer drinking festival in October to celebrate the fact they can drink in celebration of having a festival that allows them to celebrate their beer drinking festivities , which they do every October in celebration of that very fact.

I don't remember when JFK, or John Lennon, was assinated, or when Elvis died but I remember when I found out Santa wasn't real. It was a cloudy November day, a Sunday, there was a slight northerly breeze and I found out at exactly 6 minutes past 2 in the afternoon and I was terribly upset, not because I found out that everyone else already knew that Santa wasn't real except for me, but because they didn't tell me till 6 minutes past 2... yesterday afternoon.

This year I'll head down to the shopping mall after I finish celebrating St Patrick's Day, sometime before Christmas Day during late night shopping, and I'll be asking Santa if I can be one of Santa's helper's helpers, and if anyone wants to help me help Santa's helper help Santa you'd better be quick because last year he already had 2 helpers both named, Security, who helped Santa's helper by helping me off his knee and off the premises.

Cheers, Vic.


~This Year's End Is Starting~

G'day, I'm black and bogging... I mean, I'm back and blogging. It's almost time to say, "Goodbye 2008", and what a year it was. A black president was voted in, which shows you just how bad George Bush must've been because I hear the general prejudice against African-Americans in the U.S is immense. Apparently it's comparative to an Australian prime-minister losing the election to a parking inspector.

Technically, Barak Obama isn't black, he's brown and, let's face it, that's why all the whites are out getting cooked at the beach and in solariums because you always look better when you're brown. Extremely white people and extremely black people, on the other hand, don't look as good as brown people. At least the extremely white ones can 'brown-up' by getting a spray-on-tan but the extremely black people can't get brown. Then again, Michael Jackson managed to get himself white, so technically, if you're black, you can get yourself white and then go and get a spray-on-tan.

I don't understand racism because every race I meet is pretty much the same. Whatever the race, some of them are ok and the rest are best avoided. Each race of people is made up of different people in their own right. For example, whatever the race, some of them are greedy, some are giving, some are criminals, some are lawyers, some are criminal lawyers, some of the criminals are lawyers and all of the criminals are criminals.

People are people and that's the problem, there are too many of us. I think what we need to do is cull the world's population down to about 25 people, leaving just my friends and family. I don't actually have that many friends and family so give me a hoy if you'd like to be a friend and I'll see what we can do when I get my spray-on-tan and parking inspector's uniform.



A mate of mine has been kicked out by his girlfriend and so he’s been staying at my place for about a week talking to her till 3 in the morning, every morning, trying to sort out their problem which has now become my problem because he smokes like a chimney, he’s never got any money, he watches TV and plays X-Box whenever he’s not talking to his girlfriend till 3 in the morning which pretty much leaves him playing X-Box and watching TV whenever he’s not talking to his girlfriend on the phone till 3 in the morning and that is now my problem!
His ex reckons I should do what she did and just kick him out, but I don’t think I could handle having to talk to him every morning till 3 in the morning.
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Would you like a housemate? Slightly damaged and not quite right!
You’ll have to lend him money because he’s always never got any and he lives on smoke, so unless he’s constantly breathing smoke he’ll die! I bumped into him the other day in the lounge-room, at least I think it was him? After the smoke cleared I realised he’d gone out for the day.
He talks constantly, even when you’ve told him you’re busy. He spoke to his ex on the phone till 3 in the morning again last night, and again his early morning alarm which simulates a police-siren travelling at high-speed, and which I’ve spoken to him about, went off again and again and again too many times in one morning for me to be a calm and peaceful individual. So after yelling abuse for 5-minutes from my bedroom like a town crier on meth-laced steroids, I walked out and calmly informed him I was now feeling a lot better, then educated him to the fact that the noise could be completely silenced without losing effect if he just switched it to vibrate & quietly slid it up his nought. He’s a considerate person though because the other day he said he’d go and do a load of shopping for the house and when he got home he’d considered it unnecessary and said he just bought enough for himself then walked around the house over the next couple of hours seeing if the lights would stay on all night if you didn’t turn them off.
A friend in need is a pest indeed, especially when they’re annoying; but he’s a friend and a brother so I’ll just kick him out once a week until one of us moves to another country!
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G’day there; this global warming is really starting to pay off because it’s another beautiful day here in Melbourne Australia today but it’s got me worried that it might not last?
What will we do if all the oil runs out? Will Melbourne go back to its old, cold, miserable, rainy weather? That’d be sad. And what about these fuel prices going up all the time? It’s getting so expensive that pretty soon I won’t be able to afford to help the environment by leaving my car running all night in the carport.
We may well go back to experiencing cold winters again in Melbourne & other parts of the world and that is something I’m not prepared to let happen, so here are some suggestions I’d like you to think about seriously in order to keep the planet all-nice, warm and cosy just like a cute cuddly puppy dog all curled up like a little ball wrapped in a big woolly blanket; and to do this successfully we have to unite as one happy human race and really start working together to help the environment.
The first suggestion is to petition the government about the oil prices. If they continue to rise we will use our cars less and less and that means a slowing down of the lessening-cold, commonly known as the warming-up.
Methane is another absolute ripper (Extraordinarily Good) way to warm up the planet and so whenever possible you should purchase & eat No-Name-Brand baked beans, which is a great, inexpensive way of doing your bit.
A cow placed in your backyard may not seem to be doing much for the environment but if we all put one in the backyard it will do wonders. If you don’t own a car it would be a good idea to put a couple of cows in your carport. I have a friend who lives in a one bedroom flat and is so keen to help the environment he’s put a small cow in his laundry. Don’t forget to leave the window open!
Releasing large quantities of fly sprays and almost any other sprays, that are self-propelled, is another good way of helping, and if you run out of fly spray and you’ve only got cleanser-spray leftover you can still help the environment by cleansing flies to death. Remember... every spray makes a warmer day.
If you have friends or children reaching driving age, suggest &/or show to them that burnouts in the family car is not only a great way of having fun together but if the whole global community get involved we can collect all the used tyres (Tires), stack them into a huge mountain and using just one bucket of petrol (Gasoline) we can really make an impact. The good thing about petrol is everyone can throw a bucket of it on the giant tyre-fire because the other great thing about this lovely liquid is that no matter how much you pour on the fire it’s very unlikely you’ll put it out; and it’s another great way to have wholesome family fun while keeping warm and making sure your grandkids and your grandkids grandkids will also be kept warm in the future.
Some of the Middle Eastern peoples have been helping out with the environment by simply placing explosives on oil pipelines. The effect is not only spectacular it really helps lessen any chance of global chill.
If you have a relative or know somebody who knows somebody who owns an oil well, suggest to them that they persuade their, for example, Texan or Middle Eastern relative to leave you their oil well in their will and after the funeral speeches simply put the deceased relative on top of the well with a backpack full of explosives and send him to paradise while creating paradise right here on Earth.
At the end of the day it’s all up to us. At the end of the day you might see a haze hanging over your city and suburbs but it’s only a speck of dust in an open cut coalmine to what we can truly achieve if we really pull together and try.
We are the human race and we can do anything we like... and that’s exactly what we’re doing.
As our global temperatures rise to one constant superb summer we’ll experience an increasing urge to use our beaches more often, so, next week I’ll be looking at practical ways to help take the chill out of the oceans while simultaneously decreasing the risk of shark and fish attack using increased accidental oil spills and sewerage pipeline volume.
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G’day there; what a day it is! The weather is perfect today here in Melbourne Australia, which has got me worried because unlike the Queensland tourism commercial that used to say: ‘Queensland... Perfect One Day, Perfect The Next’, the equivalent commercial for Melbourne is: ‘Melbourne... Perfect One Day... So Get Out & Enjoy It While You Can!
Of course I’m only joking, we get at least 3 or 4 good days a year but they’re usually in Adelaide, which is South Australia’s capital city. I’ve found over the years that Adelaide is a city that people tend to ridicule. I didn’t know that people hung-it on Adelaide until I went there for a holiday and got abused regularly by the locals about how, “You people from Melbourne reckon you’re better than us!” I was shocked at what I heard and that got me thinking.
If Melbourne has a preoccupation with putting down Adelaide then it’s more than likely because we Melburnians feel inferior to Sydney. It’s like a pecking order: Queensland, who are at the top of Oz, call anyone south of their border a, ‘Mexican’, and that means Sydney is full of Mexicans, which is strange because I always thought Sydney was full of Kiwis and that Queensland was full of Mexicans aka Victorians!
Either way, when I moved north from Melbourne to live and work in Sydney the locals called me a Mexican because I was from south of their border. So when I eventually moved back to Melbourne I thought I’d check out Tasmania, which is an island floating around to the south of Melbourne Victoria and is obviously full of even more Mexicans. Everyone in Melbourne makes jokes about how Tasmania (Tassie: pronounced: Tazzie) is so small and isolated that they’re inbred and have all got scars on their necks from having their other head removed at birth. But because Tasmania is not connected to the mainland they have their own identity and are proud of their island state and any form of ridicule directed toward them is fully accepted and enjoyed with much gusto because no matter what anyone says, it’s their secret hideaway and they’re proud to be Tasmanian. This leaves Melburnians with no one left to effectively call Mexicans because south of Tassie is The Antarctic and sunshine-loving Mexicans definitely wouldn’t want to live there!
So just like the bigger chickens that peck the smaller chickens, Queensland hung-it on Sydney, so naturally Sydney then hung it on Melbourne, and, of course, Melbourne hung it on Tassie but Tassie was the baby of the family who just giggled and simply loved the attention and so Melbourne had no choice but to pick on Adelaide!
So the next time you’re in Adelaide and someone makes the statement, “You people from Melbourne reckon you’re better than us!” Just let them know, in no uncertain terms, that it’s all Tasmania’s fault because when we hung-it on them they didn’t care!
You could also blame Queensland because they started all this Mexican stuff. The weird thing is, if everyone south of the border is a Mexican then that means everyone north of the borders are American because America is north of Mexico! In fact any Australians who call other Australians, Mexicans, are actually calling themselves, Americans! The strange thing is, we’re all Australians especially those of us who aren’t American or Mexican, such as, Western Australia.
W.A is obviously over on the West Coast of Australia but because it hasn’t got any borders to its north or south then they must be the only true Australians because they’re definitely not Mexican or American.
But enough of how humans, like all animals, have this cruel type of pecking order that goes on just because of where they live. We all know it’s meant with a gentle nudge and a bit of a wink... unless of course you’re from Canberra.
Below are some of the proposed names for the states, territories and capital cities that will be changed when America or Mexico decide to take over Australia:

Queensland & America combine to become, ‘Queensica’.
America & Queensland combine to become, ‘Ameriland’.
Queensland & Mexico combine to become, ‘Queensico’.
Mexico & Queensland combine to become, ‘Mexiland’.
Queensland’s capital city, Brisbane, is combined with America to become, ‘Brisberica’.
America & Brisbane combine to become, ‘Ambane’.
Brisbane & Mexico combine to become, ‘Brexico’.
Mexico & Brisbane combine to become, ‘Mexicane’.

New South Wales & America combine to become, ‘New South Walesica’.
America & New South Wales combine to become, ‘New South Americales’.
New South Wales & Mexico combine to become, ‘New South Wexico’.
Mexico & New South Wales combine to become, ‘New South Mexicles’.
New South Wales’ capital city, Sydney, is combined with America to become, ‘Syderica’.
America & Sydney are combined to become, ‘Ameriney’.
Sydney & Mexico are combined to become, ‘Sydico’.
And Mexico & Sydney are combined to become, ‘Mexney’.

Victoria & America combine to become, ‘Victerica’.
America & Victoria combine to become, ‘Americoria
Victoria & Mexico combine to become, ‘Victexico’.
Mexico & Victoria combine to become, ‘Mextoria’.
Victoria’s capital city, Melbourne, is combined with America to become, ‘Melberica’.
America & Melbourne combine to become, ‘Ameribourne’.
Melbourne & Mexico combine to become, ‘Melbexico’.
Mexico & Melbourne combine to become, ‘Mexibourne’.

South Australia & America are combined to become, ‘South Austerica’.
America & South Australia are combined to become, ‘South Ameralia’.
South Australia & mexico are combined to become, ‘South Austexico’.
Mexico & South Australia are combined to become, ‘South Mextralia’.
South Australia’s capital city, Adelaide, is combined with America to become, Adelica’.
America & Adelaide combine to become, ‘Americaide’.
Adelaide & Mexico combine to become, ‘Adelexico’.
Mexico & Adelaide combine to become, ‘Mexilaide’.

Tasmania & America are combined to become, ‘Tasmerica’.
America & Tasmania are combined to become, ‘Amerimania’.
Tasmania & Mexico are combined to become, ‘Tasexico’.
Mexico & Tasmania are combined to become, ‘Meximania’.
Tasmania’s capital city, Hobart, is combined with America to become, ‘Hobartica’.
America & Hobart are combined to become, ‘Ameribart’.
Hobart & Mexico are combined to become, ‘Ho-exico’.
And Mexico & Hobart are combined to become, ‘Mexibart’.

Western Australia is combined with America to become, ‘Western Austmerica’.
America & Western Australia are combined to become, ‘Western Americalia’.
Western Australia & Mexico are combined to become, Western Austrexico’.
And Mexico & Western Australia are combined to become, ‘Western Mexicalia’.
Western Australia’s capital city, Perth, is combined with America to become, ‘Pertica’.
America & Perth are combined to become, ‘Amperth’.
Peth & Mexico are combined to become, ‘Pertico’.
And Mexico & Perth are combined to become, ‘Mexicerth’.
The Northern Territory is combined with America to become, ‘Northern Territorica’. America & the Northern Territory are combined to become, ‘Northern Amtry’.
Northern territory & Mexico combine to become, ‘Northern Texico’.
Mexico & the Northern Territory combine to become, ‘Northern Mexitry’.
Northern Territory’s capital city, Darwin, is combined with America to become, ‘Darwica’.
America & Darwin are combined to become, ‘Ameriwin’.
Darwin & Mexico are combined to become, ‘Darxico’.
And Mexico & Darwin combine to become, ‘Mexiwin’.

F#*k this!! My brain is in pain! It's like looking through a Chinese restaurant menu. You know the ones where your head starts to spin after reading meal number 97 which has vegetables but no black bean sauce, and the one with the black bean sauce doesn't have the vegetables so I just order the Singapore noodles and read a magazine instead!
No? Anyway, here's the last one, which is the Australian Capital Territory (A.C.T).
It's capital city is, Canberra. Check it out below:
Australian Capital Terrica
Australian Capital Amerritory
Australian Capital Terrixico
Australian Capital Mexiberra

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G’day there; I was just thinking about what to write but I couldn’t think of anything so instead of worrying about not being able to write about anything I simply started writing about how I had nothing to write about. Now that might sound crazy... unless you’re crazy, then it might sound sane but whatever the case I’ve written a fair bit of my Blog now and that means I’ve got less to write from here on-in and even less if I just keep writing... and even-less at an even-faster-rate if I put in a space underneath this paragraph and then start a new paragraph because there’ll be a big a gap where there wasn’t before...
See?!! And now for a more serious matter; if I don’t hurry up and film some of my comedy ideas, then I won’t be able to present them live on stage, which then means I could well wind up in, ‘The Sunny Hills Retirement Village & Detoxification Unit’, especially for people who wasted their lives talking about filming videos, or is it videoing films?
There’s an idea... a documentary-film shot on video about how the film industry is being taken-over by video, then run the video through a computer to give the effect it’s filmed on film and release it on DVD!
If the human race manage to last another 50-years we’ll need f#*king extension ladders (And That’s Not A Brand Name) just to climb up-past the VHS recorder and THE DVD player and whatever else has been invented and then stacked up-on-top-of your TV and made obsolete just so you can get to the latest viewing invention to be invented which would be stuck on the very top of all the other obsolete inventions that had been invented but by the time you got to the top the f#*king thing would’ve been made obsolete!
That’s right! If you’re scared of heights... the future will be a very scary place, in fact, I’m not feeling real comfortable right now!
The weather is another scary thing, especially if you’re scared of the weather and I’m not talking about an out of control male sheep seeking revenge on the people who removed its testicles without its consent, which is what a weather is, except it’s spelt ‘wether’.
Actually that would be a pretty grouse (Excellent) movie promo with an American voice-over and some building, dramatic music, eg: “Coming soon to a cinema near you. He... was angry. He was an ex-ram with 3 things missing, his drive & both his balls, and now he’s seeking revenge! Mr Bo-janglys stars as, Lone Horn McQuade, in, ‘Three Horns-No Balls’, or, ‘Long Time Coming’.
The only other time you can use the word ‘wether’ is when talking about a bull that’s had its testis removed and then it’s called an Ox and that’s no bull... not after that anyway.
But enough of the unfortunate life of domesticated common farm animals, I’ve got more important things to talk about, like the weather, which isn’t a strong wind with its balls removed but a direct result of sunshine and the planet Earth and that’s about as far as I’m going to go with that subject unless I do another movie promo, eg: American voice-over and some building, dramatic music: “Coming soon to a cinema near you. She was angry. She was more powerful than a sumo-wrestler’s G-String and she was seeking revenge. The Bureau of Meteorology in association with The Oil Industry proudly presents: ‘THE WEATHER’. Featuring extreme wind, rain, hail and possible sunny breaks by midday with a top of 41 degrees. Times and conditions are subject to change without prior notification. ‘The Weather’, now showing on a planet with you!
I’m running late and I’ve now got to go so I’ll bog up the rest of the Blog with an email I was sent yesterday and to which I wrote the bloke’s version of...

Once upon a time, a girl asked a guy "Will you marry me?" The guy said, "NO!" And the girl lived happily ever after and went shopping, dancing, camping, drank martinis, always had a clean house, never had to cook, had sex with whomever she pleased and farted whenever she wanted.

The guy on the other hand made and saved a shipload of money and hired someone to do his shopping for him while he danced with his girlfriends in a luxurious hotel on the French Riviera because he was well and truly over camping but happily drank beer while the cleaners always kept his houses clean and he only cooked for his own pleasure when suddenly one day he smelt a terrible sulphurous fart wafting from his pantry cupboard... so he called the police and his ex was removed from the pantry, handcuffed and given a restraining order.

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G’day, there; I just read a couple of those wacky newspaper stories not long back; one was about how police have launched an investigation at a local hospital in Seattle to determine how a patient who was undergoing heart surgery caught-on-fire back in 2003. It sounds like the poor bugger went in having a heart attack and came out with heartburn.
Apparently the male patient went up in flames after a surgical instrument ignited some alcohol that was poured onto his skin. Now I reckon that’s just wrong; doctors should-not be allowed to drink on the job! And let’s face it, you don’t know what these surgeons get up to once they’ve put you under! If you woke up halfway through an operation you could possibly hear a conversation like this: “OK nurse... Scalpel. Bourbon. Cigarette... has anyone got a lighter?” (WOOF!)
God knows what they’d use as an ashtray? “Nurse... just butt this-out on his gallbladder, he won’t know.”
You’d wake up in Ward-7 with your ear-holes full of cigarette ash and your bum crack full of used drink-coasters, which would be covered in adverts for, ‘Fawlty Towers General Hospital’, Service People Die For!
The other whacked-out story I read was about how firemen were called to a flooded first-floor council flat and found a mini-zoo that included a 100-pound pig, two 6-foot tiger-pythons, a 3-foot crocodile and 6-cats swimming in the water, which pretty much sounds like a normal Friday night at my place in the 90’s!
I read the article out to a mate and said, “What the hell were half a dozen cats doing with 2-pythons and a crocodile?” And without hesitation she said, “Swimming for the nearest exit!”
The article also said that the owner had accidentally left his bath running. Apparently the downstairs neighbours said they heard a pig squealing but thought it was the TV, which is strange because I often mistake my TV for a pig, in fact, I used to take my dog for long walks along the beach until someone told me it was a toaster... at least it explained why he kept burning his tennis balls. It also explained the shocked expression on my Veterinarians face when I brought my dog into surgery with half a loaf of bread sticking out of its clacker!
Anyway back to the story; the owner accidentally left his bath running and water started pouring in from the neighbour’s ceiling downstairs, so they called the fire brigade... hang on! Now this is where I get annoyed! I’m getting sick of people ringing the fire brigade when there’s no fire. It’s a flooded house... call a plumber! Every time a kid gets stuck down a drain they call the fire brigade! He’s down a drain; he’s already got plenty of water, call a plumber!
And a cat stuck up a tree... “My God! There’s a cat stuck up that tree! Quick call the fire brigade... it could burst into flames!”
It makes no sense! Who would people call if a chook was stuck up a tree... a painter? And who cares anyway? Let the cat get it!
And what about the waste of water every time the fire brigade have to hose a cat out of a tree, forget it guys! Improvise! How about a giant slingshot with a dog as ammo?
That’s it for me, I’ve got to go, my emergency Bat-Phone just went off, there’s a Yellow-Fin-Tuna being attacked by a pod of dolphins and all the fire trucks are out saving a cat!

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Yes Ladies & Gentlemen, today is the big day, when millions of people around the world will tune in and view a shipload of horses getting eagerly mounted by jockeys and ridden like there’s no tomorrow... but first, let’s talk about, ‘The Melbourne Cup’.
Now, depending on what time you’re reading this Blog, today is, was and/or has-been, the day or possibly, night of, ‘The Melbourne Cup’. Yes the big one where approximately 24-horses will be eagerly mounted by over excited jockeys and ridden like there’s no tomorrow, which for most of them there won’t be, especially the one who comes last.
But there can only be one winner and for that winner, a night fit for a stallion! Yes, an all expenses paid buffet of straw, Lucerne and 2-bunches of carrot-ends, of course he’ll also be paid for riding the horse, especially if they find out how many drugs he pumped into it, either way, it’s getting over the line first that counts and as glue factories all over this wide brown land of droughts and flooding rains start up their mincers, the rest of the world gets ready to forget about global warming and instead enjoy the unusually warm Summer temperatures we’re lucky enough to experience here on a Melbourne Spring day as the biggest horse race in the world gives out 3-cheers in the name of gambling; a fine tradition carried on through the centuries and giving those of us who are not gamblers the opportunity to save money by not gambling.
Thank You Australia; Thank You World... but it’s time we started taking gambling seriously and that means racing anything we can get our hands on. What about chicken races? 25 of the pluckiest cluckers ever to lay on a track; and although the jockeys are going to have to be dedicated enough to waste away in a sauna for a very long time just to mount these fine culinary and disease carrying delights, just imagine the joy and excitement of witnessing the winning chook and it’s rider almost-flying over the finishing line wearing only a pair of Adidas runners and a fowl expression, followed by the huge roar from the crowd as they recognize these fine feathery flappers who flail far behind will give rise to a feast of roast chicken dinners and is the very same reason I don’t attend cockroach races!
And with temperatures reaching up into the high 20’sC / 80’sF it’s looking real good for the refreshing drinks industry and of course the sawdust industry who do a fine job every year in the car-park.
The fashions too are always a treat with some of the finest costumes on display for all to enjoy like the short tight shorts showcased by, ‘The Jim Beam Party Crew’, a group of highly trained, beautiful, young women who, just on seeing their beautiful smiling faces and golden brown skin, will make you want to get into anything but a can of bourbon!
That’s right punters, ‘The Melbourne Cup’, a day where a less polluting form of obsolete transport runs around in a circle because it’s better than standing in a barn and you can bet on that!

I gotta go, the race is starting!
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G’day there, I didn’t do a Plum-Blog for yesterday, Sunday the 30th of October, because I was having a supremely lazy day, annnnnnnnnd............................ loving it!
Daylight saving kicked in on Sunday morning and that meant everyone’s clocks had to be put forward by 1-hour at exactly 2-a.m.
Last year I set my alarm clock to go-off at exactly 2-a.m so I could get up and put my clock forward by one hour... but by the time my alarm clock rang it was already an hour behind!
What I should’ve done, is set my alarm for one-minute before 2-a.m then when there was just a couple of seconds to go before it turned 2-o’clock I could’ve quickly put it forward 1-hour, which would’ve been 3-o’clock meaning I would’ve been one hour ahead and that’s confusing especially if you’re going to that much trouble just to get the correct time.
This year, to be safe, I went out on Saturday night and made sure I didn’t get home till well after 2-o’clock Sunday morning. In fact, this year I didn’t get home till 3-a.m, so I missed 2-a.m by 1-hour and I wasn’t sure if that meant I had to put my clock forward 2-hours or just one hour so I just put my clock back by 24-hours and had the day-off!
And that’s why I didn’t write my Blog yesterday... but here’s one for today:

The latest news article I read was a wacky tale of how Arnold Shwartzenneggar burns his children’s dirty clothes if they leave them lying around the house, and that sounds serious... especially if his kids are lying around in ‘em! I bet they don’t lie around in front of the telly when he’s home! It’d be good if his kids were named, Conner & Sarah, coz he could say, “SARAH CONNER... THESE CLOTHES WILL BE TERMINATED!!!”
The Governator of California bans his 4-children from seeing friends if they don’t do their own laundry, which sounds like he doesn’t let his kids see friends if their friends don’t do their own laundry; and that really would be harsh!
I wonder what his wife, Maria Shriver, thinks about all this strictness? Come to think of it, if Maria Shriver is married to Arnold Shwartzenegger then why isn’t she called, Maria Shwartzenneger? What’s going on there? Then again, I guess you’ve got to draw the line somewhere? Besides, they might be rich but it would send them broke if she had to change her business cards form normal size to 40-feet wide! They’d be hanging out each end of her handbag like a giant hotdog!
Apparently, Shwartzenegger is actually pronounced: ‘Farts-an-egger’, which was ‘an old Austrian name invented by Arnold’s great great grandfather after eating too much bratwurst sausage, which may well have terminated his underpants but, interestingly, translated to English his lengthy name means: ‘I Created This Name So Every Year The Taxation Office Would Also Have To Suffer With Writer’s Cramp!’
The article also stated his wife, Maria Shriver, says that, “Arnie is strict about laundry and how he goes around taking the kid’s clothes that they leave out.” She said, “He throws things in the fire or hides things and they don’t find them again.


Where the hell is he hiding these things? He must have a bloody good hiding spot if his kids can’t find them! A mate of mine reckons that must be how he’s making all the money for California... he’s selling everyone’s clothes to the Salvation Army.
The Salvation Army must be doing OK out it too because I heard they just bought 10 Black-Hawk Helicopters!
Next time a Salvo ask you for money... you had better comply!
Old Arnie would be frustrated if I was his kid, coz I’ve only got one set of clothes... and I never take em off!

That’s it for me today, I’m out of here but............................ I WILL BE BACK!!

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G’day there; here’s a true (apparently) story about an egg; and because it’s so amazing let’s see how many exclamation marks we get out of this so-called true tale!
There’s one already! Shit, there’s another one! And another! This is amazing! And we haven’t even started the story yet!!! Crikey, that last one had 3 exclamation marks!!!! This is way out of control!! I’d better get this story started or we’ll all be drowned in exclamations!!!!!!
Please Note: In Australia the word ‘CHOOK’ = CHICKEN. The word ‘CACKLE-BERRY’ refers to an EGG, as does the word, ‘BUM-NUT’. The words COIT & NOUGHT refer to the obvious but the word, ‘COCK’ has not been used to refer to a ROOSTER as we think it inappropriate! Crikey, there’s another F#%*ING exclamation mark!!!

It’s a weird world and that probably explains a story I read recently about a German chicken farm that was very excited to announce a new world record after claiming one of their chooks laid a giant 6-ounce egg! I bet the chicken didn’t share their enthusiasm!
This poor clucker must’ve been lying on the nest with a midwife by her side while yelling out for MORE DRUGS and screaming at the rooster: “YOU DID THIS TO ME YOU BASTARD!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
Apparently the egg was 3.5 inches long... but had a circumference of 8-INCHES... the chicken’s coit must have immediately taken 12-months stress leave!!!
This German chook farm sounds like a hell-hole, which is a name the chicken could also call its nought from now on... and just what goes on in that particular barn is anyone’s guess?
I can imagine a rooster wearing long-black riding-boots and tapping a riding-crop against its leg while strutting up & down the barn stating, “Listen here you chickens... we know zat one of you is hiding zee world’s biggest egg, now give it up for zee barn or you’ll all be sent to zee Chicken Surprise factory!!!”
Christoph Athmann, the owner of the chicken farm where the egg was laid, said he was amazed at the size of the egg. A mate of mine said he was amazed at the size of the hole! But not as amazed as the chicken who’d be wearing a permanent expression of amazement... and horror... for the rest of its life!
Apparently because the farm’s got over 35,000 chickens, they have to use machines, such as conveyor belts, to automatically collect the eggs and that means they don’t know which one of the chooks laid the giant egg. But I reckon it wouldn’t be too hard to find it... it would be the cross-eyed chook sitting on a packet of frozen peas!!!
The only thing is, they wouldn’t know it was cross-eyed until they popped its eyeballs back in!

The End (Pardon The Pun)

After all that, I wonder how many exclamation marks there were??? F#%K IT! Now I’ve started doing Question Marks!!!!

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I was reading in the paper that Tony Blair’s famous all-year-round, healthy orange glow is due to the fact he spends nearly double on make-up as the average British woman.
A mate of mine jokingly said, “And you know how much pommy women need to spend on make up!”
The article said his healthy orange glow is due to the fact he spends nearly double on make-up as the average British woman, but it didn’t say anything about him wearing it; and that’s probably because he’s a mad shopper who gets a glow just from the excitement of buying make-up.
I got an orange glow last night when I bought a Party-Size-Bucket of fried chicken pieces. I was extremely happy about buying it but I didn’t get the orange glow till after I ate the whole bucket by myself!
Tony Blaire’s orange glow... or Tone’s orange tone, is because he actually wears the make-up he buys, which is a hell of a lot of make-up when you think about it... coz if pommy women already need twice as much as the average woman and Tony Blair’s using twice as much as a pommy woman coz he’s not a woman, then that’s a hell of a lot of taxpayers money; and obviously a huge waste of taxpayers money too coz it’s not working... you can still tell he’s a bloke!
This article got me worried about my own country so I rang Canberra to find out if the Australian Prime Minister wears make-up? Without hesitation they replied, “No way, the country couldn’t afford it!”
Then I rang the British embassy and asked what Blair’s reason to his taxpayers was for needing to wear make up and they said he needs to spend the taxpayer’s money on make-up because he’s the leader of Great Britain and so needs to look healthy and at his best at all times so that the world has faith in him and in his decisions.

I thought that was a fair enough answer... but it still doesn’t explain the bra & fishnet stockings!

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G’day there, looks like we got ourselves another day on planet Earth? And how about this weather we’ve been having lately!?
I remember back in the days when talking about the weather was boring... now it’s a vital part of every day life & conversation!

DUDE#1: “Good morning Barry, decent storm last night. Is that your house floating down Main Street?”

DUDE#2: “No Bob, it couldn’t be... my wife just phoned me a minute ago... she just touched down in L.A.”

I reckon the best way to stop all these floods and mudslides and cyclones and droughts and twisters etc is to burn as much fossil fuels as we possibly can, because before long the oceans will rise and then another ice age will happen and we won’t have to worry about chilling our beer down!
Hell, it won’t worry me... in Melbourne Australia we have an ice age every winter!
Yep, winters here are absolutely freezing, although I’ve got to admit those 2-weeks of summer are pretty cool. Yep winter’s freezing & summer’s cool!
I remember when my old man built us kids an aboveground swimming pool. It was in the backyard for 15-years and although I never learnt to swim, I won 15 trophies for ice-skating!
It used to get so cold in Melbourne we’d have to sleep in the fridge to keep warm.
If you wanted to have a bath you’d fill the bath with just hot water only but if you didn’t dive in quick enough you could crack your skull on the ice.
I’m exaggerating of course, by the time the water came out is was cold... in fact, if you were having a party and you ran out of ice cubes you simply held your glass under the hot tap.
Not that you’d call them parties, they were really more like get togethers; no one worried about BYO drinks, it was BYO blankets and if you didn’t get together you’d freeze.

Example Of a Party in Melbourne Pre-Global Warming:

DUDE#1:”Hello Laura, come in. I’ll just put your ice skates in the fridge to defrost.”
DUDE#2: “Thanks Baz. Now you know I don’t drink but here’s some beer for the house.”
DUDE#1: “Thanks, I better pop them in the microwave before they explode.”
DUDE#2: “Thanks Barry, you wouldn’t have a spare cigarette by any chance?”
DUDE#1: “No, sorry mate, I had to give them up.”
DUDE#2: “Doctor’s orders?”
DUDE#1: “No, someone stole my lighter.”
DUDE#2: “Why didn’t you buy another one?”
DUDE#1: “Have you seen the price of blow-torches lately.”
DUDE#1: “Hey Barry, who’s that cool guy leaning up against the wall?”
DUDE#2: “ Oh, that’s Bob, he’s not cool he’s frozen.”
DUDE#1: “What happened to him?”
DUDE#2: “He put his hand up against the wall and it stuck! We would’ve warmed to him but we got sick of him not bringing his own blanket!”

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Once upon a time there was clock... actually once upon a clock there was the time... and it said it was time to post another Plum-Blog.
Let’s go...
...Well it’s that time of the year here again in Melbourne Australia where... hang on! Just let me just explain to American Internet surfers, who are thinking of coming over here for a holiday and don’t want to stand out like... American tourists, just exactly how us (we) Aussies (pronounced, ‘Ozzies’) pronounce, ‘Melbourne Australia’.
It’s not pronounced, as many Americans believe, ‘Melborrrn Oss-stray-lee-ah’, no, not at all... here in Oz we pronounce it, ‘Melbun Stray-yah’, that’s right! Strange but true.
Also; when saying, ‘G’day mate’, you guys generally say it with your mouths fully animated making it come out like, ‘G’daaaaaaaaaaaay MaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaTe’. The trick is to say it lazily using only your tongue while leaving your mouth fully botoxed and inflexible. The only time throughout that greeting that your lips should touch each other is when you say the ‘M’ at the start of ‘Mate’, while making sure not to follow through with the ‘T’ at the end of, ‘Mate’, which will make an obvious clicking sound.
Instead, simply let your tongue stop on the roof of your mouth, which will give the effect that you’ve suddenly thought of something else when in actual fact it’s just a good lazy way to end what you really didn’t want to say anyway!
There are also weird convivial customs, for example, if an Aussie greets you with, ‘G’day mate’, never reply with, ‘I’m well thanks and you?’ This will only cause momentary confusion resulting in an uncomfortable silence; instead, when greeted with, ‘G’day mate’, either reply with, ‘G’day mate’, or, ‘How are you going’, pronounced, ‘Air-garn’.
You also may have noticed I haven’t put in a question mark after the greeting, ‘How are you going’, or, ‘Air-garn’, because this is not a question but a inconsequential formality to be passed over ASAP in order to move right along to more important dialogue, such as, ‘Jar wash a footy on a weekend?’ This previous sentence, actually, is a question and, translated, means, ‘Did you watch the football on the weekend?’
Do not answer this question with, ‘Air-garn’, or you will more than likely be answered with, ‘Air-garn’ (uncomfortable silence and then) “Jar wash a footy on a weekend?”
You may also respond to, ‘Air-garn’, with, ‘Air-garn’, which makes no sense at all but nobody gives a shit how you’re going anyway and that’s why we Aussies never answer that so-called question and why it has evolved from a question to a noise that requires an echoing of that noise back to the person who didn’t really want to make that noise in the first place but had to in order to find out if the other person watched the football on the weekend.
Very often after stating, ‘Air-garn’, you might be lead to believe that the other person is ignoring you completely and that they have not responded to you at all... but if you look very closely after offering the greeting, ‘Air-garn’, you may notice an amazingly miniscule, almost microscopic, nod of the head. If you were not born in Australia this ‘nod’ is something that will take time to recognize and only after living in Australia for many years and receiving daily 10-milligram injections of Vegemite will you be able to notice it.
We suggest that after offering the greeting, ‘Air-garn’, that you accept the other person has indeed responded and that you get on with your day.
There are also occasions such as first thing at work on a Monday morning when after offering the greeting, ‘Air-garn’, you will in return hear a weird grunting noise normally associated with a chest cold, eg; OZ-WORKER#1: “Air-garn”. OZ-WORKER#2: “Koff!” The term, ‘Koff’ generally means: ‘Please do not approach me in this friendly manner, in fact, make haste to move in the opposite direction of me until, at least, morning ‘Smoko’, (Morning Tea) unless I need to borrow money or a cigarette off you. This response is usually the cause of the worker’s football team losing on the weekend resulting in drinking rum and beer till 2-a.m that very morning.
This seemingly ugly response will be understood completely by the happy go-lucky worker without any offence due to the fact that the following Monday he himself will be telling Oz-worker#2 to go forth and multiply as his football team lost on the weekend resulting in drinking beer and rum until 2-a.m that very morning.
PLEASE NOTE: If his team had won on that very same weekend, his alcohol consumption would be no different in volume.

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G’day there, here’s a couple of excerpts from a book that I thought about not completing...YET!!
These ancient Viking related people live up north, just south of the North Pole, which is where you’ll end up if you head north, unless of course you keep heading north then you’ll end up heading south. In fact, after arriving, Bjorn Walker, the first explorer to discover the North Pole tried to keep heading north but soon found himself back where he started in the first place, which was in the south.
To combat this he kept heading south and soon found he was back on track and heading north. What he didn’t realise was that on arriving at the North Pole for the second time he’d unknowingly discovered the South Pole for the first time.
After 6 months of travelling north of the North Pole and south of the South Pole and south of the North Pole and north of the South Pole he decided to give it one last try and determinedly headed off in one constant direction only to find himself back where he started more times than he could count.
What he didn’t realise was that if he had stayed where he was in the first place he would still have got back to where he was but wouldn’t have had to travel so far to get there.
Finally, dazed and confused and after years of frustration, Bjorn Walker threw his arms in the air and headed west eventually discovering the south-east of America’s north-west only to be killed by a lost tribe of alarmed south-eastern Indians who had travelled from the north-west in order to head south-east.

The English discovered Australia in 1788 A.D. unfortunately what they discovered was that the people were already living there had obviously discovered it already. Even the Dutch in the 1600’s had discovered that it was already discovered by the first people to discover it when they themselves discovered it a hundred years before the English.
This not only took the shine off the English discovery but forced them to change their discovery to a takeover when like the first moon landing and the arrival at the already discovered Americas, a flag was placed into the sandy soil signalling that their guns were bigger than indigenous people’s guns but only because the locals didn’t have any. It also stated that the first inhabitants must now pay rent to a big chief in England via their new landlords for the privilege of staying on the now English land.
Unfortunately for these generally peaceful people, rent was to be paid in the form of soil, which was an immediate problem as it meant they had to give the English their own land for the privilege of living on their own land inevitably leaving them in no man’s land.

The ridiculousness and cheek of all the above was highlighted 200 years later by an indigenous Australian when on his arrival at London airport stuck an aboriginal flag into the tarmac and declared England the property of Australia. He was arrested and told he was being ridiculous, proving his point exactly.
It must be noted that the moon is uninhabited and may have already been exhausted of rent millions of years before the American flag was stuck in it.
The English used Australia as a prison for British convicts who’d stolen a loaf of bread in order to get a free trip to the sunny isle along with rats, rabbits, foxes, blackberries and stinging nettles to name just a few names but namely just the names just named.
British explorers like Burke and Wills, having no comprehension of Australia’s arid and scorching interior, happily headed off into the harmful Australian heat only to fry and die of thirst and hunger while refusing food from the knowledgeable natives who sat around entranced while watching the deranged duo disintegrate in what was then the equivalent of today’s, ‘Survivor’, TV series.
After these two and their crew finished imagining roast lamb stew, which they felt they were due, they imagined eating everything in a zoo but not the local tucker it’s true, so in time with no food, the day they would soon rue, became dangerously due, and with diminishing ease they faded from view.

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G’day... I just heard they're bringing in a new Australian law that if you refuse a job, you won't be eligible for the dole.
This should be good for the security door business because if you’re told you’re going to be working in a job dipping nails in a galvanising drum or a job specialising in demolishing asbestos laden houses... then it's a pretty certain bet you may choose to go shopping in other people's pantries instead!
Apparently burglars prefer to rob houses around 4 or 5 in the morning because that’s when people are in their deepest sleep and, let’s face it, burglars don’t want to wake-up house-holders while they’re busily cleaning out their pantries... well the nice burglars anyway.
The other thing that forcing people into jobs and not giving them social security payments if they refuse is it will help industry; especially the drug industry.
In America they’ve been doing this very same policy for years and now it’s really easy to get drugs over there.
Grannies right through to kids are right into the drug trade because apparently it pays more than mopping out the toilets at McDonalds.
It has also helped the building industry because now there are so many people going to prison for drug-related crime that the government can’t build prisons fast enough... much to the delight of taxpayers.
I’m guessing there’s going to be lots of jobs offered to unemployed people to build prisons, and when they’ve had enough of building prisons they can simply move straight into a cell without all the hassle of having to get a job selling drugs.
With the oily, warming climate, commonly known as cyclones & floods etc; spiralling oily fuel prices and World War-3, commonly known as, ‘The Never Ending Oily War On Terror’, it makes sense that we should help people have their pantries cleaned out by self employed go-getters... it’s the democratic way.

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G’day there, I’ve got a bit of a hangover today so it’ll be interested to see what actually comes out my head for this Blog.
There’s not much so far but I haven’t stopped writing yet!
Even at this point I’ve got to say I’m not feeling real confident about this Blog... but at least I’m still writing!
Things still aren’t looking good at this stage and after reading what I’ve just written so far I can confidently confirm it’s definitely nothing to write about!
Now there’s something I don’t understand; if something amazing happens... like, for example, if humans landed on the planet Jupiter then that would be worth writing about and so people would write about it and obviously that means people would read about it.
The weird thing is, people would be walking around saying, “Hey, humans have landed on the planet Jupiter!” And, on hearing this information, the people listening would reply, “Really, that’s amazing, you wouldn’t read about it!” But, in actual fact, you would read about it because it’s amazing so people would write about it and that means people would read about it.
Alternatively, if someone asks you what you did last Saturday night and all you can come up with is that last Saturday night you stayed home and did the dishes before falling asleep in front of the telly then that should be the proper time & place to state that you wouldn’t read about it because nobody would bother writing about it and so NOBODY WOULD F#%KING WELL READ ABOUT IT!
F#%K THIS!!! I’m going to see if there’s a government department I can write-to to complain about this abnormality, which means it must be an amazing complaint because I’m thinking of writing about it and sending it to a government department and that means they’re going to be reading about it but, then again, if it’s a government department it will just sit in a tray collecting dust, which means I’m going to write about it but no one is going to read about it and that, I’ve got to say, is truly amazing, and I say that with total confidence because quite simply... you have just read about it.
Stuff this, I’m going for a snooze... and, if all goes well, I’ll have one of those dreams that I won’t be able to write about!

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How’s about this weather we’ve been having in Melbourne Australia the last couple of days... absolutely mar-tastic! I’ll never knock global warming again!! In fact, I’m going to leave my car running overnight and see if I can’t beat tomorrow’s predicted top temperature by 3-degrees!
It’s great to be out of Winter but remember it’s now time to take caution when going down the beach; not only are their Great White Sharks, Blue Ringed Octopi & Stonefish to beware of... there’s also the dreaded G-string, which if viewed on a dark, hairy male can make you sicker than a 3-headed cockroach surfing around a 12-month old curry... but it’s a good intro to the next piece, entitled:

By Marc Twine

I’ve always thought G-strings looked pretty sexy, especially when stretched over the hole of a nice, shapely, full-bodied guitar, in between the D-string and the B-string.
The other type of G-string, which is a piece of dental floss used as underpants, would probably look pretty sexy on humans too if you could find out where it went, and if you do find out keep it to yourself because we’re talking the dark side of the moon and I definitely don’t want to go there!
Washing my under garments is not a favourite pastime at the best of times, but if you’re only option was to wear the burrowing G-string, then I’d be buying the disposable variety because let’s face it you’re only giving micro-organisms the opportunity to play ‘Tug-Of-War’ over a boggy swamp!
A friend of mine, who shall remain nameless, told me she didn’t wear G-strings because they were too uncomfortable. She said she did wear V-strings though because, “When you wear a V-string,” she said, “You don’t even know you’ve got one on.” “Have you got one on now?” I asked. “No I haven’t.” She said. “How do you know?” I asked, “You just said you didn’t even know when you’ve got one on!” So she went into the bathroom to check and it turned out she had 3-pairs on! She didn’t even know it! Now that’s comfortable!
Some of the swimwear people are displaying, or should I say, not displaying down at the beach nowadays are almost invisible. Their bather bottoms are grazing so far up the back paddock you could be mistaken for thinking you’re walking through a nudist colony. It’s not the type of swimwear you put on; in fact, you put it in!
Last year the beach-police had to use sniffer dogs to find out if beach goers actually had anything on at all but only one person was arrested and even he got let off with a warning after he sneezed and his dental-flossed-swimwear shot out his nose.
In a few hundred years from now, when the ozone layer is almost non-existent, people will have to wear protective space suits, helmets and boots just to go outdoors.
The beach goers will have their own specially designed space suits including helmet and boots that will all fit neatly up their butt crack. And if designed properly, they won’t even know they’ve got it on.

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I cooked a roast the other night but I didn’t want to eat it all by myself so I emailed an email, which is about all you can do with an email except for reading one, or writing one, or deleting one, or forwarding one, or... OK... THERE’S A LOT YOU CAN DO WITH AN EMAIL!!!!!!!!!
Anyway, I emailed an invitation to friends while I Vee-Beed (enjoyed a few brews) in the backyard... and coz I’m not feeling too good today I thought I’d whack it in the Blog to bog up the content; here it is:

I have a roast roasting, & I’m outside toasting,
I’m a damn fine old cook & I am not boasting.
There’s potatoes, carrots, beans & roast lamb,
Just one taste of my cooking & you’ll say, ‘Goddamn!!’

That’s it!

...Next up, a spiel entitled:

I just watched a DVD entitled, ‘SAW’, and to be totally blunt I wish I never saw ‘SAW’, or is it, I wish I didn’t see-SAW? Coz every scene I saw of ‘SAW’ I wished I’d never seen. It was full of holes and just didn’t do it for me. The ironic thing is (when I say ‘ironic’ I’m not talking about the art of ironing) I went to the video shop to get the ‘SAW’ DVD but when I got home and whacked it in the player it didn’t play! So I went back to the video shop the next day and told them it wouldn’t play and so they gave me another copy of ‘SAW’ to see but when I got home and whacked it in the player it didn’t play, so I checked the cover to see I hadn’t hired, ‘GROUNDHOG DAY’ by mistake but no, sadly it was ‘SAW’.
So I went back to the video shop the next day and told them again that it wouldn’t play but this time I asked for a VHS copy instead. Sadly the VHS copy worked leaving me feeling sore that I’d seen ‘SAW’ and that is sincerely sad!!!!!!!!
I think I’ll give the dudes at the video shop a call tomorrow and see if they’d like to come over to my place and drop off some petrol (Gas) so I can drop it back to them.
DVD’s suck big time but at least it gave me an extra bit of something to bog-up the Blog with!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

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Now about these oil prices... how come every time a member of The Bush Family organises an invasion of a Middle Eastern country the price of petrol goes up?
Why can’t they invade a country that’s riddled with a noxious weed or something else instead? For example, I don’t care if the price of Scotch-thistles goes up because my car doesn’t run on Scotch thistles but, if it did, I’ve got a sneaking suspicion the particular country that was riddled with Scotch thistles would probably get invaded... whatever country that’d be? Probably Scotland? Hoots-Mun!
You know, there is a solution, it’s called solar power and if the powers that be would be kind enough to focus on harnessing the sun’s solar power instead of oil then we could stop having to cause so much extra pollution inside our world’s little gas bubble (atmosphere) and we’d be able to drive from one end of the country & back again practically free of charge!
The only problem with that is Petrol (Gas) stations etc wouldn’t make any money, so every time you pulled over for a leak at one of their toilets they’d charge you 5-dollars a litre to pass your urine!
Another suspect issue that a bloke called, ‘Stick’, pointed out to me the other day was... whenever the price of a barrel of oil goes up, the price of petrol goes up but, strangely, the price of a 4-litre plastic container of oil, to give your car an oil change with, hasn’t gone up at all???????????????!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
... And finally, the other reason the powers that be will never replace oil with solar power is because...you can’t invade the Sun!! COZ IT’S TOO F#%KING HOT!!!!!!!
What The... Who The... Why The... Whoa!!!!!!!!!!!??
Anyway, that’s my say for the day... hang in there and remember... if you forget, then you won’t know you have!

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G’day there, I hope this Blog finds you well... let’s go:
A mate had a birthday today/night & I’ve got to say I’m here writing this Blog while he & the gang are still out kicking a gruesome dent in the rear-end of the night. I stuck-in there for a while but I had to get my ass back to base to knock up another Plum-Blog so I could go to sleep. Well, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it!
I’m not in the mood to write a Blog today, so instead I’ve thrown in a poem from another one of my uncompleted books which I have completely uncompleted completely... enjoy & Goodnight...


I don’t know what to write about,
But I’ve got a rough idea,
That if I write enough about, whatever I hold dear,
Then it should flow out nice and smooth,
And give out warmth and cheer,
But I know not what to write about,
And I think I’ve made that clear?

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If you’re reading this Blog and it’s Friday the 14th of October 2005 but at the top it says Saturday the 15th of October 2005, that’s because I’ve been writing & posting my Blogs the night before they’re supposed to be up, and that’s because overnight my head turns to polystyrene, which is like that white foamy stuff that companies put things like DVD players into so they don’t get damaged if you accidentally drop them and that’s good for my brain because my brain will be protected if I happen to accidentally drop my head but it makes it hard to write a Blog in the morning because my head happens to be one of those heads that seems to turn to polystyrene overnight and that’s why I write my Blogs the night before the actual date that that particular Blog should be posted because overnight my head turns to polystyrene and it’s damn hard to write a Blog with a head made of polystyrene, in fact, it would be easier using a crayon.
The other reason it’s hard to write a Blog in the morning is because I’m asleep! And I don’t blame me because I just did over a year of 4-a.m ‘Hell-Wake-Ups’ commonly known as Brekkie Radio, so I gotta tell ye, I’m enjoying sleeping-in and not writing my Blogs in the morning, in fact I try to politely get up in the early afternoon so as not to disturb the mornings... besides it’s hard to shave when your head is made of polystyrene and the high-pitched squeaky sound that cleaning your teeth makes would send you deaf!
Now about this bird flu... it really could turn out to be a very serious problem but at this stage I think it’s still a relatively minor problem and to keep it that way I ask you to help out by keeping your eyes and ears open for any irregular or suspicious situations, for example, if you’re at a chemist shop and you see a chicken walk in and ask for a packet of throat lozenges, call the police immediately! If you’re in the waiting room at your family doctor’s and there’s a chicken sitting next to you wearing a scarf and a backpack full of tissues, call the police immediately.
OK that’s about it for me, I’m off to bed, it’s early but I’ve got a bit of a cold and if I don’t wake up in the morning it could well be something to do with the bird I slept with last night!

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Do you know What? He’s a good friend of mine. Last week, What went where I didn’t really want What to go and where did What go and why? Well, What went where I didn’t want What to go and he went because What was really wanting to go where What wanted. Why and what for? Only What knows why and what he got when What went where What went to get whatever it is that What got when he went to get what he got? And do you know what? I wouldn’t be surprised if What knows not a lot about where What went and what What got.



Today I write but you already know that because that’s the title and I’ve said it twice now! I write today because I can’t get enough positive charge in my brain to do anything else, it’s a wonder I’m even doing this? Then again, on the positive side, at least I’m writing this, which sounds positive, so who knows? Maybe the change from negative brain space to positive is now occurring? I think there is a change occurring because over the previous 2 days I couldn’t even get out of bed, and I was on my own! Then again if somebody had hopped in with me, which would’ve been surprising, I would’ve hopped straight out, especially if I didn’t know them, but that wasn’t likely to happen and it didn’t, which wasn’t surprising.
I went to the loo eventually and after that I just stayed up, had an orange and read the local paper. There was a story about a dummy of a religious saint that people pin money onto at religious festivals (not a bad job except for the pain), another story of a married couple who wanted a noise deflecting fence built along the road out front of their house, and an ad for people interested in learning to paint porcelain dolls. I put the local paper in my breakfast bowl and poured hot milk and honey over it but it was still bland.
After wandering the house, I headed for the computer and started to write. I entitled it, ‘Today I Write’ but you already know about that, unless you started reading halfway through, in which case you’d still know about that anyway because I just told you again.
Now I will finish this article with the statement, ‘Today I Stop Writing’, putting an abrupt end to my article headed, ‘Today I Write’ and informing you for a 4th or is it a 5th time, that this article was entitled, ‘Today I Write’?

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‘Tonight I’m gonna party like it’s 19-two thousand & 60!!’

We’re a weird mob us human animals, we started out as nomads, a true community, hunting, gathering, looking out & caring for each other.
Then we started farming the land, less communal than nomads but still together in family groups.
Mother and father with children watching on; learning the skills and wholesome morals of their parents and the outlying community.
Then the industrial revolution arrived; fathers left for the factories, mothers left to raise the kids alone, pollution began building at an unimaginably faster rate. Family and what was left of the community was broken and fragmented. The rise of marriage breakdowns, serial killers, rapists & religion/business etc; and deceitful politicians got all ‘oiled-up’ and angry.
They also declared that work-contract negotiations between employers & employees would help the common person make more money, amongst other tall & twisted tales.
I see the human race, racing toward the finishing line. That old apple loving gravitational puller, Isaac Newton, calculated the human race would be extinct by the year 2060 A.D. And it’s looking like he may have been right!
I think of ‘us’ (The Human Race) as an out of control double-Decker bus full of partying people wearing party hats, blowing party-whistles and hurriedly drinking champagne... Then, suddenly, we realise the bus has just gone over a 9000-foot cliff. Everybody on board stops in horror for a couple of seconds, (Global Warming) then shrugs their shoulders and continues to party all the way to the bottom.

Rock n Roll
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G’day I’m back from the Narooma Blues Festival where we enjoyed day after day of blue skies, perfect temperatures, gentle, pleasant breezes and the sound of the South Pacific breaking on the shores below the foothills of the Snowy Mountain Ranges.
The very cool, brisk nights turned comfortably warm by 9 a.m but I gotta say, it’s good to be back home in Melbourne to enjoy the grey, overcast skies and temperatures that’d make a Melbourne-Zoo Polar-Bear long for the Arctic.
Yes I’m back & rearing to go........ Back to Narooma!!!

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