fucko inc.

BEST SONG EVER!!! NUFF SAID

2010-09-04T02:10:00.000+10:00

I'M WICKED AND I'M LAAAAZYYY

2010-02-24T22:16:00.002+11:00

Well duh...this clearly isn't a revelation, in fact from memory this is a regular occurrence, but fuck me if I don't have a fabulous life that deserves to be lived and can't always be paused so I can write down stuff on here...also, my computer chair is a bitch. The kind of bitch that presses my meaty, rugby thighs together, which in turn pushes into my nuts, which means I slouch so I can spread my legs a bit, which in turn means I start to hurt my back. It's a vicious circle of pain I'm dealing with here clearly. So that is one of my excuses and I'm not only sticking with it, I'm rubbing it into your face as well by spelling it out in way too much detail.

Anyway I thought I'd reveal one of the obsessions I'm currently using to fill a small gap in my week. I've become so obsessed with a local restaurant that I'm now the proud owner of a permanent booking every Thursday night. Yeah I said it, a permanent booking...which means each and every Thursday I can be found sitting at what has turned out to be my personal table with a collection of lovely friends. Fortunately my life isn't likely to inspire a hit of any kind so I feel pretty safe being in one location, once a week at 8.30pm. I'm also usually surrounded by 5 of my lovely friends, so I could always sacrifice one of them as a shield, should the need arise, though it shouldn't.

So no doubt you're wondering, how is it possible to love a place so much that you can factor in being there each and every week, with 5 friends in tow, regardless of what might arise. Well to date, it's worked a treat, in fact I've been there once a week for roughly 5 weeks now...if memory serves me correctly, which generally it doesn't, so do with that what you will. My only stress of late seems to be, can I invite enough friends to fill out all the chairs. I feel like keeping the name of the venue to myself, as since the Age ran a review of it, you need to have a booking to ensure you can sit down and order on arrival and whilst I only have 4 followers, you never know who's reading these things so I'm keeping my lips zipped.

It's safe to say its a few blocks up the street, it creates Asian inspired food with a funky, slightly bent twist. For instance they serve a 5 spice chicken with oriental spices, it's like KFC but if it was created in China not Kentucky. There's a pork stir-fry that contains pork belly that's been roasted till it crackles, so you get the chewy crunch as well as the deep, smooth curry sauce it swims in. Mmmmm my fingers are drooling just typing this, which in hindsight, is probably an affliction I should have medically treated, but you get the idea. Anyway, there's much more that can be added to that list, but I think the resounding beauty of such an arrangement is that each week I get to enjoy top quality food, surrounded by top quality people. The roster of guests always changes too, although there's regulars in the mix now too. They also revel in the inclusion of new guests who sit down to a meal that blows their minds and they get to shake their heads and go...

"I know right"

It's a rewarding gathering that arrives every week so why the hell wouldn't I go out of my way to find time to do it each week. Let's face it, you are jealous aren't you...maybe your invite will come one day and you can join us at the round table of weekly delights...maybe.

ME AM LUB THIS TO DEATH

2009-08-15T23:25:00.004+10:00

OK this isn't something I've ever done, but love this song so much I have to tell anyone that will listen, so, I heard this song in the background of a solo performance on the latest season of SO YOU THINK YOU CAN DANCE - AMERICA. One of the cool popper guys called Phil did a routine to it. Anyway he is fucken talented as all get out...(what the fuck is with that saying? loves it regardless)...but this song grabbed me even more. So searched it out, downloaded it and now telling anyone who cares and even those who couldn't give a fuck, all about it. Have a listen, it features samples of PC and Mac sound effects and a chorus that raps baby gurgles, Jib you rock my world.

CHECK IT

SAYING GOODBYE TO AN ICON

2009-07-02T22:14:00.004+10:00

It's taken me a few days to get around to sharing my feelings about the passing of MJ. Understandably the world is in a tailspin and unless I'm some sort of intergalactic orphan who hasn't discovered my shocking secret yet, I'm part of that world. Honestly, the more I ponder it, the more it saddens me. I was only 14 when 'Thriller" was released and it was my entire world, well, aside from my other love of course. Let's face it, at 14 you soon tire of trying to master the moonwalk and eventually find yourself returning to refining your Star Wars laser sound effects and mock asthma speeches about coming over to the dark side of the force. My family were fortunate enough to have a VHS video player in 1983, the classy type that included a remote control connected to the player via a really, really long cable. I shit you not, it was fucken high tech. Anyway, when they released the entire Thriller short film on video, I can still remember how excited I was about going to the biggest video shop in our neighbourhood to purchase it. I can also remember my excitement at having it in my hands and the desperate need to go home "right now Dad" so I could put it on and watch it.

Back in the early 80's Michael had an amazing effect on me, I'd grown up with a soundtrack of my parents choosing, which ranged from Boney M to Lionel Richie but also included liberal sprinklings of ABBA, Billy Joel and Roberta Flack...I know, it's a wonder I even have the courage to type that huh? Anyway, there clearly was no contest, especially compared to what I was already being delivered, Michael was the coolest man on the planet. Mastering MJ's signature dance move was the be all, and end all, and anyone who could actually do it became the focus of whatever dinner party or BBQ our parents had dragged us along to. If the party was at our place, everyone would gather around our TV, parents and their adult friends included, and I would proudly put the Thriller video into the player and then shush everyone (little wanker that I was) so we could get the full impact of it's brilliance. The minute Michael fell into formation out the front of his Tony Bartuccio dancers from beyond the grave, all the kids in the room would jump up and try and match the routine we saw on the screen. To think about it now, it seems a world away and having spent 20 years in commercial radio, I can't think of anyone who has the ability to draw people to a television like MJ could. Every new music video was an event, we anticipated it, we waited for it, we knew it was going to be amazing and he never let us down. By the mid 80's things slowly started to spiral out of control, there was the oxygen chamber revelation, the bones of the elephant man story and his surgery obsession really started to take control.

As the years progressed I fell in love with Pearl Jam, The Smashing Pumpkins, Nirvana and all things flannel and grunge and Michael just didn't seem relevant to me anymore. I think it really hit home for me how strange he'd truly become in 2006. I was sourcing questions online for a pop quiz we were running on a breakfast show I was anchoring. I stumbled on a site of pop culture facts and one of them really stood out because initially, it confused the hell out of me. I can't remember exactly how it was worded, but the basic gist of the fact was that pop singer Michael Jackson used to have dark skin and was an African American. When I first read it my instant reaction was a big fat "well duh" but then it dawned on me. There was an entire generation of people who hadn't known Michael in the 70's or 80's, they'd only witnessed him as the centre of various molestation claims, court cases and balcony dangling baby incidents. They truly didn't know that he used to be the little kid you see above these words. In searching for that image, it actually upset me how many nasty photoshop pictures exist of him. Google his name and click through a few pages and see for yourself. You'll find doctored shots of him without his nose, looking like a half dead zombie and making fun of what he'd done to himself. When you look at this picture however, you can see how cute he was, and even in the early 80's, whilst he was skinny and nowhere near my type, he was still a handsome man. Yet for reasons we will never truly know, he chose to erase a perfectly good face and remodel it into his idea of perfection.

I think the saddest thing is that at the time of his death, he was in rehearsals to perform 50 concerts in London. It was being billed as his final concert tour (not like John Farnham's) and no doubt his hopes and dreams were that he could return himself to the status he used to enjoy. Stories are coming out now about how his addiction to pain killers may have fuelled his constant use of plastic surgery as an easy way to facilitate his drug supply. No doubt even more horrifying revelations are still to come. When I look at that little kid, strutting his bad self in that way too funky brown corduroy jacket, I can't help but wish it could have been different for him. If only we could push rewind and find out what it was that set him on the path, that left him an oddity for universal ridicule and quite possibly the loneliest man on the planet. I can only hope that he really did find happiness with his children and that they got to see him for who he really was, not who we thought he was. Tears have just welled in my eyes writing that and at the sadness of his loss. I really do hope that there is a place, where he can look down and see the joy he gave so many and witness the pain so many now feel from having to say goodbye, before we ever really got a chance to say...

THANK-YOU

R.I.P. MICHAEL

I will never forget you

BEING A GOD PARENT

2009-06-11T10:36:00.004+10:00

Over the last few weeks I've been obliterating myself as part of a one month holiday. It's been fabulous spending time with family and friends and just getting to do whatever I want, with the people I love. One of the things that happened as part of that break was my little brother Tom asking me to be a god parent to his new born son Eli. I know can you believe it? Tom has a great sense of humour clearly because when he asked me and I said what does that mean, he said you're there for moral guidance throughout his life and on mention of that we both burst into laughter. The poor little fucker has no idea what he's gotten himself into hehe. Fortunately they've also chosen a lovely female friend of theirs to help...phew, pressure off.

Anyway we had the christening, which involved heading of to catholic mass for an hour and a half before the service...yawn. I had forgotten how boring church really is, to say nothing of the abundant collection of pensioners clinging to the hope that all their sins will be forgiven, it was kind of cute and kind of sad all at once. Eli was a little champion, didn't fuss or make too much noise and the only sticking point for me was when we as god parents were on the altar denouncing the devil and saying we believed in God. I felt like such a liar pretending I believe in God and the devil when really I just think the whole thing is about controlling people and making them scared...but each to their own.

Anyway it's a real privilege to be asked to shadow Eli through his life and be recognised as worthy of helping him through his journey into adulthood. I love everyone in my family so much and I'm so proud of my little brother Tom and his amazing wife Ciara and I know that Eli will have the most incredible life as a result of them. As for loving him, look at the little treasure, he's so beautiful I could sell him on the black market, not that I would of course, but you get the idea.

AND ANOTHER THING...

2009-05-08T20:56:00.002+10:00

I rate the name of this entry highly, as it implies that I'm following on from something already posted. It makes me seem fuck off prolific, that's what it does. Truth of the matter is, it doesn't following on from anything, I'm just being creative and using and abusing my domain. It's kind of like pissing on something to tell those with an acute sense of smell that it's yours, or how you used to lick the entire length of any yummy food within your possession when your little brother was eyeing it off. It's about ownership. So that sorted let's move onto some issues from my week. First off, I've become troubled by the blatant abuse of ginger haired people recently...I know, random or what? Anyway, I think it's important at this early stage to admit that I'm actually a bit of a closet fanta-pants-a-phobe. Is Fanta a universal drink? If for some tragic reason it isn't, I want you to think of any fizzy drink that is pretty much neon orange, that is what Fanta looks like. In further explanation, you take the colour of said beverage and relate it to the pants area of any vibrant red head. Their neon pubic hair can then be related to you in a slang term of "Fanta Pants". Simple really, now run off and enjoy it with all your friends. Or stay and read the rest of this entry, the choice is yours.

So now that I've come clean on my genetic racism, I can continue relating my concerns. I've noticed lots of media outlets, comedians and people in general, using ginger kids as the new punch line for a variety of jokes. Normally I would applaud this kind of punch line abuse, throwing in my own version of hilarity to encourage the laughs. Suddenly though, it seems I'm confronted by it every where. Perhaps I'm sensitive to it as I've been such a purveyor of it myself. The end result is that now, I feel sorry for them. I feel like it's time for me to get over it and walk the nose bleeding, moral high ground. Hope they have a hand rail, I'm liable to lose my footing and such as my lungs struggle to absorb what little oxygen exists at that height. After all, I have ginger haired friends and they are all fucken H.O.T., I've also seen a hot one in some nasty gay porn and Prince Harry has already eclipsed his brother on the delectable scale. So clearly I'm not as horrified as my actions proclaim. Oh and apparently, according to that last argument, I also think that if someone is worthy of a root, then that makes their entire species acceptable to me, go figure. Oh and can I just stop for a second and say, I know I'm breaking the laws of science with my classification of red heads as an 'entire species', but go with me. The fact of the matter is, I'm still uncomfortable with it, even though I'm perfectly capable of supplying acceptable examples of ginger haired rootability.

I have never really got the fascination that some people truly have for body hair that looks like it's dropped off something Frank Oz made using felt, craft glue and a bunch of other shit. It seems weird that on some people it's so vividly orange and then it's backed up with skin that is so soft, pristine, white and almost paper thin that you can see the fucken blood moving through their veins for fucks sake. I think I officially became tainted by the ranga (slang shortening of the word orang-utan, the orange furred primate) when I attended a night of the comedy stage show "Puppetry of the Penis". Anyone who knows me properly, knows I love staring at a love truncheon, it's verging on a hobby. Is that even allowed to be referred to as a hobby? Would the Society of Hobby Classification be outraged at me trying to sully their honourable name? Anyway, I'm sitting in the audience with a friend...no idea which one...the lights dim, the promise of penis is in the air, everyone leans forward in anticipation of clever willy routines. Then out on stage wanders two guys, not the original creators of course, but some lowly paid penis manipulators that are the virtual store Santa versions of the original, mythical Santa of pork sword trickery. The trickery started even before the playground of pecker aerobics began, one of them was a ginger in disguise. He had bottle blond hair and on the flicking back of the silky cape that covered his work space he unveiled a shock of extremely bushy, neon orange plumage. This was then further enhanced via the use of a select number of cameras and 2 very large TV screens that made an electronic billboard of this technicolour trimmed schlong.

It was fucken FULL ON! I know, I used capitals and an exclamation mark, it was that serious. I was torn between wanting to settle into a night of revelling in big screen winkie and the shock and horror of the platter it was being served on. I of course allowed the winkie to win and enjoyed the show, although I was glad I didn't pay for it as the continuous muppet fluff displayed under the same sort of illumination used by 7-eleven, did immeasurable harm. Still all the rampant ginger attacks have forced a change that sees me treading slowly towards the entrance for that lovely walk along the moral high ground. I figure it's time I put all of that behind me and get the fuck over it. Simple. There were other things I wanted to mention however I think I've unleashed a tirade of suitable length to allow me to wrap this one up. I also have no fucken idea what those other topics were so move along, there's nothing to see here.

ONCE UPON A TIME...

2009-04-20T22:15:00.002+10:00

...when I was much younger, it was the 80's, which seems rather obvious if I'm talking about my younger days but duh and carry on. Anyway it was well before Boy George confused me with his hair, makeup, funny hat and rather skirt like t-shirt. Before I saw that and thought 'wow she's a weird lady and why do they call her a boy?'. I had a baby sitter. Truth be told she was the family baby sitter and she was probably really there to stop my brothers and I from setting the house on fire, fighting, making scary noises that freaked out my little brother and making sure we went to sleep at some stage in the evening. As I was older I used to sit up with her after they went to bed and hang out with her. Eventually we became too old to be looked after, or my parents refused to pay for her or she more than likely refused to look after us as she needed a series of counselling sessions. Anyway we lost contact for a bit.

Then in the final years of my schooling, as I was preparing to leave and become an actor or a radio announcer or a dole bludger, she got a job working as a teacher at the school my brothers and I all went to. She was always funky and different, interesting hair, great glasses, the 80's were meant for a woman like Rosemary. She bought a small scooter which we helped her paint blue with yellow polka dots, including her helmet. This was the 80's people, you didn't do that in Adelaide, the woman was regularly pelted with rocks as she whizzed past your standard variety South Australian bogan. Anyway she faded in and out of our lives over the years. She and her partner took it upon themselves to help me realise I was a massive bender. I didn't realise of course (I was too busy making the occasional brooch or t-shirt decorated with puffer paints for my mums friends, clueless much?) but when I did they laughed and probably thought 'bless'.

Tonight, after not speaking to Rosemary for far too many years, something happened in my life that I knew only she could understand. So I reached out to her, for an ear, a soothing voice and the benefit of her wisdom and we talked for over an hour. Everything she had to say, was considered, soothing and made so much sense. After I'd thanked her and hung up the phone I hassled her for a final piece of advice via SMS. Her reply was beautiful and it closed with the the most perfect advice I've ever been given. It's private so I won't share, but in that instant I realised how incredibly lucky I am to have her in my life. How amazing it is to make contact again and find her as encouraging and thoughtful as she was when I was much too old to be baby sat, when I was burying my sexuality in arts and crafts and when she took the time out from her night with her own family to devote some time to me and my problems right now.

Thank you Rosemary for being who you have always been and sharing your friendship with a little kid who has only just realised, on the crest of his 40th birthday, how truly amazing you really are. I mean I had my suspicions of her amazing qualities but sometimes it takes a crisis to really get rock solid proof. Friends like Rosemary are few and far between, when they step forward and offer their advice, experience and love in times of need, it's one of the greatest gifts you can EVER receive. It also brilliant to know that after all these years, she still has the ability to baby sit me, even via an SMS.

NEW AND IMPROVED IN 2009

2009-04-19T00:11:00.005+10:00

Well you wouldn't fucken read about it would you? Well actually that clearly isn't the case, cos apparently you are reading about it, so what a fucken useless thing to start this entry off with. No doubt there will be more of that to come. Anyway, it's clear that one comment from the delightful spit and vinegar is all it takes for me to continue writing and completely spring clean my blog. Other mother from a far away land, thanks for the encouragement and I promise to be more proactive...how many fucken times have I said that? I've changed my template which is surely the blog equivalent of buying a new dress and making myself up real pretty like. Although going by my track record I'll wear this dress for fucken eons, forget to change and wash it and end up walking around clinging to the memories of when it was fresh out the box and not covered in body sweat, food remnants, sex junk and drool....mmmm classy. I've also added links of some of my favourite and less pornographic links, a new picture of me trying to hold my brain in my head and this entry. Fuck me I so deserve a gold star, or a ribbon, or a shitty arse trophy or even one of those medals that goes black within a week of exposing it to the air.

It's just after midnight on a Saturday night and I've got music videos on in the background (Bjork is singing about Human Behaviour as I type this) which is very convenient. Why? Well as it happens, down in the street below me, I can hear miniscule dicked fuckwits revving their car engines and squealing their tyres. Some cock snap just yelled at his girlfriend about being a fucken slut and a car alarm is going off in the distance. Living in inner city suburbs rocks huh? I so have to go out and buy a microphone so I can record the domestics that happen in the early hours of the morning. It's like Days of Our Lives on ICE with a speed chaser and an itchy groin thrown in just to push them over the edge. I'm officially an uncle, a big gay uncle at that too. Little Eli Joseph is so fucken cute I can't wait to corrupt him and do his head in with stories when he is old enough to listen. I am so proud of my little brother and his beautiful wife and so excited about their future raising Eli, they will be amazing parents and he will be an incredible child. I'm a few weeks away from another month in London with my tasty biscuit Martin. We are planning to get hitched if the intent to marry visa comes through and the waiting periods can be worked out. At this stage we will have the last 3 days of my holiday within which to say our I do's so it will be tight but who the fuck cares.

I sit surrounded by sugar free products, my heavy meat eating diet is back on and has been for 3 weeks and I've lost 7 kilos. It's virtually sugar free but fake sugar items are allowed so I make mouth love to bottles of Pepsi Max and Vanilla Diet Coke and suck the fuck out of any lolly stupid enough to claim its without sugar but liable to induce explosive bum reactions. Fun huh? I've also returned to the gym and am sweating it up with all the people I envy and ogle, plus I'm walking to and from work virtually everyday which is 4.1 kilometres each way. As a result I've become a purveyor of a variety of inner thigh injuries from chafe to ingrown hairs and all sorts of other things that two sweaty, meaty, hairy thighs can create when you add friction. Nearly two hours of rubbing and I'm pretty much creating enough inner thigh energy to power the electricity grid for a small house of refugees in a third world country. Perhaps that's the answer to the global warming and obesity problem. Rig all us fatties up to a series of treadmills, patch into our thigh action and see the planet glow from a few planets away. Anyway that's enough for this entry, will be back soon to add more I promise...enjoy.

ERK.....(INSERT UNCOMFORTABLE SILENCE HERE).....UM SO ARE YOU GONNA SAY SOMETHING?

2009-01-10T21:50:00.003+11:00

I think I ignore this blog almost as much as I ignore my tax returns, and my gym work outs, lets not forget ironing and the sort of house cleaning that usually involves dust removal, floor mopping and vacuuming...seriously, I need to do all those things right now, but it looks like sitting on my lardy arse and typing wins out...hurrah! Anyway I've given up on apologising to my non existent readers for not updating this blog. Which could be the reason no one ever bothers to read it...cos its never fucken updated. The quote 'build it and they will come' is ringing in my head for some reason. Anyway, as I've already washed my hands of all guilt and responsibility I suppose I should move onto some sort of content for this entry.

Right now I should be adding words to the special project I've set for myself, but I think I'm terrified of the commitment involved and the work needed to see it through. I know I have the talent and skill to pull it off but everything seems way too much for me lately. I lie in bed at night saying things like...

Ok if I start by cleaning the bathroom then I can move onto the next room, that's simple isn't it? Its a toilet, a sink, a floor, a bath and a shower. That's like 5 things which could be done in 10 to 15 minutes.

Oh and just in case you think I'm crazy as well as lazy, when I said I'm saying these things in my bed, I'm not saying them out loud, we're talking a totally private show that goes on in my head. There's also this one

Well all I have to do is put on my t-shirt, my shorts and my runners and go to the gym, its across the road, its like 30 paces, you'll feel better, you'll lose weight, you'll sleep better, you'll live longer, you'll be able to shop where everyone else does rather than waiting for mui mui's and kaftans to come back into fashion.

These are all really good arguments, but instead of acknowledging them or even arguing with them, I just flat out ignore them. It's like they are dead to me, like I've moved on and I'll never invite them to one of my parties again. In all honesty, I couldn't throw a party anyway. That would involve transforming my house from a crack den within which a bag lady exploded to a pleasant urban interior of stylish poofter merchandise. I'm sure all the mod cons are still here, they've just been covered with piles of unfolded, freshly washed clothing, old newspapers, the iron on the table plus those broken speakers I am going to throw out.

Erk its starting to annoy me now. Perhaps that is what needed to happen. I write about it and shame myself into taking responsibility for it and then I'll actually do it. I just wanna be back in the arms of my one true love but until that happens it seems I'm much happier doing sweet fuck all. Which is why I'm completing this entry now so I can maybe go off and do one of the many things that I should be doing. I promise I'll update you if there is any progress but don't hold your breath....seriously.

ENOUGH MEAT ALREADY!

2008-07-28T23:41:00.002+10:00

Oh look I used an exclamation point, which must mean I really mean it. But seriously... ENOUGH MEAT ALREADY! I'm more than happy to admit to being a complete devotee of meat, I love the idea of a mixed grill, a snack that is savoury, a BBQ encrusted something or other. However when its the only thing you are allowed, or at the very least, recommended to consume at least every 2 to 3 hours, it suddenly becomes a chore. So why have I been reduced to a cave man's diet? Why is it that my shopping basket is layered to the brim with enough meat products to cater a rugby team BBQ? Well it's this thing called a carb detox, which basically means you deny yourself sugar and carbs for three days. It apparently forces your body to start chewing into your body fat and completely ends your lust for all things sweet. Yeah right, I want chocolate and sugar and some sort of carb. Perhaps some bread, with a heafty slab of butter, the sort that resembles a slice of cheese from a far and a pure delight up close.

Mmmm this must be something close to what it's like to be trapped on an island surrounded by wall to wall meat products. Everywhere you look there are fish and cows and chickens and little baby lambs and turkeys and anything else that looks like it might benefit from a few turns on top of an open fire. Slurp. Then again, once you've worked your way through the island, sampled all the varieties of life, you kind of lose interest. Suddenly the vegetation starts to look good, the sand starts to resemble sugar, fuck, worst case scenario, some of that animal poo is gonna start looking like the wind just blew the shiny foil wrapper from its surrounds. That is what a carb detox does to the human brain. The last time I did this, oh yeah, this isn't the first time I've ridden the all meat express, but the last time it was easier, it was new, it was different, now it just seems like a fuck load of meat. Vanity is a bitch huh?

However I'm not giving in, cos I know how well it worked last time. Eventually, once the detox was over and I stepped into the next phase which included lots of the green stuff and a handful of carbs, it was even easier. A delightful 8 kilos lighter a few months later I couldn't have given a toss about the 3 day detox, it was a distant memory. So right now I'm thumping the keyboard in a vain attempt to distract myself from the meaty exhaustion that is currently lumbering through my body. I do however find myself sucking the fuck out of an abundance of sugar free lollies. Anyone who has consumed bulk amounts of those sugar free lollies soon realises it doesn't say EXCESSIVE CONSUMPTION MAY HAVE A LAXATIVE EFFECT for nothing. So suddenly I've discovered the 2008 version of laxatives with a sickly sweet exterior. Oh yeah its heaven being the Kate Moss of the dietary sweet aisle.

WHO'S A LUCKY FUCKO THEN?

2008-07-27T14:41:00.002+10:00

Well in all honesty that would be me. I know, can you believe the confidence of me being all check it and actually saying, guess what, I'm a lucky fucko? Anyway this blog has been in a fucken coma of the sort normally reserved for day time soapies. You know the type, pretty, mute, maybe a touch of fluoro light glistening off the drool carefully placed on the super hero style chin. Hmmm, actually, no they wouldn't go as far as the drool on the chin cos that would ruin the perfection of the coma ridden hottie lying all innocent style in hospital robes. But I like the idea of fucking with perfection so lets put some drool on his face and maybe he can make weird arse groans every now and then too just to fuck with the viewers head. Anyway now that we've established what kind of coma this blog has been in, lets offer up some reasons and excuses.

The first reason, I'm so stupid happy this is the last place I wanna be, then there is the pathological laziness that is part of my genetic makeup and last, but by no means least, is the cheap arse office chair positioned in front of my mac that is anything but enticing. You know the kind, it looks alluring when you consider the price at the checkout but once you've spent more than 10 minutes in it, you curse your cheapness and wish you delved into those savings you don't have and bought something cushy and leather coated that might even come with built in massage qualities. Anyway I'm finally here, fighting the numbness that's already building in my left arse cheek and typing away as the 'Death Proof' soundtrack plays in the background.

So from memory the last few entries in this blog were clearly focused on me feeling sorry for myself and cursing why I wasn't good enough and seeing as so much has changed since then, I feel it's only fair I update things so everyone knows I'm no longer so dramatic. So in short the dead shit boyfriend is gone and part of history and his way better half Martin is free and we are together as one. Well as together as you can be when you are in Australia and he is in the UK, but its a temporary thing and we're both in this for the long run so there aint no point in sweating the separation when we both know it won't be forever. I've been to London to chill with the tastiest biscuit on the face of the planet and of course we talk to each other everyday in between. My next visit is locked in for three weeks in October when he hits the 30th birthday milestone and it's safe to say we are both chewing at the bit.

So that leaves us with the luckiest fucko on the planet statement from earlier and because this is my blog, I'm allowed to fill it with anything I so desire. Today I feel like celebrating the man of my dreams, Martin Clarke. He's without a doubt the most amazing man I've ever had the great fortune of falling in love with. Why he is so amazing comes down to so many things. Let's start with that thing in his beautiful head commonly referred to as a brain. It's mature beyond it's 29 plus years and never fails to impress or delight me with its contents. It can take me from feeling giddy with delight to laughing till I snort and guffaw to those moments when your eyes fill with tears from the sheer delight of feeling so deeply loved. Just knowing him would be reward enough but to be in the privileged position of having him love you back with all his heart is the most incredible thing I've EVER experienced.

I thought I'd been in love a few times before but all those other times were like dress rehearsals. It's kind of like I was backstage, rehearsing the script, making sure I knew the role, learnt my lines, all that crap. Now though, I'm centre stage, opening night was ages ago and everyday I'm front and centre enjoying the applause of a billion totally satisfied theatre goers. Then again even that doesn't come close to describing how incredible it feels to be one half of this love. If I could build a relationship in a laboratory, add all the qualities I wanted, from the way the guy looks, acts, feels, touches and talks all the way through to how he makes me feel and what it is he likes to enjoy with me there is no way I would have thought up all the things that Martin possesses and gives me everyday.

That's why I'm the luckiest fucko on the planet. I don't have any doubts and I don't have to wonder what its like to love like we all dream of loving, cos I live it everyday. It's human nature to feel guilty about that, to question it, to wonder why we got so lucky, but if you give into all of those traits you end up destroying the good thing you've got. I'd be lying if I didn't say I've gone through those things. I've given in to jealousy, to worry and questioning, more than I'm happy to admit, but I think those things are normal when you've never had something this good. You want to make sure it's as real as you think it is, you wanna make sure you aren't gonna lose it, you wanna make sure no one else is gonna take it away from you. I'm now at the point where I know it's real, I'm lucky, I deserve this, I love this and I'm gonna put everything I've got into it cos that is exactly what I'm getting back in return.

I want everyone to feel what I'm feeling, I want everyone to get this kind of love. There have been far too many times when I've given the love and got nothing back. It's like my co star wasn't on the same page of the script, they hadn't learnt their lines, they were there for the pay packet and the stardom. I was just there to make them look good and I could be written out and replaced at a whim. It was a Home and Away romance. Now I'm not acting at all, its from the heart, with all of my soul and my co star is totally on the same page. It's a fluid, organic, beautiful piece of poetry that gives me more rewards than I could have ever hoped for. I really am the luckiest fucko on the planet.

LABYRINTH - A POEM

2007-11-09T20:24:00.000+11:00

Anyone that would take the time to put poetry onto paper and use me as their inspiration automatically throws me for a six. It's incredibly humbling to think that you can be inspiration for anyone, on any level, but to turn an art like poetry into a dedication to their thoughts of you, is amazing. I'm fortunate enough to be deeply in love with someone, that love isn't easy, won't always be within touching distance and no doubt will bring me more heart ache. However there is no hesitation when it comes to choosing which I'd prefer, difficult love, seperated by boundaries and circumstances is better than never experiencing that love at all. One of the hardest things to do is to let go of the ones you love, but life is all about letting go, we are only on this planet for a short while and each of us will lose the ones we hold most dear. Enjoy your time while you have it and take nothing for granted.

TOUCH ME IN THE FADING NIGHT
LEAVE ME FEELING WARM
TAKE MY DARKNESS AND DESIRE
LET MY FEELINGS FREE
IT'S NOT ENOUGH TO TOUCH YOU NOW
IT'S NOT ENOUGH TO SEE
HOLD MY WORDS AS RING THEY WILL
WHEN STORMS APPROACH FROM ME
IGNORE THE FOG THE SUN WILL COME AND BURN AWAY THE HAZE
NOW SETTLE DEAR
FIND ME IN THIS MAZE
YOURS TO KEEP FROM FEAR

M.C. 25/06/07

NOTHING REALLY CHANGES

2007-11-06T01:00:00.000+11:00

October rolls into November and I find myself still in the same place with no changes worth reporting. A plane ticket is booked that I will probably have to cancel, sms messages are sent and ignored and all the time I sit alone wondering what to think. Is he sleeping? Does he really care? Why the fuck can't he just talk to me? I'm losing hope and expecting things to collapse in a huge heap. I think my 2 weeks of holidays will be spent in tears, mourning something that could have been amazing? Am I the only one that thinks it will be amazing? Why aren't I good enough to take a chance on? Why does it take this long to decide who you want to be with? Why do I feel so pathetic? I'm sick of being ignored, sick of having to hide and sick of being an after thought.

When can I place my heart in the hands of another and not have it treated like it is nothing? When will the one I love meet me half way? When will he make the choice that proves his devotion? Why is it so fucken difficult to put me first? How come I give so much care, compassion and love to others yet find it so difficult to have it returned with any real conviction? Am I forever to be used, abused and discarded? Harsh feelings, awful words, honest none the less.

2 weeks left before everything changes for better or for worse....time will tell.

I CAN'T SLEEP

2007-10-18T23:17:00.000+10:00

That's why I'm here, tapping away on the keyboard, currently I have one of those heads that's full of thoughts and questions. It's the kind of head that won't shut up, won't let me sleep, won't stop badgering me. I could grab a jazz cigarette and try and soothe myself into slumber but the associated paranoia would make me think I'm gonna have a heart attack or some other stupid ailment. I wish it were easy to switch off sometimes, especially when love is involved. Love, its that elusive thing we all desperately search for, we're told from an early age that it's the be all and end all. Some internal soul searching on my behalf leaves me wondering if love just brings pain and upset in the long run. Love may be the stuff of Hollywood movies and romance novels but in reality it's a pain in the arse. I've thought I've been in love a number of times but the relationship breaks down or never even gets started and with time you look back at it and think...well what the hell was that?

Is it just infatuation? Is it just lust? Is love a big fat lie? Do we convince ourselves we are in love simply because we feel a connection with someone? Are we that dependant on the love of another that we seek it out and place it on the shoulders of the first person who shows any interest? Once upon a time I was "in love" with anyone who gave me the time of day. Ok let's clarify that, I don't mean anyone with a wristwatch and the ability to tell me where the big hand and the little hand was situated, was immediately a potential victim for my stalking or anything. I mean if a guy showed enough interest in me to say hello or even talk to me, then that was enough for me to cling to. Pathetic huh? Thankfully that was when I was in my 20's. Now I've found the real thing, it truly is the be all and end all of romances, the kind of love that floors you and makes you wonder what all those other times you were in love meant. They seriously pale into insignificance in comparison to what I've found.

But here is the problem, this love isn't mine to enjoy, because the person I'm in love with is already taken. How much can someone be in love with you when they already spend most of their time with someone else? How much can someone be in love with you when they continue to stay with that person and put you on the back burner? How much can they really love you when they don't really explain why they have to be with that person even though they swear they are no longer in love with them and are more friends than lovers? How much time will I spend hoping, waiting and wondering when things will change? After the one you love with all your heart, continues to let you down and push you aside to look after the feelings of the one they are already with, how are you meant to feel?

I know how I'm feeling. I feel stupid, I feel like I'm annoying, I feel like I'm not important, I feel like I'm wasting my time, I feel like I have been discarded and trodden on. I also feel hopeful, nervous, overly keen and a little bit desperate. Lots of these feelings are completely fucked, but they are part of what makes us into the person we are. So where am I left? I have an immense love for a guy, but no faith that the love I have for him is really returned. I have amazing love to share but no trust that the one I want to give it to will ever meet me half way. How do you trust someone who spends all their time with you lying to the one they are already with? What is so open about an open relationship if you are keeping secrets the whole time? Can you build a trusting relationship with someone like that?

I fucken hope so, that's the incredibly sad thing, after all that has happened, I'm still clinging to the hope that this will sort itself out. I can't explain it but perhaps love truly is blind. My closest friends have faith that this guy will come through but as time goes on I have more and more doubts. It's unbelievably difficult to be so in love yet feel so betrayed at the same time. It hurts my heart and a weaker person would no doubt throw themselves in front of a bus or dish out a tirade of abuse but neither of those things are in my nature thank fuck. I mean seriously, how can you hate or resent someone if you are truly in love with them? That's the ultimate question. Here I sit...

alone...

wondering...

waiting...

When will my turn come?
When will I be good enough?
When will I be the one?
When will he be mine?
When can I truly call this my LOVE?

SOMEONE SPECIAL

2007-09-27T22:14:00.000+10:00

Been meaning to put this on my blog for ages but things always seem to get in the way, minutes become hours, hours become days, days become...well you know how it goes. Anyway this is the first time anyone has thought enough of me to write a poem especially for me. I can still remember the feeling of incredible appreciation I felt on receiving it and to have it delivered and explained to me by someone I love so deeply makes it even more important. Its obviously private and will make no sense to a stranger but the fact that its full meaning is only understood by 2 people makes it all that more special. The writer is incredibly talented and an amazing soul and for him to think me worthy of putting pen to paper I will always be grateful.

DASHING THROUGH THE DISTANT LIGHT
DANCING IN THE DARKENED NIGHT
SCREAMING IN THE QUIET TIME
STARING INTO STARS

TOUCH ME NOW
DON'T LET ME GO
DON'T LET ME FEEL THE COLD
SPEAK TO ME IN EASY WORDS
CARRY ME AFAR

MORNING YAWNS YEARN MORE ONCE MORE
AFTERNOONS DRAW CLOSER STILL
TAKE THE TIME TO FEEL ME NEAR
NOTHING HERE TO FEAR

THE MOON BEARS DOWN UPON OUR SKIN
TILL SUNSHINE PLAYS ITS HAND
TIME TO GO BUT NOT FOR LONG
I'LL LEAVE MY HEART AJAR

M.C. 23/07/07

HEAD FAIRY FLOSS...ENOUGH ALREADY!

2007-09-12T23:36:00.000+10:00

Once upon a time, back in my teenage years, when I flicked my head from side to side, the movements would be accompanied by a sway of long, thick, brown, bountiful hair. I'm talking bullshit thick, really curly, shiny, Wella-fucken-woman hair that drove my hairdresser into gushes of approval and demands to use my head of hair for their next hair dressing competition. I know you're probably sitting there thinking...

"Wow what was it like when you hit the catwalks of Milan?"

Hate to burst the bubble but I never got as far as Milan or Paris or London or New York, in fact I didn't even get as far as the Marion Shopping Centre in suburban Adelaide. Basically I did it once, my hairdresser coloured my hair blond with black strips down the side and cut it in the style of the 80's, heavy on the top, sharp and tight on the sides. It was fucken cool and I thought I was the ultimate new romantic hero. The reason I've chosen to divulge the sordid history of my teenage years is to illustrate the point that we all have fucked up hairstyles that we can laugh at.

Now though, I can barely contain my laughter as I walk the streets gob smacked at what translates as a 'trendy' haircut for men these days. Is it just me or am I right in assuming that there are a lot of guys out there with haircuts you'd normally find attached to the heads of women? I mean seriously, every little fucko seems to be wandering up the street with a head of hair that resembles a soft helmet. Its teased into a huge bubble around their heads, their side burns resemble the ones your Aunty used to have in the 60's with her mother fucking beehive. They gel the tips into little spikes that feather around their stupid fucken faces and they walk up the street in packs of three or four with the same style of wanky over blown bouffants. For the record guys, you DON'T look cool, you look like stupid fucken MORONS!

Soon I'm gonna walk the streets and start flicking matches as these combustible piles of head fairy floss. I mean seriously what the FUCK ARE YOU THINKING??? Do they look in the mirror and think it actually looks good? Do they seriously pay someone to style it like that? Are hairdressers seriously proud of what they have created? If it was my job to cut hair and some guy requested I shape his head into a massive ball of nanna hair I would gently place my hands on his shoulders, tell him to look really hard in the mirror and then repeatedly slam his head over and over again into the glass until I knocked some fucken sense into him. I know the 80's were bad, new romantics were happy to wear silky shirts, brooch's at the neck and top heavy hairstyles but that was what was cool. Please explain to me what is cool about fairy floss haircuts? Where did they come from? Who decided they were cool and why is it straight guys that seem to think its so fucken cool to walk around looking like that? Oh and assuming they actually are straight and some woman actually decides to go out with them, how are they coping? Do they only go out with them because they know they will never get told to hurry up when they are preparing to go out? Do they have fetishes for hair styling products, dryers and large mirrors? Are they only interested because they wanna know how to style their own hair that high, that fluffy, that girlie?

The fact of the matter is, they look like huge fucken stupid tools, even a trashed, half nude Britney deserves more respect than any guy with a fairy floss haircut. So next time you're in front of a mirror, check your bad self and if you could grab a black marker pen and scribble a dome around your head where your hair is and it looks like a massive helmet then you sir are a fucken wanker and you should be heading to the nearest barber for an all over buzz cut and get some self respect you pointless princess. Oh yeah, I'm a poof and I'm calling YOU a princess, seriously, go check yourself NOW!

I'M A MAGNET FOR FUCKWITS

2007-06-16T09:03:00.000+10:00

How's that for a killer statement? It’s a grand, sweeping generalisation and honestly, most of the people in my life are some of this planets most amazing individuals. I feel completely privileged and honoured to hold them close and treasure them like the delightful things that they are. People like that are few and far between and because I've managed to assemble a massive collection worthy of the museum of funky friends or some other badly named collective like that, it is only natural that amongst the beauty, occasionally, security is breached and a random gets through. Let’s face it, there happens to be some out and out randoms wandering this planet who do your fucken head in and for some reason, yet to be categorised by science, they naturally gravitate to me. Boy do I have fun when they step into my personal space, like this woman I met a few weeks back whilst waiting for a tram to rescue me.

For the purposes of this story I will change her name and call her Beryl, mostly because I’m fucked if I can actually remember her name. Anyway as I approached the tram stop she was deep in conversation with a group of teenage guys who had moved well away from the tram stop and we’re hardly reacting to her enquiries. Now a smarter, more aware person would recognise this as a warning but I’m clueless and dim at the best of times so I wandered up to the tram stop and sat down to wait for its arrival. Like a lamb to the slaughter I couldn’t smell the stink of nut bar in the air as she departed her teenage victims and settled down alongside me. Foolishly I smiled at her, which for most people is common courtesy, but for her was an open invitation to start chatting.

Beryl was clearly a drug abuser, aside from her slurred speech, she was a head to toe example of why you should never dress yourself if you are a drug abuser…did someone say Britney? She was wearing a far too short denim mini, black stockings, a hideous shirt that looked like it had been wiped across Ken Done’s arse and a jacket that once belonged to some kind of synthetic animal who’s fur had been torn from it and stitched into something that may have been cool in the 90’s, emphasis on ‘maybe’. She also had a huge pair of 70’s sunnies on and fire engine red lipstick that had made the progression to her teeth sometime through the day and had decided to stay there. The first thing Beryl said to me was

‘My names Beryl, what’s yours?’

It was at that moment that I realised I was trapped. A braver person would have stood up and walked away but I chose to open the fucken floodgates with this reply

‘I’m Benjamin how are ya going?’

IDIOT! What the fuck are you doing? That’s what was echoing through the interior of my skull, but by that stage it was too late. Beryl answered by telling me ‘

‘I’m ok but the tram seems to be running late so lucky I’ve got you to talk to while I wait’.

Damn it all to hell is what I thought. So the next thing she asked me was

‘Do you like my sunnies? I bought them today at the op shop and I think they’re pretty cool’.

Rather than say

‘Hmm they look pretty shitty but at least they distract you from the car crash of collected clothing you have assembled for the public today’

I said

‘They’re pretty cool, they suit you too’

She came back with a

‘Wow do you think? Thanks so much, oh you’re really nice’

It was around this time that she jumped from her seat and leaned hard against the inner wall of the tram stop alcove and looked at me with dread in my eyes, I looked at her and asked if she was alright to which she replied

‘Can you see that guy with the blond mullet? Is he coming over here? Quick go check’

Of course I’m thinking are you fucking serious? Her intent stare confirmed for me that she was, so I got up, walked forward of the tram stop and had a good look around, the whole time Beryl is whispering to me with the loudest, drug fucked voice you’ve ever heard

‘He’s the one with the blond mullet, the baseball cap and tracksuit, if he sees me he’s probably gonna try and bash me the fucken arsehole, I can’t believe he is wandering around here, Jesus, do you see him? Is he coming over?

Of course at the mention of the bashing and coupled with her over the top reaction I was freaking out. The last thing I wanted to get involved in was a street fight between some doped up slapper and the man who financed the aborting of all her ill gotten babies. Fortunately he kept on walking and disappeared around the corner but even after my assurances she was reluctant to step away from the wall. I resumed my position on the seat, hugging my backpack close to me and perhaps it was the wind but I’m sure I was rocking backwards and forwards a bit too. I do remember wondering when the fucken tram was gonna arrive and get me away from her. Beryl stepped out from her hiding place and tentatively walked out to check her surrounds, I spent the time staring up the street trying to imagine a tram into being.

Once she felt sure he wasn’t around she sat back down next to me and launched into telling me about how she was an artist and that the shelter up the road was having an exhibition of her paintings. She said they were being shown for the next few weeks, proceeded to tell me the opening times and enquired about when I might be going to see them cos she would love to know what I thought of her work. That sort of questioning implied that she would like to hear from me once I actually had viewed them, which wasn’t NEVER going to be on my to do list. I told her yeah I’ll definitely try and get there. It was at this stage that I stood up and said

‘Well it looks like the tram isn’t gonna come so I’m gonna walk, nice to meet you Beryl and best of luck’

I didn’t wait for her reply, just walked straight towards the corner of the street and waited for the traffic lights to change so I could escape. As the lights changed and I stepped into the street to cross I heard her yell out

‘Wait for me! I may as well walk with you cos you’re probably right so hang on’

FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! The interior of my head screamed, now she’s gonna fucken follow me. I of course kept on walking in the sad hope I could make it across the road before she caught up with me but it wasn’t to be. I then proceeded to walk up the street at double time while she walked a step behind me talking all the fucken way. This continued for 10 minutes until finally an out presented itself, as we approached an intersection she turned to me and said well this is my street, thanked me for walking her up the street and sauntered off into the distance. I of course breathed a sigh of relief and watched her to make sure she didn’t change her mind and return. Suddenly I understood what it was like for her when she was pressed against the tram stop wall losing her shit. As much as I would have loved to ignore her and divorce myself from her issues and her conversation I realised I’m not that sort of person, I never will be and I probably don’t wanna be either. I managed to bump into her at the service station around the corner from work a few weeks later and said hi and she said in a loud voice, in front of all the people in the queue waiting to pay

‘Hi love did we screw once or something?’

I just said no and added in a rather meek voice

‘We met at the trams top a few weeks back’

She just shrugged her shoulders and walked away leaving me red faced and wishing I’d never even bothered.

WHAT EVER YOU DO DON'T CLICK ON THIS LINK...I DARE YOU

2007-05-09T20:00:00.000+10:00

Righto this is a Today Tonight story waiting to happen, you've heard about the effects drugs could have on our children. The damage it does to their feeble minds could render them useless members of our society, lost, wandering, mumbling on like demented outcasts from "Children of the Corn". Except they aren't pretty, so as they extinguish the last bit of life from your body, your final image won't be some blond haired catalogue model with a Johnny Young Talent Time grin spread across its face it will be three badly made up....(pause for dramatic effect, also change to capitals, might even throw in an exclamation mark, we'll see, anyway keep reading cos this bit in the brackets is useless, ok now it's going on too long, the dramatic effect is ruined, oh for fucks sake close the brackets and do the final, dramatic word)...CLOWNS!

Yes I'm afraid so, these clowns are all kinds of fucked up and you need to see them, so without further ado hit the fucko link and step into a world you've never seen before and probably won't be able to see again, actually its fucken piss funny and I've been watching it endlessly, so go ahead, click on the link, I dare you woo har har har har...(ok was the scary laugh too much? oh for crying out loud we are in fucken brackets again talking to ourselves, quit it, I said qu..).

Here is the link FUCKO

FOR KERRIE...ALWAYS IN MY THOUGHTS

2007-05-01T23:34:00.000+10:00

I still remember the first day Kerrie came along and introduced herself to me. It was 1984 and I was spending another lunch time sitting by myself at school. Think private Catholic College, full uniform including tie and the usual religious scowls from the brothers and sisters who rammed religion down our throats. The few male friends I had we're always running off to the oval to play sport, something I wasn't interested in, so being the shy, delicate flower that I was, I would spend most lunches sitting by myself, hoping no one would notice me.

One day, my worst nightmare was realised when this girl sauntered up to me with a few of her friends in tow and demanded to know if I had any friends. Of course I protested and announced my popularity, explaining that I wasn't interested in going to the oval with them and chose to stay in the main courtyard waiting for lunch to finish. This didn't seem to satisfy Kerrie, she detailed how she had observed me over the past few days sitting by myself, looking lonely and shy and had decided that she and her friends would now be my friend, so I wouldn't have to sit alone anymore. How amazing is that? This 14 year old girl taking the initiative to reach out to someone who was painfully shy and frequently alone.

I can still remember that day vividly, mostly because her questions and my replies would be rubbed in my face for years to come. Unfortunately one of the ice breakers Kerrie chose to ask was "who's your favourite band?" Now at that age I wasn't even listening to the radio, wasn't buying records and wasn't aware of music unless it was my parents Lionel Richie, Helen Reddy, Boney M or ABBA albums. So in a mad panic I chose the band that immediately sprung to mind. The band? Men At Work! For some reason "Down Under" found its way to the front of my brain and before I could bite down on my tongue and sever it to prevent me from forming the words, I actually said it. I'm sure you could hear the screams inside my head from the other side of the school. You could certainly hear the screams of laughter and ridicule from kerrie and her friends...my secret shame...not so secret now, gulp.

Yes my future friend, when confronted with that answer, this delightful girl who had minutes earlier reached out to this shy boy, pretty much threw her head back and all but pissed herself laughing like I had told the joke of the century. Now one trait of mine, especially when I was younger and a lot less extroverted, was to go bright red in the face whenever the focus was on me or I was embaressed. So you can imagine the shade of red I turned. In fact it's safe to say Kerrie and her friends bore witness to the first human to actually morph into a chamelion and pretend they were pressed flat against a big fuck off fire engine trying to become one with its vivid redness. Once the laughter had died down, probably in 1986...kidding, Kerrie mentioned the band INXS.

I had never heard of them of course but Kerrie's face immediately lit up as she went into detail about how great they were, how I had to hear them and how she would do a mix tape of them and bring it to school the very next day so I could listen to them for myself. She was true to her word and the next day INXS became my favourite band in the world, or at the very least, the only cool one I knew. Kerrie's passion for them knew no bounds, she even wrote a brilliant letter about our local FM radio station (one that I now do voiceovers for) telling either 'Rolling Stone' or 'Countdown' magazine how revolutionary they were for playing real, aussie music (FM radio was a much more underground beast back in the early days of the 80's). It was so well written it was of course printed in the very next issue much to all of our delight.

I had some of the greatest laughs of my life with Kerrie, stupid things that if I tried to recount now would seem pointless and hardly worth a smile. We've all got those classic moments that strangers write off as 'had to be there' moments. Special things that only the two of us understood and appreciated, shared moments that are still burned on my all too foggy memory. Kerrie was what some would call a dag, but also the life of the party, the sort of person who could draw a conversation out of anyone and make them feel like they were the only one that mattered. She was a natural journalist because she was genuinely interested in what other people thought, believed and experienced. She was also brilliantly funny with an intelligence to back it up. She was all kinds of fuck off amazing wonderful and I am so lucky to have had her as a close friend. I need to keep recalling memories of Kerrie and I also need to move on a start writing again. So my thoughts and happenings will return to this page and so will stories of Kerrie. As they come to me I'll give them the space to breathe on this blog for others to read and share.

If you didn't know Kerrie you can never understand how truly incredible she is. Her memory will remain with me FOREVER. I don't want this to end up sounding like one of those annoying emails that encourages you to send it to your 5 best friends to show them how much you love them, but I will say this. Find those special people in your life and keep them close because they mean more to you than you will ever know.

APOLOGIES

2006-09-27T18:42:00.000+10:00

Hey kids, not sure if anyone cares but haven't felt the need to scribble on this thing for a very long time. I lost a magnificent and beautiful soul to cancer a few months back and want the next words I write to be a tribute to her incredible and wonderful impact on my life. True friends are a beautiful thing, saying goodbye to them when you aren't ready to let them go is heart breaking. I love you Kerrie wherever you are and I look forward to celebrating you within these pages soon, still holding onto tears and a fragile heart for you. Best friends in this life and the ones to follow forever.

me

CHILL TO THESE GROOVES FUCKO

2006-04-28T22:39:00.000+10:00

Friday night ahead of a 3 day long weekend, just gone 10pm, listening to a new CD put together on iTunes with a couple of classics and some new favourites. In true 'mosexual style have titled it 'MY NAME AND HUBBY'S NAME FAVOURITES' hmmm if you know both our names then that title will make more sense. If you don't know our names, just pick two names at random and fashion them for us, then insert the names you've chosen in the right places, add an apostrophe and an 's' on the end of hubby's name and then it all becomes clear. Geez I think it is safe to say it is a veritable faggot explosion using a name like that on a fucken mix CD, lets get a grip people some sick came up into my mouth as I was writing it. Not because I actually hate the idea, just that it seems soppy and girlie to admit to it on a 20 inch screen, it's kinda screaming at me.

Note to self...think of better titles for all future mixes. So now chatting to hubby on phone and loving this mix which has inspired me into writing them here so you can go online and download them for yourself. Not sure if they are all available through iTunes cos most of them came from my personal collection but give it a try if this stimulates parts of your funk bone.

NINA SIMONE - I PUT A SPELL ON YOU
JEFF BUCKLEY - EVERYBODY HERE WANTS YOU
PETER GABRIEL/KATE BUSH - DON'T GIVE UP
1 GIANT LEAP (ROBBIE WILLIAMS & FAITHLESS) - MY CULTURE
BOMB THE BASS - BUG POWDER DUST (LA FUNK MOB MIX)
GNARLS BARKLEY - CRAZY
GROOVE ARMADA - SUPER STYLIN'
NATALIE IMBRUGLIA - WRONG IMPRESSION
ESKIMO JOE - SMOKE
FAITHLESS - I WANT MORE
BEYONCE - CHECK ON IT (KING KLUB MIX)
RIHANNA - S.O.S.
AMERIE - 1 THING

Do you love it? It slides along really nicely and that remix of Beyonce is fucken awesome, not really a fan of that song but the remix breathes new life into it. Alright need to go back to focusing on my conversation with the hubby.

'Lovinyoufromherecheckyalaterseeyabye'

THE STORY SO FAR...

2006-04-24T15:59:00.000+10:00

Afternoon kids, or evening or morning or geez have you got some drug habit or do you do shift work cos no-one should be up this late...I think that is officially the longest intro to a printed rave ever. So last night was spitting venom and the usual bitchy onslaught at the television because Big Brother is back for a 6th season in Australia (so indulgent thinking someone outside Australia might actually stumble on this blog and read it) but the wheels are in motion again, that was truly a toolish and fucked up statement that one. Last night Gretel passed out her introductions for a cavalcade of Barbies and Kens. It looks like a fashion shoot for steroid munching, self assured energy vampires who kind of remove the air from the room when they are confined in a small space. They're here and they want everyone in the room to know about it...fact is some of them may well be lovely, fun loving people but in the right situation you know you would probably go each one with a Braun Stab Blender given the chance. Just to stop them from crapping all over your aura or whatever the hell you call that funk that makes you...you. Am II making sense? Let me tell you I'm re-reading it over and over again just to make sure this remains slightly funny without skipping with gay abandon into mental case land.

So yeah I could rabbit on for ages about who shits me, who is 'mosexual and who just needs to pull her face out of the 70's sun lamp and try and repair that 19 year old skin that looks like it should be shrink wrapped around an old lady with more cash then sense. It's like she's been smeared with vegemite and melted lolly bananas. No wonder it's a virgin, when you slide into bed with something that glows in the dark like some kind of fractured nuclear power plant you know you ain't interested. So Monday afternoon today and the operator of this keyboard is exhausted and potentially demented from working all weekend and having too little sleep. I sit before you making mouth love to 4 pieces of gum as I try and absorb any sweetness I can from their tired rubbery confines. It is a lost cause, this thing is only good for blowing bubbles with and even that is becoming more difficult. Having no refined sugar in ones diet does things to your cravings. Wish I was chewing cake! In the future I will chew synthetic bubble gum that replicates the exact taste of your favourite foods, not in a

'How the fuck did they honestly believe that this can of pine forest aerosol spray smells like a real pine forest'

way but in a

'Which fucko removed the gum from my mouth and replaced it with real, live fuck off cake flavour"

It probably won't be made available until around the time they replace my pensioner style teeth with steely, white cosmetic teeth designed by a super computer. I think the future will be fun and if it isn't then I'll write a letter to some crappy newspaper complaining of how the future was gonna be better back in my day. Anyway I have had enough of re-reading this all the time and there is a new episode of the Simpsons to watch with my tattoo inspired hero 'Sideshow Bob' in it so it's time too publish and bail on this.

View ya

NOW I HAVE VERBAL DIARRHEA...OF THE ONLINE KIND

2006-04-12T17:53:00.000+10:00

Yo Mands, thanks for the comment, much as I am shocked that someone actually comes to this blog to see if I've got anything to say, I am also floored that someone is so dedicated that they check this palaver every now and then just to see if I am keeping up my end of the type and enter bargain. Apparently one person reads this blog with some sort of regularity, Mands I think I love you more than I already do.

So now I feel obliged to add something more entertaining than just a random thankyou...So what is news? Well I will be without the iMac for a few hours tomorrow as my disc drive collapsed and died a hideous death in the midst of me adding Nina Simone onto iTunes...the very idea. Why it decided to throw itself off the edge of some techno cliff is beyond me but even more head fuck worthy is the fact that it did it within 3 weeks of me purchasing the thing.. According to Apple Care I am a one in a million customer as it hasn't happened to them in years. One in a million huh, so do I get anything for my unique status? But of course not, just the inconvenience of having to take this thing to work with me tomorrow so some guy can pick it up and fix it for me.

Anyway now that I have wasted a paragraph on that info allow me to reveal something much more entertaining that actually alludes to the title of this entry. So it was hubbys birthday last month and we decided to celebrate with drinks at our place. Now drinks with hubby usually start early so we decided to get stuck into the action around 11am on a Saturday morning. Being the big 'mosexual that I am I decided to whip up a tres sheikh mixer, write this down cos it fucken rocks as a vodka mixer...

FUCKO INC 'MOSEXUAL MIXER

1 cup of white sugar
2 cups of water
1 organic vanilla pod split in half lengthways, seeds scraped out
lemon zest from 1 lemon
lemon juice from half a lemon
1 saucepan
1 wooden spoon
a source of heat (we're talking a hotplate not your pants area)

Place the vanilla pod and scraped out vanilla seeds in the water and the sugar in a saucepan and place on a low heat, stir with the wooden spoon until the sugar has dissolved into the water, the best way to check this is to check the back of the wooden spoon, if you can see grains of sugar on it still then it aint dissolved, just keep the temperature low and keep stirring, it shouldn't take too long. Once all dissolved add the lemon juice and zest (you can other flavours if you prefer something other than lemon or vanilla like orange zest or cinnamon or fucken cumquat if it takes your fancy...the flavouring is your choice) Once it is cool pour a splash into your vodka add some lemonade or soda water and enjoy.

My big problem was that I decided a nice treat for hubby and myself would be to grab one blender, tip a huge splash of vodka in, a sprinkle of 'mosexual mixer and a few handfuls of ice and blend to make one big fuck off slushie. The problem with this idea is that it was so yummy that we were hoovering them like they were going out of fashion. So after 2 hours of up ending my head and pouring them down my throat like here was a fire in my belly and that was the only way to extinguish it a few guests arrived. I kept mixing and pouring and head tilting and chatting and then someone handed me a sweet baby J and it was laced with tobacco which kicked in my head spins and sent me running for the toilet bowl.

From this moment on the story gets less than pretty and completely shameful, but what the fuck do I care, nothing better than using your humiliation to entertain others I say. So using the time honoured skills of friends who remember everything and my own limited memories here is what happened. Yes I impersonated a dinosaur over the toilet bowl, yes I howled like a t-rex on heat and yes I coughed up everything in my stomach. What I don't remember is passing out on the floor for a few hours and treating my boxer shorts like a toddler that hasn't been toilet trained. When I finally struggled to my feet my pants had a little extra hmmmm lets just say it was carry on baggage of the sort no one wants to clean up. My friends apparently left about an hour after I locked myself in the bathroom and of course hubby was making regular visits to make sure I didn't need an ambulance, thankfully he didn't notice anything thick in the air. Although that didn't stop me from telling him all about it when I finally opened the door.

So if you've read the archives you will know that the idea of me drinking usually ends in disaster and even at the ripe old age of 36...37 in July, I still can't seem to sort my shit out...scuse the pun. On that note it's time to bail, come back for more soon, if you dare.

I GOT SOMETHING TO SAY...AGAIN

2006-04-11T18:27:00.000+10:00

I know, I know, I could once again waste time doing the big explain but the truth of the matter is, I've been fucken busy. New job, new city, new life, its all fucken new kids. I'm as shiny and fresh as a botoxed butt on some try hard celeb and I'm loving it. At least when I sit down I can feel my arse and even though I haven't checked, I'm sure it is wrinkled in some way shape or form and at the very least it's more expressive and can show bucketloads more emotion than Nicole Kidman can. I so can't be bothered filling you in on all the nitty gritty and of course one must retain ones secret identity, so it is safe to say I've left Melbourne (boo hoo) and taken up residency in Bris-Vegas (friggen hot).

Things are getting better weather wise thank fuck...oh God I am officially a nanna. Into my second paragraph and already I am crapping on about the weather, hang on gotta go get my travel rug. Phew now it's fucken hot again, anyhow I will persist with my temperature ramble as it finally seems like it is getting bearable around here. It has taken me ages to get used to the steamy, crotch rotting stench of top end weather, what is with mother nature anyway? Silly bitch making it too hot even for soft, doughy white ladies like me. Thank God for air conditioning, now I can spend my days going from frigid, arctic like temperatures to tropical heat, then back into the chill, then out into the heat again. It is so good for one's immune system I think.

Finally threw the money down on a dishy new Apple iMac, the big arse 20 inch screen edition, which I am staring into now like some kind of wanton whore, drives me crazy. It is so hot right now and if it wasn't so dangerous I am sure I would give it regular licks. As it is, I just snuggle up to it and throw it loving glances whenever I have to wander away from its never ending glow. Whilst I indulge this weird, slightly sick affair with an inanimate object, I am occasionally reminded of the card I slid it on to purchase it, which always turns up once a month to remind me of my tawdry affair and rub my face in it, she is a hateful ex mistress. Righto, now I feel like I'm some kind of talk to myself tragic. Like that was a revelation.

So I guess what I am trying to say is that with my in house connection I will hopefully be spending more time writing little anecdotes from my life and boring you senseless with my thoughts, stories and ideas. You're excited already aren't you? Thought so, watch this space kids...I promise.

YOU LOVE ME, YOU REALLY LOVE ME

2005-11-18T16:09:00.000+11:00

Hello kids, or adults, or senior citizens, or drooling vegetables who surf the internet using an intricate set of pulleys, some strategically placed pencils and one of those wicked dogs that can pick up remote controls, cross streets, hand over your wallet, open doors and wipe your arse for you. Actually they probably don't do the wiping for you, but they pretty much do everything else. In fact you need one of those little spider monkeys rescued from a laboratory somewhere for the intricate butt work. Now I'm laughing to myself about the image of a helper monkey that wipes your retarded arse for you. How fucken funny would that be, I can see the monkey doing that screaming thing they do when you dress them in dolls clothes and make them ride a tiny bike for the benefit of a bunch of snotty nosed kids. They'd be doing that scream while they shook the piece of loo paper free from their wee little hands, panic struck that you are gonna fall back on top of them with a half wiped ring piece that smothers the last bit of breath from their little lungs. Life must be shit for little monkeys, I hope people are nice to them.

Anyway let's talk about me. It's my topic of choice at all the quiz shows I'm invited onto, as fucken if. Though if I was invited on one, all the black holes within my memory would mean I'd fail and get kicked off the show with sweet fuck all but a copy of the show converted into some lame arse version of a board game. The sort of game you wouldn't play even if it was snowing outside, the log cabin was sealed in and all forms of entertainment were gone but that game. In fact it wouldn't even be useful as fire wood, because it would be filled with toxic game pieces and all that shit. So lets get back on track shall we? Here I am talking to myself via keyboard and being rather pleased that some strangers have been reading this blog and actually enjoying it. Interesting for me, mainly because some of my close friends and the occasional work colleague who has taken the time to visit this place have been so close to accepting a couch in a therapy session somewhere that it is starting to worry me. I mean I know I go off on tangents and ramble on about all sorts of shit but hey that is what this is meant to be about. Also as my readership is close to nil I feel pretty free to write whatever the fuck I like without repercussions or objections. So clearly if someone reads this and goes

"Yo fucko, your blog rocks"

It only encourages me. So to all of you who have sent me positive mentions, what am I up to now, three? I think you fucken rock my jocks and stuff, even though I wear boxers and that. But you get the idea. Jesus, clearly when I'm flattered I start to type like a fucken moron. Oh and what is the fucken story with the cock smacks that send me positive comments about my site only to tag it with links to buying Xmas trees. What kind of fuck knuckle is searching for Xmas trees online and happens to stumble on my blog. Please don't treat me like a fucken dead shit and think I'm stupid enough to believe that you like my site and just wanted to point me in the direction of a great website for buying Xmas trees. I don't think I have ever referenced trees of the Christmas variety EVER, well until now. Clearly if you have to spend your days posting shit like that on blogs like mine you are working in a niche industry that no one gives a fat rats arse about and you should maybe investigate a sideline of selling parts of your body and brain for research projects. Why I would be keen to purchase a tree from the UK makes no sense either. If you have read this blog and enjoyed it by all means leave a comment as it encourages me to write more frequently and tell your friends. I would link to other blogs I read but unfortunately I am a techno wronger when it comes to this thing and no matter how many times I have tried to add links and make this more pretty it doesn't work. Aint it funny how most help sections on these things do little to help and more to confuse, is that just me? Probably, anyway moving on, thanks for reading and I promise more soon.

EXCUSES, EXCUSES AND YOU KIDS ARE LITTLE FUCKOS

2005-10-14T15:17:00.000+10:00

I could dribble out some of those stock standard excuses as to why it has been ages since I dropped words into the blog sphere. You know the ones...I was abducted by aliens and probed so deeply my brain was compacted into the top of my skull, or the one that goes...I sneezed so hard part of my brain dislodged and flew out of my nose taking the head off a passing cat, or who could forget the old...listen fucko I'll update this blog whenever I fucken well feel like and if you've got an issue with that then perhaps you should pay me for my time and then maybe, just maybe I would be a bit more committed to saying things on a more regular basis. Perhaps if I wasn't so busy, pretending to be busy then I would have done something about it.

Anyway today I thought I would write something about being a kid and the horrid things you do to one another as a child. I grew up with two younger brothers and I am quite surprised my parents had the patience and dedication not to smother us in our sleeps and get rid of us years ago. Shocking? Yes of course it is, but when I think back to the things my brothers and I got up to I am inspired to thank the Gods for making me 'mosexual so that the only children I have to worry over are the puppy and kitty kind. Seriously how the hell do parents do it? I've heard all the stories about the bond a mother develops for her child and all that but I'm lost as to how that works. Understandably the only thing I've given birth to comes from a session of serious face stuffing and it ends up sitting at the bottom of a bowl of water and let me tell you even that old saying 'it's got a face only a mother could love' certainly doesn't apply to that.

Anyway enough about my attempts to adopt my own arse art, lets relive the memories shall we. I remember little things like licking my food to prevent having to share it with either of my brothers, this of course progressed into spitting on each others food in order to steal it off them, oh yeah the extent of our creativity knew no bounds. Then there were the times my middle brother and I would torment our younger brother. As we fought he would become more distressed which meant he would freak out and try and make us stop, which usually worked, however it also meant we would then become a dedicated team set on attacking him for stopping us from fighting. As both our parents worked in the family business it meant that we would spend large amounts of time by ourselves. It also meant that our elderly neighbour had my parents on direct dial so she could call them whenever she heard lots of screaming or crying.

This then meant my mother would climb into the car, drive home at break neck speed, using the traffic jams and the embarrassment of having a neighbour say things like 'your children are at each others throats again' to build on her anger so that by the time the wheels of the family car screamed into the driveway she would be so angry that her voice could be heard by dogs 5 neighbourghoods away. As we scattered she would be scoping the scene for implements of punishment, picking up the nearest branch, wooden spoon, fly swat or as a last resort her own hand to beat the living crap out of our arses. Naturally we developed a skill of fighting quietly so the neighbours wouldn't hear us. I vividly remember cornering my littlest brother out the front of our house cos he had climbed a tree, tears streaming down his face, cos we were fighting and my middle brother and I telling him to come inside so the neighbours wouldn't spring us and make the call.

If my middle brother were still a child now he would be classified hyperactive and pumped full of drugs to calm him down but back in the 70's we just knew not to give him red cordial or sweets of any kind. This was of course completely un-avoidable at Easter, which meant my middle brother would devour all his sweet treats in record time and then use the rest of the day to climb the walls like a cat trapped in a box of water. His anger was the sort that entire hospital wings could be devoted to studying. I remember one time when it was possible he may have to wear glasses and my torments of four eyes and other witty asides made him so angry that my Dad had to hold him back as he lurched at me. Hearing my father yell 'RUN!' with a bit of terror and panic in his voice was enough for me to run so fast I could have been an Olympic contender. Just writing this makes me realise something, perhaps the reason my parents didn't smother us was because each day they knew our lives were on the edge anyway because we were more than likely to kill each other without there help. Also with most of our street wishing our parents would eradicate us I'm sure if one or all of us had died they would come out to greet the TV crews with comments that included words like 'devils spawn' and 'pre-pubescent terrorists'.

Thankfully we are much more adult and loving to one another now. Full credit to my beautiful parents for putting up with all our shit and for beating some sense into us. How they coped I will never know but I love them endlessly for everything they did on our behalf.

REMEMBERING STUFF IS FOR FOOLS

2005-08-30T17:41:00.000+10:00

So here I am desperately trying to remember what it was that I said in my previous entry that crashed and burned when I tried to post it…Oh the humanity…alright I suppose on a grand scale this occurrence isn’t as bad as the Hindenburg tragedy Nobody died, it won’t signal the end of a mode of transport and it isn’t related to a tyrannical empire, but it fucken means heaps to me. I slaved away and wasted valuable hours which could have been used for more rewarding pursuits (surfing the net for porn, having a crap, foraging for lost treasure in either of my nostrils, calling a friend, adopting a little Ethiopian kiddie, running away from the paparazzi, writing songs for my next album, calling a press conference, admitting to a drug dependence, cleaning my ears, plucking my nostril hairs…lets face it I could fill your screen with a massive list of things I could have been doing). But oh no, I dedicated a couple of minutes to a keyboard assault that was ignored and disposed of with one click of a post button. Still I could have written it in Microsoft Word and done the cut ‘n’ paste thing like I did for this entry. I will attempt to recover the results of my feverish typing from the lower depths of my head for you now…although I know this will blow for sure…read on at your own peril.

So I was talking to the girlfriend of my favourite lady ‘mosexual the other night and she was telling me how they had just celebrated their first anniversary of love. Oh yeah ‘mosexuals can hang in for the long haul, hubby and I are into 2 and a half years already so stick that in your pipe and smoke it. Anyway we were talking about how quickly time flies and all that spazzy crap you get into when you’re stoned and rambling on the phone. As a side note I would like to point out that the only reason I remember this topic of conversation is because I wrote it down the minute she mentioned it…phew. It was then that she mentioned how difficult it was to learn the phone numbers of your partner and it struck me as one of the most difficult things about a new relationship. Yes, while the average punter is worried about how to put up with that thing that shits them, wether they’ve made the right choice, when is the right time to slip a fart out and learning how to say ours, we and us instead of mine, I and me, I was focussed on remembering a friggen phone number. I don’t have a good memory at the best of times so when hubby and I first hooked up and it got serious I was madly working behind the scenes to memorise not only his mobile but his home number as well.

Do you understand the pressure and expectation that comes with a relationship when you are a living, breathing adult in his 30’s with the memory of a goldfish? I would spend days just staring at the numbers trying to make it second nature. Then because my memory is so short term I’d wonder who the hell this number belonged to and why I was staring at it. KIDDING! Of course, it is with great pride that I mention I have learnt the numbers off by heart, but even now I still have lapses. It is kind of like when you forget how to spell the simplest of words. Someone will be standing over you and you suddenly go blank on how to spell ‘the’ or ‘we’ or ‘kidney’. Everyone has those moments don’t they? As for memorising hubbies birthday don’t even mention it. I vividly remember being in a department store filling out one of those forms that authorises them to send you useless crap and build points to buy more useless crap. Anyway it gets to the point where you have to write your partners birthday down and I had a complete mental blank while he was standing along side of me watching. Talk about freaking out inside my tiny head, which of course uses more mental capacity, which means I drain other resources, which means I was drooling and recreating scenes from Rain Man and Forest Gump. Although without the touching teary parts that could win me an Oscar, it was more of a call security, get a cattle prod and round up some big, no neck security types who are coming down from a steroid cocktail. So yeah, remembering stuff is for fools, live for the moment, write things down and get yourself some serious as shit personal assistant who can whisper in your ear while smiling inanely at anyone approaching you….sorted.

SHIT AS FUCK

2005-08-24T17:19:00.000+10:00

I wrote something great, witty, fabulous, all about me and then it crashes as I go to publish...mother f*#king, arse licking, pig fondling, son of a motherless, DNA coated, bug ridden, prick headed, worthless, shitful, FUCKO!

Will try and re-write it tomorrow, over it now.

CAMP AS SHIT LOVE

2005-08-18T13:29:00.000+10:00

So today I got an email from one of my bestest buddies who lives in London. When she and I were teenagers struggling with life in Adelaide (the capital city in the 'State of Unnatural Acts' described by one visiting friend as 'almost like everyone is waiting for something to happen but nothing has yet'). We lived next door to one another in the upper middle class suburb of Somerton Park. Both out families had numerous children, a token dog and an in-ground pool. Cat and I spent numerous hours hanging out and developed a fabulous relationship. At night we would take turns to leave our house and go next door to the others persons bedroom window and knock on it so that we could talk about anything and everything until we were too tired to talk anymore. I'm sure both our parents believed would develop into love, engagement, marriage and kids.

But seriously if my parents didn't have any inkling I was a 'mosexual in the making, they were clearly spending their days hoovering Temazepam and ignoring the OBVIOUS signs. Anyway Cat wrote to me after reading this blog and commenting that some of my musical choices (early INXS) brought back memories which I have cut and pasted for your viewing pleasure

Takes me back to College Rd times when I had an apparently straight boy neighbour my age living next door to me... Oh you spin me right round baby right round... on a mound.. of dirt.. in the front yard...

Yes it is a sorry thing to admit but as a teenager I developed a rather large passion for miming to the campest songs of the day, Dead or Alive being my all time favourite, however I also become so skilled in miming to Bonnie Tyler's 'Total Eclipse of the Heart' that my parents would badger me to mime it for friends at parties! Hello!!! Apparently my parents were clueless cos that sort of behaviour is screaming pooftapalooza to me.

In fact her memories reminded me of the numerous gay things I did as a child and as a teenager that I wrote off as just a phase I was going through but in hindsight were clearly the makings of a wooly woofter or a horses hoof, as my Dad loved to describe them (that's rhyming slang for poofter and poof). I also thought it was wonderful stuff to rave on about and expose for all and sundry to view. So without further ado I present the

Top 5 Signs Your Kid is a 'Mosexual In Training

Sign Number 1:

Well duh, I liked to mime to songs sung by women and camp men and was so proud of my skills that I climbed onto a mound of dirt, dumped on our front lawn to help build up our garden beds and performed Dead or Alive's 'You Spin Me Round (Like a Record)' for all the neighbourhood kids. I know now that I enjoyed the laughs I got whilst doing it but seriously there are other ways to make people laugh that are less gay. Thankfully I never donned the makeup or the dresses, something that still doesn't interest me to this day.

Sign Number 2:

I made jewellery out of FIMO, mostly earrings and badges, which my mother used to wear and I also sold to her friends. I even went as far as to create themed badges (oh who am I kidding I called them broaches) for Christmas which included small Xmas trees, reindeers and snowmen. Plus I took up decorating t-shirts with that bloody hideous paint that puffs up when you iron the back of the t-shirt so you get a slightly raised look. Somewhere out there in some suburban op shop is an old t-shirt with a weird arse looking koala on it, they were my speciality.

Sign Number 3:

I gave up being a lifesaver, which I started learning from the age of 9, so I could learn how to ride a horse. Once again with the benefit of hindsight I realise that leaving an environment that means you are surrounded by well built men in tiny speedos at the age of 15 could indicate that I was actually straight but clearly not only did I want a pony but I was also terrified of getting a stiffy in my own speedos while surrounded by all that barely encased meat...gulp.

Sign Number 4:

Even though I currently do voiceovers using my lovely deep voice, I had to work to find it. A few years back when I stumbled across my first aircheck from the late 80's, which I recorded when I was about 17 or 18, I was shocked at how gay I actually sounded. I also finally understood why so many of my parents friends would ask "Don't you need a deep voice for that?" whenever I told them I wanted a career in radio. How rude, I should track them down and finally respond with a "Don't you have to be more sensitive to a teenagers feelings when he is revealing his dreams to you rather than rolling your eyes, suppressing a laugh and then jumping up and down on his still growing testicles?"

Sign Number 5:

Despite attempts to cover up my sexuality, by feeding myself large quantities of food from the back of a dump truck so I wouldn't appear sexy to anyone, women were all over me. On a few occasions I would actually give in and accept their proposal to be their boyfriend, but the minute they tried to wrestle me to the ground and shove their tongues down my throat it was the old "It's not you, it's me" and the dating was over. When my last "girlfriend" complained to our friends that I didn't put out and that she thought I might be gay, I turned to her and said "I'm not gay and how dare you spread such vicious lies about me, we're over, I don't wanna see you again". Boy did I have some explaing to do to her when I finally came out of the closet.

So there you have it, me in a nutshell. Now I'm all bushy 70's mo, shaved head, military and work shirts and deep voice, but back then I was all the glitz, the glamour, the swishy. How times have changed. By the way, don't worry about Cat, as a 'mosexual herself, I love that we found each other and spent all those years bonding. Her friendship is one of the greatest things I found in my childhood and thankfully I still have to this very day.

MIND BLOWING READ

2005-08-13T07:58:00.000+10:00

Putting my own demented ramblings aside, I stumbled on this letter while surfing the blog world and it is amazing. Click here and be moved. I wish I could argue a point home as well as this woman does, she is my new personal Jesus.

AN OPEN LETTER TO DR JOSHI

2005-08-02T17:51:00.000+10:00

Dear Dr Joshi (what kind of name is that anyway?)

Yesterday marked one week into your book Dr Joshi's Holisitic Detox, oh yes, I am finally purging my poor 36 year old body of the years of abuse and magnificent substances that have coursed, congealed and oozed into my veins. I feel fucken fabulous however I do have issues...well duh, read the inner thoughts below and any drooling, monosalibic fool with the mental age of a goldfish that was born with half a brain and then trod on but put back together and then bought back to life and given a translator who uses bright crayons, flash cards, fuzzy felt stick on pictures and those dolls which usually get introduced with the words

"Show me on the dolly where they touched you"

and you could work that one out. No this issue isn't one I have previously listed, this issue is with Dr Joshi's helpful advice on how to stay motivated on your detox. You see I honestly believe the only reason I am still doing this thing is because I have decided I need to do it. I'm sick of feeling like crap, hate that I've tried almost everything on the home delivery menu's and I'm terrified of getting to the point where I start investigating kaftans and washing myself with a rag on a stick. So when I read that this detox will re-educate my taste buds and make me not wanna eat those bad foods ever again I got excited.

Well Dr Joshi you don't know me or my taste buds. Yes I will admit that your holistic detox food is lovely, complex, fresh and stimulating but it aint nothing compared to something smeared in butter, deep fried, dunked in chocolate or served in a big fuck off martini glass. You get what I'm saying? I could keep eating this organic whole food till the day I kick it into the next existance and I would still crave a slab of pig fried in a pan and served on a stack of eggs with butter spread as thick as a slice of cheese melting into a hot toasted slice of really soft doughy bread and a milkshake with enough sugar to shatter your teeth. Jesus I think my heart just squealed in my chest writing that....gulp.

So the struggle continues as I write this I am about to hop on the tram and head to the organic supermarket to load up on more 'treats' but don't ever think for one minute that I wouldn't go you with a knife for trying to convince my taste buds they will be re-educated. This aint some Stanley Kubrick film and I aint falling for it.

Love

me

HELP! THEY WANT TO ASSIMILATE ME

2005-07-23T13:07:00.000+10:00

There are a few things you need to know about me before I delve into the main topic of this post. Firstly, working in the media is a cut throat business, which means it ain't all love, kisses, celebrities and abundant cash. In reality it is more along the lines of being addicted to some kind of hard core drug and the company you work for is your dealer, they smile and treat you with love and respect but there is an under current of 'fuck us over and your dead'. The minute you get too dependent, start grand standing or become a liability they will cut the supply off and cast you out to fend for yourself and let me tell you the comedown is hard to work through.

A sweeter way to look at it (for the ladies) is this, it is sort of like being a fluffy little bunny, they look sweet, some of them are a bit rough around the edges, have a bit of mange or myxomatosis, and all of the bunnies have some sort of tumor attached that can either grow and absorb its host or can be kept in check with constant medication, more commonly referred to as keeping yourself in check or being grounded. Yes of the course the tumour is also known as an ego. The bigger the tumour the more it drags in the mud, slowing down the rest of the warren and hindering it's owners ability to escape when the bright lights shine in it's face and it gets pressed into the bitumen and remodeled with a tyre tread across it spine. Hmm smacked you around with that one didn't I.

Yeah so in the event the dealer cuts you off or you get turned into some sort of road kill luncheon meat you generally need to find a job. In my 17 year career this has happened to me twice, not bad, all things considered. The 2 times it has happened I have decided to take my limited skills to companies that do telephone research. You spend hours on end cold calling poor, innocent punters and asking them to stay on the phone from a few minutes to a good quarter hour. The level of abuse that you receive from a job like this is immense as most of the calls happen during dinner time and God forbid you interrupt whatever useless reality/soapie/topical/game show/porn they were zoned out in front of to ask them if they think religion should be taught in schools or marijuana should be legalised.

So having spent time being treated like a dribbling freak and abused by faceless morons over the phone whenever someone calls me and asks the question

"Hello Sir, would you mind completing a short survey for us"

I feel morally obliged as I know how soul destroying it is trying to get your quota up and knowing that as soon as the last few people are surveyed you can go home and get paid some shiny beads and a handful of warm spit for your dedication. This happened to me on Saturday last week. A sweet little elderly lady knocked on my door and asked if I could answer a few questions for a survey, thankfully the Scientologists don't do it door to door, so with the usual pangs of sympathy and guilt I agreed.

After spending roughly 20 minutes with her looking at various magazine covers, trying to remember what TV I watched a week ago and sorting through whatever else they needed to know, she wrapped up by saying something about a booklet. I was so wasted and mindless from answering so many questions I thought she was talking about some colour brochure that proves her company is legitimate and agreed that she could drop one at my door the following day. It was waiting for hubby and I when we stepped outdoors the following day and I picked it up and cast it inside and ignored it, as you do. Anyway Wednesday night I get a call asking if I have started filling out my survey and I wonder what the hell this woman is talking about. Then I remember the book on the door step that I have been walking over in the hallway all week, the junk mail that comes back to bite you. So feeling obliged once again I sat down to answer all the questions in the 2 survey boks, that's right, 2 survey books.

Last night while hubby was delving into the Opera world on DVD I started to fill out the first and biggest book, as I kept putting more and more black biro (blue if you don't have back but never a felt tip pen) crosses in tiny boxes and turning more and more pages to be confronted with more and more questions I started to FREAK OUT! Even with all my experience in this industry I have never seen a survey this big. We are talking 118 pages, that's right and each page is FUCKEN over flowing with questions. They cover things like sports you do and watch, toothpaste you buy or have heard about, sanitary napkins (WTF), meat and smallgoods, shopping centres, service stations, telephones, mobiles, gas and electricity, my weight (YOU RUDE PRYING FUCKOS), beer, wine, pre-packaged and mixed drinks, coffee, butter, my height, my bowel movements (actually I made that one up but I would have put my crosses in the boxes if they asked) and the list goes on and on and on.

What was freaking me out the most is how much they will know about me once this thing is completed. They could quite easily being growing a little me clone next to all the sheep named Dolly1, Dolly2 etc., and just program all my info into it and I am totally replaced. Oh and yes I will complete the surveys (sometime in 2007 at this rate) as they have a draw to win $10,000. As far as I'm concerned I should be given the cash for even bothering to answer the questions, let alone that I am actually answering all of them truthfully. Why am I such a fucken goody, good? Oh that's right, because I used to do this job and I know how annoying it is when people don't do it. If I was a nastier man I would use each page to wipe my friggen hairy butt on and then send it back C.O.D. with a couple of house bricks thrown in so they have to spend maxi cash getting it out of the post office only to find it repugnant when they open it.....GRRRRRR.

PROOF THAT NOTHING HAPPENS TO ME

2005-07-20T17:23:00.000+10:00

So walking to work this morning and decided to grab a loaf of wholewheat which is this bullshit amazing organic bread from what has to be Melbourne's best bakery, Baker D. Chirico, read about them here:

http://danlepard.com/content/pages/dchirico1.htm

Anyway this bread is quite literally a mind fuck, I love going to the shop before 9am as they usually have a pile of this wholegrain bread covered in sesame seeds and most mornings its only a few minutes out of the ovens so it is super hot and soft and doughy inside. It just rips your nostrils apart with all these amazing mouth watering smells.

So to go with my hot, just baked bread I run across the road and grab some organic crunchy peanut butter from the IGA (that's a supermarket in case your thinking it stands for International Groping Academy or Internal Gut Analysis or some fucked up shit like that). I love my organic food as much as life itself, in fact, I can't understand why you would buy souless, dead supermarket food when you could have the amazing flavour of real organic food.

So before I get any further side tracked, train crashed, hundreds dead etc., this peanut paste is $5.67 a tub, fair enough, run to the counter and run it through with Miss 'Oh Look What You Eat You Pig' Checkout Lady and it won't swipe, so she says

"Um, do you know how much this is?"

and inside my head the good me is going

"Ya huh it is $5.67"

and the bad me is going

"Lie, say no I don't, go on, I dare you, make them work for it, make them work for it fucko, what are you the gayest of the gayest guys in the world?"

so without a moments hesitation I say

"Um, no I don't sorry" (LIAR, LIAR, LIAR!)

So she just shrugs, types in a price she pulls out of her arse and hands it to me in a plastic bag with all my other groceries. I was so excited I almost tore the sales docket out of her hand in my rush to get out of the shop and check how much I saved.

This is where it gets sad, I mean really, is my life that pathetic that the highlight of my day so far is how I stole from a reputable business? Am I that old that I get excited about something as sad as getting a breakfast spread for below suggested retail. Could I be sad enough to run to work, grab my phone and ring hubby to tell him in detail about my adventure and brag about how much I paid for 375 grams of organic peanut butter? I think we can safely say YES to all those questions. I did run to work, ring hubby and brag about it, I am excited I got a product worth $5.67 for $1.50. I mean seriously who charges $1.50 for a tub of organic peanut butter, what is she retarded? Therefore, regardless of how sad I am, I still feel I deserved my little bonus...I don't know why but hey serves them right for being stupid.

IT'S MY BIRTHDAY!

2005-07-13T16:04:00.000+10:00

Yah, I am older, so now I can start to think about acting my age, as fucken if. That would mean I should be married to a woman who pretends to love me but secretly fantasies about running off with anyone who shows her any interest and have a bunch of shitty sprogs that eat me out of house and home, think I'm a tool and cost me a fortune in peer group pressure buys and school fees. Phew sometimes being a 'mosexual rocks even more than you could possibly imagine.

So woke up this morning to hubbies birthday wishes (he is so cute and sexy in bed...well he is sexy anywhere, but I love his messed up hair, just woke up look the most) and as an example of my creeping dementia (can you get that at 36 or is it just the follow on from rampant drug experimentation) I had actually forgotten about it until he gave me the hatch day wishes. In fact, yesterday I thought I had missed it entirely and no one had bothered to say anything as well, how very Molly (16 Candles) Ringwald of me.

My littlest brother tried calling me a few times, the first time I was washing the bits and pieces and the second I had a face full of toast and a cup full of hot water and lemon juice and I'm too old to be interested in running to answer a phone like some kind of tragic teenage fucko desperate for recognition and approval. Then mum got through to send me her love and apologise for being slack with the forwarding of a present which her and Dad intend to deliver to me personally in August.

Wandered into work were the day has been broken up with calls and SMS's wishing me the best. Although not many people at work have bothered to say anything to me and as far as my declaration to hubby this morning that I would be eating cake for lunch it is a good thing I had money in my pocket to buy a pastry case of lips, tits, arseholes and face bits commonly referred to as a meat pie, because this little fuckos cake never turned up. How ungrateful and self absorbed of them to think I wouldn't want one.

As for tonight, well we are off to our mates little cafe so we can sit at the bar with her and hoover a plate full of roast meat and vegies for their $10 roast night, gotta love a cheap, pensioner type feed. According to rumours I have heard red wine will be served and I will be force fed massive chunks of Mar Bar slice....bring it on fucko, I am so bang up for that. Remember it is never too late to give so organise something with a value of a hundred bucks or more and forward it to me post haste.

CHILL TO THESE GROOVES NOW FUCKO!

2005-07-11T16:03:00.000+10:00

Back again, with a purpose and a mission besides just my usual rants and self absorbed hoopla, time to spread the love to someone else me thinks. Having been so vocal in expressing the limitations of my diagnosed disease (which will probably inspire Tom Cruise to bag me out and babble on like the repressed 'mosexual that he secretly is) it should come as no surprise that I have been meaning to write this entry for ages...doh. Anyway if you're reading this then congratulations, you clearly graduated from some sort of educational institution, now that you have proved your superiority, how about you grab your mouse and rub it over the link below. I could rave for pages about how great Jess McAvoy is, but really, you just need to experience it for yourself.

While some people go ape shit for the incredibly over rated Missy Higgins and her over the top ocker whinging to piano accompaniment, this woman is being ignored. Having purchased her En Masse CD recently I can guarantee she provides more substance and variety from beginning to end of her CD rather than the continuous blah that Missy dishes out. Full credit to Missy for her talents and all, but really, I would rather go my left bollock with a rusty splade (see: a weird arse hybrid all in one spoon, fork and knife that is pointless and rather dangerous considering how sharp the edges are...what demented fucko decided that was a good idea? Have him or her sacked) than have to tolerate her debut album from start to finish. Then again if you are an insomniac it could be just the thing to send you off into the land of ZZZZZZZZZ.

I should point out that this is my blog so my thoughts and theories reign supreme and what I say goes or my underlings see the wrath of Supreme Fucko unleashed. You of course may not agree but hey that is what the comments section is for. All I really wanna say is have a look and a listen, some of her music is available to preview and it is well worth the effort. If you like Missy take the plunge and experience something on a higher level and purchase the CD right now.

http://www.jessmcavoy.com/music.htm

PS: Yes I know Jess personally but even if I was just some sad arsed, waiting at the stage door, crying at the mention of her name, going to every instore, see all the tours, buy every album, set up the fansite, get the autographs, ask for a photo, sleep my way backstage kind of person I would still think she fucken rocks.

YOU LAZY ARSED FUCKO

2005-07-06T14:18:00.000+10:00

I know, I know, I should be shot, but hey maybe I was and all this time I've been wallowing in the bush, fingering my entrails as the life slowly drains from me, wishing I could place one last entry in this blog. Do you feel guilty yet? NO? Ok perhaps I am milking it beyond belief but you get the picture and the truth of the matter is still quite shocking. I've been diagnosed with an incurable disease called....(pause for effect)....LAZINESS.

Shocking isn't it, right now I'm lending my image to a campaign to raise awareness about the disease, we were gonna nominate a day and choose a coloured ribbon to wear but at this stage we are all too....um, busy to get together and organise it. We need to select a place to run the campaign from but, well, there's quite a few good things on the TV and besides who would care. I mean really, if we do go to all this effort would the general public just be so lazy that they'd ignore us? Me thinks so. Fuck them all. I'd actually withdraw myself from the campaign right now if I could be bothered lifting the phone and....ah who gives a shit.

IF YOU LOVE ME SIGN THIS NOW

2005-05-05T20:24:00.000+10:00

Ok so maybe that heading was a little too forward but really, I don't care if you think I'm some shitful loser and you've only used the word love in regards to me within a sentence like this

"I would LOVE to smash that fuckos head in with a house brick"

All I am asking of you is to click on this link and sign the petition, seriously 'Duckman' is heaven and I want it to come out on DVD so bad I could shit (actually I shit everyday so perhaps I will change that to) I want it to come out on DVD so bad I could do a sex wee in my pants. Still doesn't help huh? Just sign this and do it now.

http://www.petitiononline.com/DMonDVD/petition.html

I WANNA BE RICH NOW DADDY!!!

2005-05-04T12:34:00.000+10:00

Had a bit of a revelation the other night, you know how it is, your stretched out on your couch, your hubby (wifey, lover, flatmate, blow in, friend, family member, serial stalker, invisible friend, the voices in your head....go with whichever one applies) is stretched out on their couch, your lost in the world of reality television and some out and out cock snap is just giving you the screaming shits and all you feel like doing is picking up a solid object and forcing it through the screen at high velocity.

It was at this point that I decided that I wanted to be bullshit, super rich, Oprah style. My reasoning is that if you had a massive amount of disposable cash you could pick up something heavy, and lets face it, if you are really rich you'd have some sort of solid gold rock that you could throw at the screen whenever someone or something gave you the shits. I'm thinking that perhaps the best option would be to have a constant supply of plasma screens on a conveyor system that responds as soon as the currently viewed TV explodes into a shower of sparks and electrical bits 'n' pieces.

I can see it now, the new plasma screen would slide back into place and some underling who was at the beck and call of hubby and I, would retrieve our solid gold TV rock and place it back on its purpose built, silver platter within easy reach for the next time Daryl Somers decided to pick up a microphone and pretend the awful screeching that dribbled from his mouth was actually singing. So if you are justly inspired, please grab the nearest means of contact and force feed me all the free cash you can accumulate and send it my way so I can make my dreams a reality.

AMERICAN IDIOT

2005-03-24T12:50:00.000+11:00

I am an out and out reality TV junkie, love it, live for it, long for it. I don't care what kind of reality show you have created, I will probably give it a go and even if it is shit, I will still sit through it. Why? I think mostly it's because I am fascinated by humanity. I could quite easily spend an entire day watching people, checking how they walk, eaves dropping on their conversations, seeing how they interact with other people. In fact, truth be known, if it was socially acceptable to stand in the street and stare in the windows of other peoples houses, I would be setting up a couch on the footpath and bringing along a selection of snacks.

Anyway before I arouse suspicions of stalking and restraining orders, lets move on. Really, for me, the joy of reality television is the village idiot. Seriously if you are stupid enough to sign a waver saying you can use my image at your discretion you are just asking for it. What kind of tool squeezer rolls along to one of those audition things anyway? You don't go unless you are seriously talented and looking for a break or seriously mental and think you can actually fucken sing. Though I have been proved wrong, try this link for further proof of that theory www.shannonnoll.com.au

Recently I witnessed the auditions for the latest season of American Idol, now truly, if there is a bigger collection of morons anywhere else in the world, I would finger fuck my own butt until my brain fell out my arse, geez graphic! Also a great idea for a reality TV show.

(AMERICAN VOICEOVER)

Tonight we begin the search that America has been waiting for, prepare yourself for America's Next Top Finger Fucker!

(DRAMATIC MUSICAL STING)

We've traveled the length and breadth of the great U.S. of A. to find the best of the best...

(VIDEO MONTAGE OF HUNDREDS OF AMERICA'S FINGER FUCKING ELITE - ALL BLEACHED TEETH AND BOTOXED FACES, LUBRICATED FINGERS AND HIGH SPEED INSERTIONS)

and along the way the hopeful and inexperienced

(VIDEO MONTAGE OF PATHETIC, DELUSIONAL FINGER FUCKING WANNA BE'S - ALL MISSHAPEN, UGLY TO LOOK AT, POTENTIALLY VIOLENT, BROKEN AND DIRTY FINGERNAILS POINTING AT THE SCREEN)

Strap yourself down America and get ready to choose who will get to finger fuck themselves until their brain falls out of their arse and become America's Next Top Finger Fucker!

Ok, tiny bit side tracked there. Anyway, some of the people who auditioned, weren't good at all, but actually believed the judges were stupid not to see how talented they were, really scared me. They believe in themselves and their talents so much that they are wasting their lives pursuing this dream. I am bang up for people going after their dreams but seriously, if you can't take constructive criticism and adapt or adjust your dream to suit it then what the hell are you doing going postal on camera, spitting, snarling and waving your arms around like you need to hold some kind of pump action shotgun and start taking pot shots at anyone who doesn't take your fancy. Clearly it is a dangerous business being a judge on some of these reality shows and I think I can safely make a prediction that one of them will be the victim of an attack sometime in the future. The sad thing is, more than likely, it will be Simon Cowell. Yes he is brutal, yes he doesn't pull any punches, but not once have I listened to his advice and thought he had no idea. He knows what he is talking about, he offers amazing advice and yet still these pointless fuckos get stroppy and dismiss him.

Clearly I am a man who will never have children, hubby Adam and I keep trying but it just won't stick....hmmm. However, if I was to have children and they one day came to me and said

"Mummy, I really, really wanna be a singer one day"

If they could sing like my husband then all well and good, but if they sing like me I would turn to them and say

"Listen kid, there aint much of a future in that, why don't you try being a politician, working in computers, playing the stock exchange, or showing off your extraordinary attributes in some kind of porn related enterprise, that's where the money is, now run along and stop being silly"

Unfortunately, most of the wanna be stars on these reality shows have spent their lives being told

"Honey, put the cat down, don't hurt your sister, if you be good I will buy you lots of sugar laced candies and one day you can dress like a dirty alley slut, sing songs written by strangers and complain to all and sundry that you wish you weren't so famous cos you just wanna get on with your life, all the time exploiting the media to market the cavalcade of pointless things you agree to attach your name to and promoting an image to little kids everywhere that says being a skanky whore, treating people like shit and offering nothing to society is the answer to all their dreams too"

Gee whiz, I think I will have children now....NOT.

IT'S A WHORE-IBLE LIFE

2005-03-08T20:06:00.000+11:00

Gotta love an entry that creates a new word for the ages, English teachers everywhere are scratching their computer screen, but hey what else are they gonna do? Ok before I delve into the sad and sorry life of an English teacher and bore everyone to snores, lets just get down to the topic at hand. I promised I would write about this and the time has come my friend. Let's talk about whores, junkies, street slurries, hookers, a pimps gravy train, the list goes on. I choose to talk about this little feature of daily life simply because there are heaps of them working around my place of employment. Actually, now that I think of it, they aren't really hookers, they are junkies who are desperate for their next hit and they are willing to sell the shit out of themselves just for another deal man.

"Yo fucko hit me up maaaaaannn, just one more time mother fucker"

Clearly I have no idea what they actually say as that sounds like some piss weak line from a forthcoming Keanu Reeves movie. You get the general idea. Anyway I have only been propositioned once before, very early in the morning whilst walking to work. She was a lovely creature, the sort of woman you could imagine looking after a brood of 20 kids, all of them complete nightmares slowly forging careers in all things illegal and all of them from different fathers who no longer featured in their lives. She just yelled out across the road.

"Oi love, you looking for a good time"

Being the complete fag that I am, I did a silent little fart in my pants as a precursor to the shit that was about to fill them, laughed and hurriedly crossed the road yelling back something that would register my lack of interest, but also prevent me from getting knifed to death. I really am that gay that a woman propositioning me on the street terrifies me, pathetic really. So the reason I wanna talk about these ladies of the night is that my new office fronts onto a street with large floor to ceiling windows that are mirrored on the outside but completely see through from the inside. Now when your building faces the street and your windows are mirrored, it provides all passers by the perfect opportunity to give themselves a sideways glance and see how styling they are. We have all done it, in fact along my regular walking trails I will actually prepare myself for any mirrored glass or windows en route so I can give myself a quick viewing to make sure the fly isn't down, the face is clean and nothing is hanging off the edge of my nostrils and moving to the rhythms of my breathing (have I talked about my hanging snot phobia yet?) So everyday a parade of people walk past my office and give themselves the once over and it is piss funny when it happens to be a junkie.

When a junkie decides to stop mid walk and give themselves a viewing, they don't do the casual sideways view, oh no, they stop, turn to face the window and then go about the routine of fixing themselves up. Now this could involve a variety of things, from moving the breasts into a better position, to making sure the skirt is straight , to fixing the hair. Some of them will work themselves over on the footpath for a good 10 to 15 minutes, all the time doing that stilletto wobble that most of us only see out at clubs after a really long night. They lean forwards into the glass, desperately staring at their reflection trying to work out who the hell they are looking at and if it is them trying to work out what they need to do to make the reflection they are viewing looking a little tidier. In the grand scheme of things that aint ever gonna happen but you have to admire their dedication. So to all those smacked out junkie whores who stop to re-adjust for my personal pleasure, may I salute you. While my heart breaks for everything you could have had and could have been, had you not taken the path you have taken. I am forever grateful that your routine provides me with a moment to stop, stare and wonder how many drugs I would have to take before I became entranced by my own reflection in a window and dedicated a portion of my day to sorting out my bits and pieces.

BITS 'N' SHITS 'N' THAT

2005-03-04T12:16:00.000+11:00

Ya huh I know it has been ages and it has mostly been a simple case of needing to go home before the sun sets. Until the home computer upgrade happens, I have to do this guff at work and now that summer is officially over, the sun seems to be quitting and baring its dark arse an hour earlier...doh. Two things will be addressed in the coming days.

1) American Idol returns to Aussie TV - The search for America's most demented continues

2) Having fun with Junkies - You won't believe what I get to see

in the meantime how about you ponder something fabulous like this

http://www.rudypospisil.com/swc/

Gotta love 'Strangers with Candy' and if you are clueless as to what I am talking about please order the DVD's from www.amazon.com I promise you will not be disappointed.

ADD VODKA - CREATE MAYHEM

2005-02-28T12:52:00.000+11:00

Hubby and I hoovered Vodka on the weekend, jeez, hoover aint the word, let's just say we developed flip top heads and poured the worlds entire vodka stocks down the back of our throats. Such alcohol consumption obviously has ramifications, hmmm I love that word, its like someone mummified a ram or some shit, actually its not like that at all, but with my weekend brain fog lots of things are making perfect sense to me, anyway, back to the topic at hand. So with bountiful spirits still trapped on the breath of my cake hole, allow me to unveil my list of things NOT to do when your belly is full of vodka and you unleash it on the world.

1) HIDE ALL PHONES - I can remember ringing friends of ours in London (apparently finances are never ending when your maggoted) the one thing that sticks with me is they laughed, they laughed a lot. Thankfully it was midday where they were so we weren't being that bothersome (as fucken if). Nothing is worse than being sober and having to deal with a drunk on the phone sprouting volleys of dribbly shit peppered with the words 'love' every five seconds. It's like you somehow think you are so close to paralytic that you might die at any minute so you may as well make sure your last words on this planet have you telling someone you love them. Then they can appear on the news, mourning your untimely demise and saying how nice it was that you managed to slur out the words "I love you" before you keeled over, smacked your head on the floor and gargled a mouthful of your stomach contents until your lungs couldn't keep you alive no more. Of course large portions of these conversations no longer exist in my memory so fuck knows what sort of dribbly shit I did utter. Somehow I think your body evaluates your drunkenness and decides to self edit

"Oh yeah this fucko is off his trolley, in fact it's surprising we can operate this mouth at all, systems check, brain please delete all incoming memories, set yourself on hold and please maintain all other functions, please advise immediately if bladder control weakens, over"

Course that doesn't help things, God knows what I organized thru the use of speech and SMS texting, damn me and my multi tasking, seriously, they should have breathalyser testing on mobiles so it won't operate if your too trashed.

2) STAY AWAY FROM BALCONIES - We have a balcony, on a warm night it's lovely to sit out there and watch the world go by. On a warm night when you set your head to flip top and you've clearly over indulged it is dangerous. I would like to hereby apologize to anyone who had the great misfortune of walking down our street on Saturday night. Against a soundtrack of everything from Kate Bush to Jeff Buckley and maybe even some Kylie (lets face it we don't remember what we played, it could have been a static hiss and we would have boogied to it) anyway, against all that we dished out a volley of abuse, including such catchphrases as

"Get the fuck out of our street, your ugly"

"What the fuck are you looking at fucko?"

"If you take a picture right now you will remember the time I told you to FUCK OFF"

How desperately unattractive is that? We also threw the contents of our balcony at passersby, nothing worthwhile or expensive mind you, just things like chewing gum, used cigarette butts and old wrappers.

3) ORGANISE RECOVERY DRUGS BEFORE GETTING TRASHED - There is nothing worse than waking up the day after you converted your head into a funnel for alcoholic beverages, to find you need some herbal remedies to relax your throbbing head and add to your paranoia and no one can deliver. By deliver I mean, supplies are non existant and if they do exist they are below average and not worth sharing, though in the state we were in a heady cocktail of bong water served with a slice of lemon and a friggen umbrella would have sufficed.

I am sure there are other things that need to be added to the list but because of tip number 1 they no longer feature in my collected thoughts. Anyway the end result of this weekend of debauchery is a complete lack of interest in doing it again for a very long time and a resolution that goes something like this, next time put the bottle away and make mouth love to a herbal remedy, it's probably worse for you but the hangover is a fucken treat in comparison.

DAMN SHE'S A SWEATY BE-ARCH

2005-02-23T20:51:00.000+11:00

Don't really see the point in having a thing like this without revealing more pointless, potentially embarrassing and slightly humorous things about myself. As the title suggests this one is about getting all sweaty. The sweaty be-arch (street slang for bitch in case you were a bit clueless) in the title refers to me. I am one hell of a sweaty be-arch (is anyone else getting sick of that word yet?) in fact my co workers use me as a barometer. When someone feels hot in our office they will turn to me and say

"Yo fucko, is it hot in here"

and if I say

"Nope"

they will think twice about arcing up the air conditioner, then again, because I'm so sweaty, I will generally encourage them to set it to chill anyway cos I'm bang up for the cold. I've heard stories about David Letterman having his TV studio nut freezing cold, I can sympathize, if I was in a suit, under hot TV lights, I too would want it so cold my nether regions resembled a second belly button. Being a sweaty individual doesn't help when you grow up in South Australia, which actually holds the record for being the driest state, in the driest continent on earth and it can crank out some seriously hot summers. In fact I just got off the phone with my heavenly mummy who's just be suffering through a 39 degree day (102.2 Fahrenheit) and it's been like that for a few days. Still, as luck would have it, that wasn't hot enough for me. Eager to pursue a career in the media, it would figure that my very first job would be in the north west of Western Australia, where everyday is generally over 35 degrees. In fact, I remember one particular day when our temperature gauge was flashing "HHH" because the outside temperature was too hot for it to read. Even more horrifying was the fact that it was well before midday when it happened. Suddenly, as my sweat glands were organising a search party to find all the available water in my body and preparing for its release, I get a phone call from the air traffic tower saying

"Hey fucko, we just wanna know what your temperature gauge is reading cos ours is saying it is 62 degrees (143 Fahrenheit) outside and we think it might be broken"

as a 19 year old, working in the bush (which means country, small isolated outpost, shitsville) that was enough to do my tiny head in. Of course that was before I left the comfort of our air conditioned office to walk home. Here's a tip, in those temperatures, those oh so funky black Raybans we wore in the late 80's tend to heat up so quickly that they actually start to burn your face and your forced to remove them very quickly. So here I am sweating like I'm the living, breathing equivalent of Niagara Falls, my sweat glands are so widely open that I look like I have a billion tiny mouths vomiting salty water all over me, plus I'm practically blind from the glare of the sun. If the walk home had taken any longer than 5 minutes I honestly believe I would have experienced spontaneous combustion in all it's flesh fusing glory. As for the amount of sweating, well lets just say, even when it is freezing cold here in Melbourne (a place recognised for being cold and unforgiving) I can usually be found 5 minutes into my walk taking off my scarf, 10 minutes later removing my beanie, 15 minutes later removing one glove so I can wipe the slick of sweat off my buzz cut head. Ya huh I said buzz cut, there is no thick mop of hair there to add to the warmth, its a zero buzz cut, which means its pretty much a freshly shaved ball that still manages to overheat. Now I know in some circles it is considered horny to work up a sweat, to be all wet and slick, especially when it comes to sex, but with me, I can lean in for a romantic snog (pash, suck face, French kiss, a bit of tongue hockey) with the hubby and I will need to change my t-shirt and have a shower...OK now I am exaggerating but you get the general idea. If I had my way and money was no object (Hello Paris!) I would have someone walk around behind me with a big fuck off air conditioner pointed directly at me, either that or a nice foot bowl full of iced water. Then again perhaps I could go the surgery option and have a few glands severed, burned, annihilated, exorcised, evicted and asked really nicely to piss off and don't come back. Though knowing my luck, that would mean I would be reduced to panting like a dog or all the sweat would combine to force itself out of any available pores which would probably mean I would spend the rest of my life wearing adult diapers and sliding around with a wet arse. Anyway just typing this has got the armpits a bit moist so I'm off to find two sanitary napkins and stuff them where the sweat won't stop dripping.

PARIS HILTON - WHEN MOBILE PHONES ATTACK

2005-02-22T20:26:00.000+11:00

Righto, here is a confession, I LOVE PARIS HILTON. There I said it, well actually I wrote it, but you know what I mean. So here I go, getting ready to explain myself again. It's like you, as a reader, have been cast in the role of some kind of cyber Judge Judy, quick run to the kitchen and find a paper doily (that's a small ornamental mat, usually of lace or linen) to stuff into your shirt collar so you can stare down at me like some kind of twisted, badly dressed, dominatrix who woke up with a cracking hangover and is going through her monthlys. She tuts and sighs through my declaration of love for Paris, looks down her glasses at me and dishes up timely wisdom about how I shouldn't have come in front of her courtroom with such pointless cases for her to preside over. Once that's done I then have to go outside to face the waiting camera's and whinge about how

(adopt Southern accent....fuck knows why cos I'm an aussie but it works for me) "Well I know now I was barking up the wrong tree loving that dirty rich slapper, she done me wrong with her devil may care attitude and her 'look at me, if I didn't have buggery loads of cash, I would just be a B grade hooker' ways"

At this stage I would like it noted that I am not alone on this one. My beautiful hubby Adam shares my love for Paris, in fact, he is more devoted than I am. As soon as we saw the first episode of 'The Simple Life' we were hooked, in fact we went straight to Amazon to order the DVD. As for her 'whoops my clothes fell off while I was coked off my eyeballs and I went home with someone who likes to film his escapades' movies, we asked one of our lesbian friends to lend us her copy, but she is yet to deliver...something about parting with it doesn't sit right with her, go figure. So what is this strange love that we have for her? I think it comes down to a few things.

1) She looks like she is permanently off her trolley, in fact, I'm sure she is so seperated from her trolley that she doesn't even remember what shopping centre carpark she originally came from and a variety of small marsupials have started using her for shelter.

2) She wafts around like some sort of expensive fart, caught in the breeze, I use the word fart because farts know nothing, they inspire laughs and looks of shock and disgust and they never last long enough to make any real difference to your life.

3) She's bullshit rich and she doesn't give a shit about anyone but herself and some animals and thats mostly because they have the same brain capacity as her and even if they actually have more, they can't use it against her.

4) Regardless of what gets thrown at her, she keeps on going, though if you threw a hand granade at her she may find that a bit more challenging.

That brings us of course to the latest news from Paris, someone has hacked into her mobile phone (shock, horror, who knew they could do that?) and stolen all her celeb phone numbers plus her private phone pictures...see below. I feel sorry for her in someways, clearly she is a target but anyone in the public eye is, especially when her only claim to fame is that she is rich and she also does....um.....ok, so she doesn't do much, other than party, pose for pictures and get herself involved in messes like this one. As I said before, who knew they could hack into your phone and steal phone numbers and images. Then again, Paris isn't the sort of person who never loses her phone, so you would think she would use code names and make sure there were no naughty pictures on file. However that would require some pretty serious thinking on her behalf, which clearly is something she ain't very good at. Still, I wouldn't be surprised if she was sitting at home in her mansion, surrounded by every whim and fancy she desires and for one brief second she thought about this new crisis and before she could even muster the strength to get upset about it, she remembered she was so spastically rich she didn't have to worry about anything.

UM AHHH NAUGHTY PICS

2005-02-22T20:07:00.000+11:00

I GOT SOMETHING TO SAY!

2005-02-21T19:49:00.000+11:00

First things first, what the hell is FUCKO INC you may be asking? If you weren't asking that, then allow me to force you to think about it and now that you have done that, it's time to suffer through the explanation for it as well. Let's just say, one of my dear, close, potty mouthed friends slipped that word into my mental dictionary a few years ago....thanks so much Claire. I should also mention that Claire was a delicate little flower when she first met me, but 7 years of working together changed her into a carbon copy of me...a constantly swearing, foul mouthed little minx who only stopped mid curse to perve at the passing punters, although conversations could continue while said cursing was being said. Does that make sense? Anyway, I have no idea where she found it or how it arrived in her head but I will forever be grateful for its inclusion in my life. Perhaps I should explain its adaptability to your everyday living. Fucko is a cheesier way of saying that favourite of four letter words FUCK, it can be as loving or as brutal as you wish it to be, it all comes down to the two "P's".

PRESENTATION - How you choose to present the word in a sentence.

PASSION - The passion with which you slip it or spit it out of your mouth.

For example Johnny might say as he wanders into work and greets his beloved co-workers

"Morning you bunch of Fucko's, how are ya?"

and Johnny's co workers might reply with

"Good thanks fucko and you?"

and that would be a delightful display of friends expressing their love for one another with a personalized greeting....sort of.

Then again if Johnny was cut off in traffic whilst driving he might choose to roll his window down and yell

"You fucko! Where did you learn to drive at Fucko headquarters?"

each letter coming from his mouth with a volley of spittle and phlegm that sprays forth in a display of open hostility and hatred. That would be.....well honestly it would show that Johnny really needs to take public transport and maybe indulge in some sort of rest and relaxation workshop, but it would also display the word 'fucko' in its most brutal form.

Now that you have seen the majestic beauty of the word fucko and its many uses may I suggest you make it part of your everyday, slip it in when you are next in conversation and see how your friends react, share it with loved ones or just spit it at the next stupid fucko that rubs you up the wrong way. Anyway I think I have said enough for today, more to come as I allow my thoughts to attach themselves to the keyboard in front of me, then pollute the minds of good, God fearing people like yourselves. Actually if you read this far and you are actually a good, God fearing person, no doubt you are tut tutting me and thinking how lucky you are because you won't have to share a cloud with me in heaven sprouting philosophies about Fucko cause I will be burning in hell with anyone else that ever used the word FUCKO.