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Thursday, April 30, 2015

SPROGET

   I used to hang out with this kid named Tony in school. We didnt live very far from one another but his house was a bit closer to the main street of town than mine, and so after school we'd drop our bags there and head off to skate in front of the shops or swim next to the pier.
   We'd sit around the house for a little while, to have a cordial or a snack. His mother was often home and she seemed happy to feed us both. (An interesting side note: The first boobs I ever saw were Tony's mum's. She was an attractive lady. I dropped around there to see what Tony was up to one day and, fresh from the shower, she answered the door in a nothing but a saturated white t-shirt. I was 10 and it was another 5 years before I saw my next boob.)
   Anyway, one day when we dropped by Tony's house there were a couple of contractors there with his mum. They were there to check out the roof because, according to Tony, there was a water leak dripping into his room, right over his bed.
   Ignoring the constant barking of Tony's grumpy dog, Snikers, the contractors went up into the roof but couldnt find any evidence of a leak. 
   The next day, Tony complained about the leak again, saying his pillow was all damp and smelled mouldy because of it, and this went on for some time.
   Eventually, one day, when we dropped by the house, Tony ran straight to the bathroom and I decided to go into his bedroom to have a look at his new collection of He-man toys. His uncle, who worked at Mattel, often showered whole collections of toys on his nephew and with the he-man toys came the set of Magic Sand and a fish tank. 
   So I walked down the hallway and, as I got nearer to Tony's room, I could hear a sort of fast panting noise and a sound like keys jingling in a pocket. Curious, I ventured into the room and there, on Tony's bed, his pillow clasped between his legs, hind quarters pounding rhythmically, was Snikers.
   Tony's dog was having rough, nasty sex with Tony's pillow. There was no leak in the roof, no water dripping from above and making the pillow smell mouldy. There was only a pillow, a dog, some canine sperm and whatever canine sperm smells like as it dries or ages poorly. 
   Horrified by the implications of this, I couldn't even laugh...for a few seconds. Tony was obviously scarred by the fact that he'd been burrying his face in a mutt's cumrag every night for weeks, and Snikers was forever more barred from bedrooms, but the one thing that I walked away with was the look in Snikers' face when I busted him. You might have expected the dog to look shocked, frightened, worried, but Snikers looked pleased, proud and eager. Almost like he was thinking , "Well hello there. Don't go anywhere. You're next."
    
   

Sunday, January 26, 2014

BEAR CAMP

   Years ago I thought I might have been gay. It sounds a bit stupid now, but it was all based on the fact that whenever I drink from a cup or mug with a handle, I always have my pinky finger sticking out. Its not just hanging free, it sticks right out straight. I still do it today. Actually I do it more. I do it when I drink wine, I do it when I drink lemonade, I do it when I drink beer. Basically I do it whenever I drink. Not on purpose mind you. Its not something I've practiced. It just happens all by itself.
   I didn't used to notice. I only know now because my friends used to give me such a hard time about it. They all said it meant I was gay, like how having an ear ring in a certain ear is supposed to mean you're gay, or how a guy having a tattoo on his lower back is supposed to mean you're gay, or how sucking another man's penis is supposed to mean you're gay.
   So anyway they went on about it in their pack mentality homophobic fashion so much that I started to wonder if their taunts actually had some basis to them. After all I have been told that I'm attractive to gay men but I never really put much stock in that because it always came from my lesbian friends and I think they have some sort of rivalry going on there. I don't really understand that, but I've noticed some gay men don't like gay women and visa versa. I've actually heard one lesbian girl say that gay men are just too gay.
   You'd never hear that about a heterosexual, although now that I think about it there are a few people I'd definitely say are too heterosexual. Like Charlton Heston and anyone who takes their kids to Hooters. My dad took me to a strip bar when I was 16 years old and I thought that was too heterosexual...awesome...but too heterosexual. (Come on I was 16. As if it wouldn't be awesome.)
   Actually now days I sort of think strip bars are just about the gayest places a man can go for a night out. A few years ago a mate dragged me out to one and it was really weird. There was a stage where the bored looking girls lulled around in a lacklustre drug induced haze, and then rows of chairs...like in a cinema. The rows of chairs were full of guys sitting and watching. I imagine (or try not to) that they all had hard ons and were pretty fired up for it.
   I'm not so sure that a bunch of guys sitting around together with hardons can be construed as anything but gay, which would be fine if they were honest about it. I'd have no problem if the footy meatheads just started whipping them out and fellating one another. At least then it would make sense. The girls would then have a slightly more respectable job as fluffers for the nightly homosexual gang bang and everyone would finally have a much clearer understanding of the role of strip bars in the modern world.
   I feel the same about bucks parties. I've been to a few of them where someone brings out the porn videos. Its never really a comfortable moment. I was at one once where this guy, who was best man, held the bucks night at his house. He lived in a little cottage with his wife, they were both well paid professionals and their home was decorated like an old lady lived there. There were ceramic geese for storing newspapers and everything was made out of pine. There were even doylies and bowls of potpourri. So when he opened a cabinet and took out a bullet proof vest and some hand weapons I thought it seemed slightly out of character. When he then put Blackhawk Down on the dvd and showed us all how the script differed from the actual army reports that he had printed out, I thought things were getting a little serial killery. When he pulled out the porn however, I felt that we were all being led down the seedy path to circle jerking. These two weird little people had more porn than South East Asia has noodles and lots of sex toys that he also felt would be a great idea to show to his mates. The last thing I want to do is sit around with a group of guys and watch a girl and 5 carpenters going at it on scaffolding. The WORST PART was when guys left to go to the toilet. I couldn't even take a pee after that happened. Too creepy.
   Anyway I've gone a bit off track. Where was I? Oh yeah, me thinking I might be gay.
   But how to test it? Easy right?
   1. Gay porn- I went to the local blockbuster but they didn't have any gay porn, which I thought was a little strange. They had a copy of Edward Penis Fingers and Sex Trek 2 The Search For Spoof, they even had an old VHS of Pokeherhontis (There wasn't one native American in that film, although I'm not too surprised there wasn't an uproar in this case) but there wasn't anything even remotely gay...except maybe that Batman movie with George Clooney in it, where the suit had nipples.
   Well...that's not entirely true. There was lesbian porn. So I rented out something that looked classy, some french film that looked a bit nouvelle vaguey, something with "anal" in the title and hurried home. I know it wasn't strictly what I went there to get but hey...its all gay right? So I got the lesbian porn and I liked it, which made me think maybe I had my first bit of proof. I enjoyed watching gay people have gay sex, I was stimulated, I couldn't stop watching, but...did this mean I was gay? Probably not.
   2. Gay Bar- I went to a bar that is locally known as a gay bar called The Beat. The beat however, I was to find out later, had recently been turned into a strip club. I went in and the place was packed with both men and women. Were these my people? They had pretty cool dress sense and like me, many of them seemed to enjoy interesting drinks with umbrellas in them. I raised my eyebrows at a few fellas (my suave pick up method) but nobody seemed interested in what I was putting out. I'd gone to the trouble of buying hair mouse just for this night. I even had the neck of my shirt open a little more than usual, but nobody even talked to me.
   This seems strange to me now. Since that night I have been hit up for man sex by a huge deaf mute on a bus in L.A (see previous blog posts), proposed to by a man with a massive pussy sore on his face in Peru and even winked at in court by a business man with a scarf. This night however, I got nuthin'.
   But then the DJ announced the first stripper of the evening and I saw my problem. The Beat was no longer a gay bar and so, self esteem saved, I bought a drink and thought, 'what the hell. I may as well watch the first show.' It actually turned out that an old friend of mine, Doug Chapman had recently taken over management of the bar and had been instructed by the new owners to change it into a straight bar. Pfft...like there is such a thing. He'd figured a strip bar was the best way to achieve that goal.
   So the stripper walked out on stage and started her act and a strange thing happened. All of the guys moved to the back of the room and all of the girls in the bar moved to the stage. The look on the face of the stripper was funny enough, but then I saw Doug's face and he just looked horrified.  The stripper danced quickly past the approving female audience and danced up the back of the room to the apathetic male punters. I guess nobody told the gay people that their bar wasn't gay anymore. I imagine, in fact, that the lesbians just figured they had decided to up the lesbian level somewhat.
   It was awesome.
   Then, as I began to sweat under the strobe lighting, a guy came wondering up to me. I thought, 'Okay...game on,' but he turned out to be another old friend of mine named Brad. It seemed Brad and a number of other lads had been called by Doug to come to the club and help hetero it up a bit. Brad was freaking out. He really wasn't comfortable with all the gayness and so was drinking profusely. He was knocking back scotches like jelly babies and got obliterated. The last I saw of him, he was leaning on the bar, trying to stay upright, and chatting to a fella.
   Actually its sort of funny...sort of...but weeks later he told me that he went there with a "mate" and that "mate" got really drunk and that that "mate" ended up getting raped by a fella on the beach down the street from the bar, and that that "mate" was a bit weirded out because that "mate" sort of enjoyed it.
   In case you didn't pick that up, I think Brad was actually talking about himself.
   When I, horrified at someone being raped, said "that's terrible," he quickly but awkwardly agreed, saying, "yeah me too. Gays are sick!" I then explained that its not the finding out he might enjoy gay sex that I thought was terrible, but the act of rape and we have never spoken since. He literally stopped answering my calls and eventually moved away.
   Anyway the gay bar yielded no results and I was at a loss, when one day the perfect opportunity arose. I was working for a company doing faux paint finishes and murals for rich folk in penthouses and stuff around the Gold Coast and they sent me to do a job at the home of Mr Leather Forever, a fairly rich fella who owned a chain of leather retail stores throughout Australia. Mr Leather Forever was about as gay as you can get. I'm not being homophobic. He just was. Like a fish is very much like a fish, or a teddy bear is very teddy bearish, Mr Leather Forever was gay...ish. Let me give you the run down of things that tipped me off.
   He wore a toupee that was sandy blonde and blow waved beyond what even WHAM era George Michael achieved. He thought everything was fabulous. He pursed his lips in that sort of way that looks like you're coming off the end of eating something sour. He wore lots of jewellery. He collected 50's movie memorabilia, he listened to a lot of Minelli and...there's something else...something I'm forgetting...what was...oh yeah, he was fucking another guy.
   So anyway he was a pretty funny fella and we got along. I worked there for a couple of weeks and he was always good with making me something to eat for my lunch break.
   Actually can I stop for a moment to just comment on how nice it is, as a tradesman or whatever, to be offered something to eat and maybe a drink when on the job? I lived in Ireland for a while and people would cook you a full breakfast for morning tea. That NEVER happens in Australia and its really shitty. Tradesmen should be treated with more respect as they are in Europe. In Ireland we were considered craftsmen because we actually KNOW STUFF. Stuff that's a hell of a lot more useful than most jobs anyway. That's all. I just needed to mention that. Now lets move on.
   He had an old Atari 1000 gaming system and he let me play space invaders and combat and asteroids on it. He actually GAVE ME THE ATARI!!! It was so cool.
   He didn't even seem to care when I turned up one morning with food poisoning and fell asleep in his cupboard for a couple of hours after vomiting in his sink.
   His boyfriend, a much younger Spanish pretty boy, seemed to have issues with me being there though, and they seemed to argue a lot about there being a strange man in the penthouse when he wasn't there. That was pretty uncomfortable, but not as uncomfortable as the moment that cleared up my uncertainty about my own sexuality.
   On the very last day of the job I was in his master bedroom and using a seasponge and pearlescent paint to create a sort of rippling sparkling effect in his tv cabinet. I was working away when in comes Mr Leather Forever and starts chatting to me. I'm focused on my work and don't know what he's doing but then I hear the ensuite shower running and I think '....that's weird...did he just get undressed behind me?'
   I shrugged and kept working away. Eventually I hear him come out of the shower and sit on the bed. At this point I'm a little scared to turn around so I don't. I just keep working, and then the tv comes on. Then the dvd starts up, and then the sounds and sights of a group of men all having sex with eachother blares to technicolour life 30 centimetres from my face. This wasn't your Sunday afternoon, after church porn, this was the nasty, plastic sheets on the carpet to save the plush pile type of porn.
   There was really no way to think my way out of knowing what was happening. I'm usually good at doing that...thinking my way out of believing what I'm experiencing. Like I'll manage, in my mind, to talk myself into thinking a terrible situation is actually an innocent one. Like I'll manage to make myself believe that someone accidentally put on gay porn while laying naked on the bed behind me and that he actually meant to watch E.T. in a full suit and tie. Not this time.
   I kept working for a little while, but the sounds of grunting men just got more extreme and then there was a weird sort of noise coming from the bed behind me, a sort of soft sound, like someone sanding a sausage without any sandpaper...yeah...that's exactly the sort of sound and I had to leave. I remember thinking right there and then, "Nope...NOT gay".
   I suppose I should have taken a quick look. I suppose that would have been the real test. And I suppose it was a compliment...I suppose...but my fight or flight response just kicked in in a major way and directed me, much like an Atari joystick (althought in this case "joystick" sounds sort of dirty), out of there.
   I came backthe next day to finish the cabinet and he paid me my money, although he tried to use the Atari as a reason for me to give him a discount. Pfft...whatever. He didn't do anything weird again and acted like nothing had happened...which it hadn't. At least not physically. I felt pretty mentally raped, but that's even harder to get a conviction with.
   Long story short though. I thought I might have been gay but it turns out I'm not. I still point my pinky finger out when I drink, I still like umbrellas in my drinks and I kept buying mousse for my hair. I like the Wizard Of Oz and Liza Minelli singing Goldfinger is awesome, and if that was all it took to be gay then I'd be all in. But there's a bit more to it than that. There's a lot of kissing guys and stuff and more than one penis at a time and eughh...the bodily fluids, and I don't like any of that stuff. At the risk of turning my girlfriend gay, men are simply not good looking creatures. Why the fuck are the balls on the outside!? Its like they're designed to look menacing, to scare children or something. There's certainly nothing cute about them. I'll be honest, I can't believe women haven't just bailed on men altogether.

Sunday, July 21, 2013

THE BEARENGERS!!!

   I was looking through a box of old things a little while ago. You see I have this box that sits on top of a cupboard that's filled with old nicknacks, toys, lucky charms, random batteries and photos that have come to mean something to me over the years. There's an old Leeds softdrink yo-yo with some spare strings, an original Yoda figure, a cassette tape of Dead Man's Party by Oingo Boingo, some little business cards with a satanic symbol on the front and the words...
People
Against
Goodness
And
Normalcy
...next to it. See how the first letters spell PAGAN? On the back they advertise the movie Dragnet with Tom Hanks and Dan Ackroyd. There's an old harmonica, some weirdly shaped shells, an old passport, some old style scales with weights, a mutant ninja turtle, a brochure from the falconry school I went to, some skeleton gloves, a cd from my old band, a survey map of Co.Kerry Ireland, an old diary, a Zorro mask, a train ticket from Cologne to Gummersbach, a drink coaster from the Buddha Bar in Paris, a big bad wolf patch and a load of other bits and pieces.
   I take it out every now and then and add something to it or just have a bit of a look through it. The photos are a mix. There's pics of my parents, of old pets, of my first painting, of one of the first caves I grew up in and of some old friends, but what caught my eye this time were the old photos of myself. I was such a bright eyed cub, my fur held a lustre and my nose was always just a little damp, my teeth just slightly yellowed.
   I took one of the photos to a mirror, held it up and was pretty saddened by the difference. My fur was torn, from a night in Surfer's Paradise where a girl crash tackled me, some of my teeth were missing from when I jammed sausage rolls in my mouth at a party, my left ear was hanging off from breakdancing at Elsewhere Bar, my nose was squished from being jammed into a bag on my trip to China and there were all these little bits of lint and foam everywhere that made me look like I had a really bad dandruff problem. And you know what...its always really bothered me that my mouth doesn't open and shut. It makes me look stupid.
   Something had to be done.
   So I bought a glue gun, some elastic strap, a plastic muffin mould, and some foam, and went in for a full reconstruction.
   My head is now a little slimmer, my nose is hard and I have an articulated lower jaw that now moves when I talk. I can eat a lot easier too. I'm a new bear. Its pretty sweet and its given me a new lease on life. Its pushed me in a new direction, and that brings me to my team.
   We don't have a name yet, but I'm gonna do something that I don't think has been done for real ever before, something that has only been seen in movies and in comic books.
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!I AM PUTTING TOGETHER A TEAM OF SUPERHEROES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
   That's right! I am going to be the leader of a team of Superheroes, a real life Professor X.
   I would now like to introduce you to my team. These are all real people, with real abilities, that set them apart from the average human being.
   First we have Ben Underwood aka The DOLPHIN.
   The DOLPHIN is blind but has managed to compensate with an amazing sonar ability. He makes a sort of clicking sound and can ride bikes and play basketball by listening to how the clicks bounce off his surroundings. The DOLPHIN will be part of our night ops as he can move about in darkness a lot better than I can. Though I have no proof of this, the name that I gave him seems to hint at an ability to communicate with dolphins and therefore I feel he will be an asset if we ever have to do anything in the ocean. The DOLPHIN will be a quiet thoughtful member of the team, but will exude a great strength when among dolphins.
Next we have Claudio Pinto, aka GOOGLEY EYES.
   GOOGLEY EYES can pop both of his eyes 4 cms out of their sockets making him the perfect man to create distractions. If we ever get confronted by super villains, and lets face it, its pretty likely to happen, GOOGLEY EYES will take point and pop out his eyes, screaming at the top of his lungs like a madman. This shock tactic will give the rest of us time to run. GOOGLEY EYES will keep us entertained with his boyish humour and constant jokes.


 Next up is Master Sasaki, aka OBNOXICON.
OBNOXICON has trained his voice to the point where he can actually stun people, knocking them over. He shows off his ability by killing small birds and making a bell ring by yelling at it. He's obviously going to be one of our fighters and I plan to force him to fly by pushing him off a building and telling him to yell at the ground as it rushes to meet him. My theory is that he'll be able to repulse the ground with his voice. OBNOXICON will be like Mr Miagi I suppose, as he is old and asian and that is the stereotype.


Then of course we have The GERMAN SUPER CHILD, aka, THE KEISER!
The Keiser is the first example of a human born with mutations on both genes responsible for producing myostatin, a protein that surprises muscle growth. This kid was able to do the iron cross in gymnastics while still an infant and is obviously our powerhouse. He's tough and small enough that if we get into trouble, we could probably just throw him at the enemy. I couldn't find a video of the KEISER, but here is a photo. The KAISER will be the ladies man in the group.


   Troy Hurtubise. aka BRICK SHITHOUSE, is a Canadian man that I first saw on a $2 dvd that I bought from one of those cheap shops. He built a bear proof suit or armour and even had his friends swing logs into him to test it. As a final test he ventured out into bear country and waited. No bears came but he also didn't get mauled by any bears so I guess it works. BRICK SHITHOUSE has also built armour designed for Canadian soldiers and will be our version of that guy that wears the iron suit of armour in the movies...King Arthur. BRICK SHITHOUSE will be our tech guy and a bit of an adventurer.
Yves Rossi aka, THE BUDGIE is a man who has built his own jetpack with wings. The BUDGIE can fly and will be of obvious use as our aerial expert. If we ever get attacked by an evil bird, THE BUDGIE will be our first line of defence...as long as the threat doesn't last longer than the 10minute flight limit that the need for fuel dictates. We're currently in conversation with his lawyers to get him to drop the lame name Jetman that he currently uses. I think he'll come around. The BUDGIE will be the cool aloof guy on the team who'll always have his head in the clouds. (Did you see what I did there?)


Next we have Paul Karason aka PAPA SMURF.
PAPA SMURF will be our master of the mystic arts. He is blue...like Papa surf...and therefore must be magical. PAPA SMURF will be the soothing voice in the team. He'll make us feel happy when times are bad by singling a little song.
Next we have Michel Lotito aka MR PACMAN.
MR PACMAN has made a living eating things for the entertainment of others. He has eaten bikes, televisions and even a small aeroplane!!! MR PACMAN has found that the need for people who eat things has waned of late and so we were able to bribe him to join us with a couple of prawns and a lamb roast stuffed with oven parts. He'll be useful if we ever use a car to escape and need to make it disappear...over a month or so. MR PACMAN will be the grouchy one due to his constant torn anus.
Natasha Demkina aka, NOW YOU SEE ME GIRL has the ability to see through things like some sort of rays that see through things. She can tell you what's wrong with you by looking through and into your body and will be a great psychological advantage to the team. She will be able to tell our enemies how small their penises are, thereby ruining their mojo and giving us a good laugh at their expense. She is also from Russia, so will have a sexy accent which is always a plus. She will be cool and confident, like a Russian spy because that is also the stereotype.

To round out the team, I have enlisted Wim Hof aka CHILLY WILLY.
CHILLY WILLY doesn't feel cold. The uses of this are endless, as I'm sure you realise. He can walk on ice and not feel cold. He can suck down a slurpee really quickly and not get brain freeze!!! He'll mainly be our cold guy, which every superhero team obviously needs and will be the funny misfit in the group.
So that's the team. Its not the first. I'm already looking at some electric guy in China and a dwarf who can throw his voice in Prague for the next team. I think we could sort of create a franchise out of this. Oh hey and I almost forgot the best bit. We have uniforms.

STAY FILTHY TRUE BELIEVERS!!!!

Thursday, August 23, 2012

PRETTY FLY FOR A SHORT GUY.

   I saw two guys in the park the other day who were obviously friends. They were both white, scrawny little guys with oversized basketball jerseys and caps sat at an angle to neither lend shade from the sun nor attract members of the opposite sex. They met up with an exaggerated high five, bumped chests, and I'm sure I heard one of them say, 'Yo nigga, sup?'
   They sort of looked like this guy.



   Now I live in Australia, this happened in Australia, (not the U.S. of Australia) A U S T R A L I A, in a park that is, like most parks here, relatively clean and visited mostly by the elderly, or dog walkers, or an amalgam of both. Its not gang territory and its not 'the hood'. It couldn't be the hood if it wanted to be the hood. It could probably do a good rendition of a trailer park, given some time, but there will never be a chopper with a spotlight overhead and no-one will ever write a hip hop song about it.
   Am I now so far out of the loop, so over the hill that I missed when it became ok for little white guys to call each other nigga? Did that become cool at some point?
   Actually that reminds me of something else that I'll mention now before I forget. A couple of years ago, I was at a music festival in Brisbane and in-between bands they played music over the P.A. That was fine, though most of it was poppy crap, it kept people in the spirit. At one point however, the DJ played that Snoop Dog song where he says "Drop it Like its Hot" in repetition a number of times throughout the tune. As I looked around at the crowd, mostly white kids with sunburns, I noticed that loads of them were making hand gestures that I thought were only ever used by hip hop musicians. You know the sort of thing, fingers bent or pointed out in random spastic combinations, and waved around like a hot kipper.
   It looked wrong. White people should not try to act like gangstas. It doesn't look cool, it doesn't suit, it just looks stupid. 
   But anyway, back to what i wanted to talk about. The two guys in the park calling each other nigga.
   I think they might have lost the meaning of the word somewhere, which, you know, I suppose is possible. Its not really heard anywhere these days unless its on a tv show with U.S. gang members. So maybe they think its a term of endearment, and hell...maybe it is now. 
   I see loads of black lads on tv calling each other nigga, so maybe its changed the meaning of the word. Maybe its that thing where people try to take the power out of the word by using it in an unusual way. Thats fair enough. I can get behind that. I wish the nazis didn't fuck the swastika and the Charlie Chaplin moustache and maybe the power of those images can be diffused as well. Perhaps if a "My Little Pony" had a Hiltler moustache or Batman started wearing a swastika?


(I thought, 'what the hell' I'll google "batman nazi"'. I did not expect that anyone had imagined Batman quite in this way but there you go).

(ok...what the fuck? Can you just google anything now and something comes up?)

(I guess you can)
   ANYWAY...
   Can this sort of thing work for everyone?
   Are their disabled people out there right now yelling out across the street, "Yo retard," or "Hey spastic", to their disabled friends?
   That also reminds me of something that happened to me once, while on a train in Melbourne. A young fella in a wheelchair rolled up next to my seat. I don't know what his condition was. He was the sort of lad who had pretty limited control of his hands, (they moved a lot, I just don't think he had great control of them) and he looked like he was trying really hard to lick the back of his throat.
   So he asked me, 'Hey...do you know who I am?'
   I said, 'no...no I don't know you.'
   He then asked me if he was a spastic or a retard.
   How do you answer that?
   I wasn't sure if either of them was PC but I figured I had a 50% chance and so I said, "retard".
   For a few seconds there was silence. I looked from the guy to everyone else on the train and I swear everyone looked unsure, but when the guy started telling me off about calling him a retard, just about every face on that train became that of an accuser. 
   There were a few that just looked thankful that they hadn't been in my position, but most took on the air of the high and mighty, damning me for my ignorance.
   Fucking disabled people shouldn't set traps, its an unfair use of their disability and you can't defend yourself against it without looking like a prick. I could get attacked by a gang of kids with down syndrome and left bloody and comatose in a gutter and people would still think I was the asshole. When you think about it, its very patronising, but I must admit, if I was disabled, I'd probably milk it a bit. I'd shit my pants...just once...just to see what its like. Just saying. 
   I've since found out that neither "spastic" nor "retard" are kosher and that recently, even "disabled" is frowned upon. "Ability challenged" is the latest. I'm not sure if a guy with no feet is "foot challenged", that having feet for him is a challenge, its an impossibility. There's no challenge, its not like if he concentrates hard enough he might get feet. He's disabled in that he's not "able" to have feet.
   I guess nobody told the spastic guy on the train what he was supposed to call himself.
   Midget? Dwarf? Are any of those ok for describing little people? Is "little people" ok? Its certainly descriptive. Height efficient? I don't bloody know. I figure dwarf must be dodgy right? It gives them a sort of "sword and the sorcerer" feel, but then maybe they like that. Is it cool to call a tall person a frost giant? I have an X that I've often called an ogre, but I suppose that's just childish and hurtful......to ogres.
   But you know what? I don't think the scrawny white guys using the term "nigga" are taking the power out of the word, they're just turning it into something shitty again, in a different, perhaps less volatile way than before, but its still shitty.
   Anyway...I'm sleepy...so here's a photo of a kitten.


STAY FILTHY.

Saturday, June 23, 2012

FILTHY'S ESSAYS ON THE LONG PIG #2

Hypothesis: That the Long Pig (human) doesn't seem to be going anywhere anytime soon so perhaps urging a measure of decorum is the best thing the rest of us can hope for.
   There is a behavioural study that was done on baboons somewhere in Africa recently that poked a few reasonably sized holes in the old "Might it right" theory that a hell of a lot of long pigs seem to base their life around.
   Though it has been a popular belief in the past that the strong, brutish, "alpha" males in, not just the baboon troops, but family groups of all primates, were the ones most likely to mate with the females and pass on their genetic junk. The study has shown otherwise.
   Now I could use terms like "alpha" and "omega" and "procreate" and stuff like that, but I understand that many long pigs can wary of discussions that don't relate directly to, or make mention of, themselves, so I will simplify things.
   Instead of "Alpha Male", I shall, from this point on, use "Robbo".
   When talking about the "Omega Male", I shall now use "Geoffrey".
   Instead of "Females", I shall use "Tina", "Rhonda" and "Charleen".
   Instead of calling them "the Troop", as that is what a family group of baboons is called, I shall call them the employees of "Drake & Leister: Chartered Accountants"...you know...to simplify things.
   So its the time of the yearly company Christmas party and this year Drake & Leister: Chartered Accountants have put on a pretty good do. Though they haven't hired out a restaurant or paid for everyone to go on the ever popular, but annoyingly messy, "booze cruise", they have brought in a caterer named Felipe who once worked in a restaurant down the street from Jamie Oliver, and who must be good because he has a French accent.
   They've also got a band to play, but as its the boss's son's band and they do little else but regurgitate whatever flavour of "pub rock" was popular when everyone was wearing flannel, nobody expects too much and therefore nobody is let down when they suck.
   Robbo is in fine form. He was partly drunk when he turned up and has taken full advantage of the well stocked bar, which is operated by Inga, the Polish immigrant with the big blah blahs and long blah blahs.
   She was a professor in astrophysics in Warsaw but because she doesn't speak English well enough in Australia's "multicultural society", her credentials don't mean squat. Inga would rather be back in her 2 bedroom flat that she shared with 5 Irish girls, eating lentils in front of Moulin Rouge, but she's stuck serving slobbering wankers like Robbo, for what she is fairly sure is a good bit less than minimum wage. On her breaks she runs through the necessary equations for creating a small nuclear warhead in her mind.
   Robbo hasn't noticed her obvious apathy toward his loud and annoying attempts at humour, her disdain for his lewd gestures, or her revulsion at his slipping her his address on the back of a square of toilet paper.
   He believes that a love of football, perfect vision, and the ability to be heard above any other human being, makes him the most charming man alive. He hates that he's an accountant, is embarrassed by it. His footy mates think he's a roof tiler, a vocation that he came up with without considering the implications. Roof tilers, from being on roofs all day, are ridiculously tanned and so, to keep his lie plausible, Robbo goes to a tanning salon twice a week and has done for the past 5 years.
   Robbo has come to the Christmas party for 3 reasons; #1: So that he can take advantage of the free booze. #2: So that he can hopefully take advantage of his boss' good will to climb the company ladder through blokeish yammerings about football, thereby foregoing the need to do the actual work that would otherwise be necessary. #3: So that he can take advantage of a drunk Tina, Rhonda and Charleen, who he believes will be impressed by his polo shirt because it has a crocodile on it instead of a penguin.
   He has a video camera set up in his bedroom and rohypnol in his pocket.
 
   Geoffrey wasn't sure whether "fashionably late" was still fashionable, so turned up at 8:30 instead of 8pm as was stated on the invites. He ma have a couple of drinks, or he may not, but he's seen what Robbo is like and his interest in a beverage wanes.
   His ignorance of most things sporting means he is left out of a lot of Monday morning conversations at the office and that he has no way of climbing the ranks in a football centric workplace than by busting his gut and working hard, which he does, not so much with passion, but with the she defeated resignation felt by a great portion of the population.
   His beard makes him look part bushranger/part Rolf Harris. His jeans are pulled too high and he believes that frilly cuffed shirts, like his, will soon be the rage thanks to the growing popularity of pirates and Jonny Depp, even though his last attempt at pre-empting fashion, two tonnes skivvies, like those in Star Trek, failed miserably and garnered suspicious looks from parents of small children.
   He is polite, sympathises with the Polish bar girl, and therefore doesn't bother her with mindless prattle, and offers to get drink for other, not so that he can spike them with date rape drugs, but because he honestly believes it is good manners.
   Tina, Rhonda and Charleen turn up and, having picked up the $3:95 scent of their generic pharmacy brand perfumes, Robbo lunges into his mating dance, which consists of a rich tapestry  of laughing and talking loudly, and putting down any perceived rivals for the ladies affections.
   Ignoring Geoffrey, he turns on his best mate at work, Jonno.
   Jonno's mates think he's a plumber, and whether its a private school upbringing or the fact that he doesn't irradiate his brain twice a week for a tan, Jonno manages to hold his own.
   An unannounced drinking contest erupts between Robbo and Jonno, understood by both men to be a sure-fire way to the girl's hearts.
   Meanwhile Geoffrey chats to Tine, Rhonda and Charleen. He comments on their dresses and hair and gives them heart-felt, well thought out presents that show he has paid attention to them over the past 12 months. He nods sympathetically when they complain about cramps and mid-cycle spotting. He pulls out their chairs for them, is supportive, and later, when Robbo has passed out into his pavlova, and Jonno has pissed himself and is rocking back and forth under the toilet hairdryer, trying to dry the urine stain before anyone notices, Geoffrey has a four-way with Tina, Rhonda and Charleen on the supervisor's desk.
 
   This is basically what they've noticed with baboons. The males who are more attentive, caring and respectful are the ones who are more likely to pass on their genes than the chest beating macho types. The newborns in the baboon troops and perhaps also in Drake and Leister: Chartered Accountants, foregoing the use of birth control, are far more likely to be genetically linked to the Geoffreys than the Robbos. Making the Robbos of this world akin to a genetic Nazi party. They make a lot of noise and draw a lot of attention, but in the end...they're just wankers...literally.
   My point is this. There is a point to not being a wanker, and though the last thing that I want any of you to do is procreate and expand on the already oversized 7 BILLION OF YOU, I would like to see less dumbarses born, so that some actual thought might go into things and you might all realise breeding is fucking things up royally.
   Lets look at that number; 7 Billion. That's 7 with...a sizeable number of zeros behind it, 7,000,000,000 if you go by the U.S. standard and 7,000,000,000,000 pretty much everywhere else. Any way you look at it...its a lot...TOO MUCH!
   At the turn of the 20th century there were 1.5 billion and Europe was starving because the earth wasn't able to sustain us. It was thought then that the earth had reached the limit of how many of us it could support. Science stepped in the ease the problem with the invention of nitrogen based fertilisers, but like with most things, the long pigs learnt nothing from the past.
   They didn't say, "Hey...luckily we've averted disaster with science, but we'd best go easy on population from now on because really...we've just bought ourselves some time is all." No...long pigs go into a breeding frenzy and within 100years they multiply the population by a whopping 500%.
   It is expected that at current rates there will be 12 billion of you by 2050. Thats pretty much twice as many people as we have today. Twice as many cars, twice as much food consumed, twice as much resources used, twice as much land built on, twice, twice, twice!
   Just consider it: Litter, traffic, queues.
   When rats are in a situation where there are too many of them, they go mad and start murdering and eating each other, and the same thing happens with piggies on farms. We know we're looking at trouble in the near future, we are already experiencing a "global food crisis". If animals go nuts and kill one another when there are too many of them and food is scarce, what do you think you long pigs (animals each and every one of you) will do?
   By the way if you are wondering where I got the term "Long Pig" from...its apparently what the cannibal community (yes there's a community of them) call humans. I guess it helps distance them from it. Ha! They literally ARE what they eat. Silly cannibals.
   Stay Filthy and check this out. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wB6yoeS3vm4

FILTHY'S ESSAYS ON THE LONG PIG #1

Hypothesis: That the Long Pig (human) is an enigma, surviving its own continued attempts to end itself.
SOMETIMES I WISH YOU WOULD ALL JUST BUGGER OFF AND DIE SO THAT THE REST OF US COULD GET BACK TO EATING EACHOTHER IN PEACE!

Saturday, March 10, 2012

MOTORHEAD ARE GONNA BE PISSED OFF.

   I was just watching an advert for 60 minutes today and i think they've lowered their standards for stories. Its a shame because 60 minutes used to be one of the few stand up, serious, informative, well produced current affair programs on tv. Yes there was an over use of Quentin, the spastic boy, to draw in viewers in the 80's but generally its been pretty good.
   Now the story that has made me lament the 60 minutes of old is one about a flying fox in Asia, (probably Thailand as they opened the advert by saying "to our youth its a party in paradise destination" and other than Bali, Australian youth seem to choose Thailand as the place to get wasted, "find themselves" and generally act like absolute wankers).
   The advert shows some Australian youth hanging from the flying fox over a river. (For those who might not know what I'm talking about, a flying fox is where you have a cable tied between two points and you can slide along the cable by holding onto a bar attached to a wheel that runs on said cable). He lets go of the cable near the shore and the film freezes. The voiceover then says, "A few seconds later...he was dead!" The rest of the advert shows various drunk and sunburnt looking white people with blood pissing out of their heads or passed out on the ground, from using the flying fox and hitting the pebbly bottom of the river which is, obviously, somewhat shallow.
   The voiceover bandies on about how our youth are being killed and how nobody in the unnamed asian  country seems to care, and about how someone needs to be held responsible, blah blah blah.
   You know what? If you're dumb enough to go on a flying fox without checking the depth of the water then the gene pool may be better off without you fouling it up. Jumping off a flying fox near the shore head first is not a genius move and is simply an example of Darwin in action. This is how the species moves forward, this is how we develop. We cut the fat, the idiots fall by the wayside and we move on a smarter and safer race because of it.
   There is no room for risk takers in the pride. This is how the rest of us grow stronger. We learn from the failures of the idiots.
   Its really annoying that instead of the report being about how incredibly dumb and retarded these kids are, it comes down to finding someone else to blame. It'll no doubt be the Thai government not setting safety standards, or the people who put the flying fox there being evil for not measuring up to western safety standards. It really is shitty reporting.
   Unless of course I've read the advert completely wrong of course and then 60 minutes is great.
   Oh man...as I'm writing this, I'm also cleaning my ears and it feels so good. Cotton buds really are just ear dildos aren't they. Its amazing how nice it feels.
   Not that I know how a dildo feels. I'm a straight bear.
   I have wondered about the gay lads though. I've contemplated what they do and how it must feel and I've come to a conclusion. Having anal sex, for the sexee (is that what you call the one being shafted?) must feel like a grog bog. It must feel like you have a load that just won't leave the warehouse. A mouse that won't come out of its hole. A poo that not only won't leave the cavity but crawls back in deeper. And while I can see how passing a log may be enjoyable at times, especially when reading a good book, it ain't sexual...AT ALL.
   While we're on the subject of the birds and the birds...I've got some tips for the lesbian girls who might be reading this. Its simple but I'll put it in capitals to make it clear.
IF YOU ARE A GIRL WHO IS INTO GIRLS WHO ARE INTO HOT LOOKING GIRLS...DRESS LIKE A HOT LOOKING GIRL!
   You see I thought this would be a pretty simple idea. If you your trying to bag a girl who is into other girls, dress like a hot girl. You're chances have to be better than if you dress like a guy because guess what; lesbians aren't into guys. That's one of, if not the main, point of being lesbian.
   I see lesbians that look like guys and I think, "poor bastards. They have the tools but they don't know how to use them. Its a waste because we straight men can't have the lesbians and these manly looking girls, who should have a leg up in this case, are just throwing away their advantage.
   I dress like a guy. I know how poorly it works and that's when I'm trying to pick up girls who are supposed to be into guys. How the f*#k is it supposed to work on girls who like girls?
   Poor stupid bastards.

   Oh hey have you heard about Satan lately. What's he been up to?
   Well nothing basically because like god he probably doesn't exist, but did you know his number changed?
   No not his phone number.
   Recently archaeologists found fragments of the oldest surviving book of revelations, dating back to the 3rd century and written in ancient greek. In this version, (the oldest version) the number of the beast is written as 616...not 666.
   Good one satanists. Can't you get anything right?
   So I figured as we're supposed to be looking out for the number of the beast as a sort of warning, I might just do a quick google search for the number, just to see what was out there.
1: The comic book company, MARVEL, who publish Spiderman, the Xmen, Thor, Ironman and many more tittles, have dubbed the continuity in their books; Earth 616, meaning that everything that happens in the comics happens in the EARTH 616.
   There is even a character at MARVEL who is like Satan, called Mephisto. Could be a lead but I doubt it.

   Other than that there was a wiki entry on the number 616. (below)
   616 is the 25th member of the Padovan sequence, coming after 265, 351, 465 (it is the sum of the first two of these). 616 is a polygonal number in four different ways: it is a heptagonal number, as well as 13-, 31- and 104-gonal.


   That's all I could find which I think is a good thing. After all the number is supposed to harken in the coming of armageddon and screw that. So if there are no entries for 616 and unless you believe that spiderman is the devil, (and let's face it, the 3rd movie was terrible) or that math is from hell (which it might just be) then Satan probably isn't here yet.
Yay. I was so worried that the creature that doesn't exist was going to come and hurt me. Phew.
   There's a fly on the wall and I think he's looking at me so I'm going to go now. I need all of my concentration to resist his telepathy.
   Oh hey and can you people stop this shit! Its really fucking pissing me off!
STAY FILTHY