Spleen Central

Countries of the world that share their names with drunken frat boys

2006-11-20T22:01:00.000+11:00

No. 1: Chad

Firstly, the Republic of Chad. As the venerable Wikipedia says -- "Chad (Arabic:تشاد , Tšad; French: Tchad), officially the Republic of Chad, is a landlocked country in central Africa. It is listed by Foreign Policy as one of the world's top 10 failed states. It borders Libya to the north, Sudan to the east, the Central African Republic to the south, Cameroon and Nigeria to the southwest, and Niger to the west. Due to its distance from the sea and its largely desert climate, the country is sometimes referred to as the "dead heart of Africa".[1] In the north, it contains the Tibesti Mountains, the largest mountain chain in the Sahara desert. Chad was formerly part of the Federation of French Equatorial Africa."

Secondly, "Chad" (no surname). Aged twenty-four, his favourite pastimes include "drinking beer, watching porn, wanking, and fucking bad bitches". He's spent five years completing the first semester of his political science degree, but has already entered campus folklore for the stunt he pulled when he drank four shots out of tequila out of a donkey's, well... ass. Fuckin' awesome.

No. 2: ...

Amazingly, actually, that's the only one.

The legend of the misplaced apostrophe

2006-09-08T16:16:00.000+10:00

Spotted on The Sydney Morning Herald's website:

Video news:
Peter Brock dies in crash
Are Australian's racist?
Phones smuggled in colon

Besides the obvious (and troubling) implications of telephones being inserted into colons (after passing -- presumably -- through rectums first), what the hell is that apostrophe doing there in the second item?

This is Australia's oldest broadsheet, for fuck's sake.

A question for the lexicographers

2006-09-08T08:46:00.000+10:00

When did the term "fatty boom-sticks" fall from favour and, more importantly, why?

Fashionistas

2006-09-06T11:23:00.000+10:00

I must admit something -- I don't particularly "get" fashion. And I'm not even talking about the cut of fine Italian suits, or anything so refined. I've been told on countless occasions that the two predominant colours in my outfit don't "go" together. Don't "go" together? We're talking about colours here, not elements of the periodic table.

Nonetheless, I feel I have sufficient knowledge about the world in general to comment upon the latest trends in fashion, if only to ridicule them mercilessly.

A favourite target of mine? Sunglasses.

You see, this is an indication of how far fashion has gone that we're even talking about sunglasses. As far as I understood it, sunglasses were a necessary part of one's summer attire -- that is, they actually served some function. This applies both to glasses with prescription lenses, and those without. Either way, they are performing an admirable service.

But now, it seems, the sole goal of sunglasses is to dwarf the nose on the wearer's face. I was sitting on the train today, opposite from three young women on their way to work. Each was wearing a pair of sunglasses, and each successive pair was larger than the last. It's gotten to the stage where Earth will be a beacon to intergalactic travellers -- from space, aliens will be able to see the Great Wall of China and a cavalcade of oversized Chanel sunglasses.

Sordid celebrity secrets

2006-09-05T22:09:00.000+10:00

We've all heard of certain movie stars changing their names to make themselves appear more glamorous. Marilyn Monroe rose from the ashes of Norma Jean Mortenson, John Wayne used to be known as Marion Morrison, and, shockingly, Bob Saget was once known as Robert Saget.

But do you know about the less-publicised name changes? Hold on to your seats, because I guarantee that my findings are going to shock you.

Lucy Liu used to be known as Lucy Poo. True!

Tom Cruise once had the unfortunate name Tom Poos. Shocking!

Respected political journalist Laurie Oakes was actually born Laurie Pack-Of-Smokes. Horrifying!

Possibly-just-as-respected political journalist (if anybody actually watched him) Quentin Dempster was christened Quentin Dumpster. Run for the hills!

We'll have more on this later. Trust me. Stay tuned.

Authentic Thai food and the steady-state theory

2006-09-04T11:23:00.000+10:00

Okay, you left-wing pinkos (pinkoes?):

Fred Hoyle. Heard of him?

A scientist from England, he was responsible for the phrase "the Big Bang". This is not say, however, that he was a proponent of the associated theory. Oh, God no. He coined the phrase in a flash of inspiration, and felt nothing but derision towards those who felt that something could come from nothing.

What Fred Hoyle was advocating was a steady-state universe: something that always was, and would always be. The idea that a universe could be either expanding or contracting was anathema to him. In his world, the universe stayed exactly where it was, and that was that. I'm not too sure his specific rebuttal to the evidence that the universe was expanding (proved through Doppler studies and the red-shift of distant galaxies), but the reader can rest assured that he wasn't too fond of the idea.

This leads me to cuisines of the world. When it comes to migration policy, there are essentially two groups of people -- those who favour the arrival of immigrants, and those who don't. Similarly, when it comes to exotic dishes, there are also two groups of people -- those who fancy all of the cuisines of the world (and, inevitably, think of themselves as "cultured" because they do), and those who don't.

There appears, on the basis of my research, to be a correlation between these two sets of people. Namely, that the people who favour pronounced immigration are likely to be the same people who enjoy eating many and varied cuisines of the world.

This isn't my problem, really -- these people can eat whatever they want, and invite whomever they want into the country. What I'd like to point out to them, however, is that they're poisoning their own well. Bringing it back to Fred Hoyle, the "steady state" model is infeasible. Just as a steady-state universe would fast run out of energy and cease to function (look it up in an encyclopaedia), so would a steady-state culinary model such as the one advocated.

Let's talk through this so that I may demonstrate the point. The old Thai woman who runs a shop down the street and produces the most fantastically spicy Thai food is a product of her birthplace. She was born in Thailand, educated in a Thai frame of mind, and acquired her cooking skills based on the knowledge passed down from her teachers and ancestors (all of whom, coincidentally, were Thai). This old Thai lady then migrates to a different country, and begins selling her Thai cuisine. "See the fruits of multiculturalism!" the people chime, citing the authentic Thai food and revelling in the spice and variety of life.

This is my point. Note the word "authentic" in the preceding paragraph. This Thai woman's cooking is special because it was the product of an "authentic" Thai upbringing. This woman is also, presumably, set enough in her ways that she will continue to produce authentic Thai food, no matter what her geographical location.

The problem, of course, is the children of this Thai lady and, even more likely, the children of the Thai women's children. By this point in time, the authentic Thai influence has been dilulted -- presuming the children even do remain in the restaurant business, their culinary viewpoint will have been cross-pollinated. A hamburger here, a curry there, a stir-fry here, some spaghetti there. This appears to be a trend in cooking at the moment. It's called "fusion".

Okay, so far so good. This shouldn't matter, however, as long as there remains authentic Thai chefs growing up in isolated corners of Thailand to perpetuate the authentic style of cooking. What happens, though, if the vacancy the Thai woman leaves in Thailand is filled by a person from a different country moving to Thailand? The some cross-pollination policy occurs, only this time in reverse.

My point is -- give this time (and, I'm not kidding you people, it will take a lot of time), and all differences will be mitigated. The food will become essentially the same, thus removing the spark that makes authentic Thai food special in the first place. This already happens at a lower level when we see established national cuisines -- the French cook a certain way, and the Germans another, because there is a consistency to the people and their experiences. Prior to the twentieth century, travel restrictions and the lack of an international media experience ensured that there was enough separation to keep different food streams authentic.

This can be demonstrated in a similar fashion using the English language. Prior to the world wars, the different strains of English in the world were quite distinct. There was the occasional traveller, but the volume of traffic was not enough to effect a significant change. Indeed, scholars of that time feared that the strains of American and British English would travel down separate paths, with the end result that speakers of one language would be unintelligible to speakers of the other.

However, with television, radio and films, differences begin to be discarded. That which was common to all strains remains, and the idiosyncrasies are ironed out -- usually, the dominant strain's methods are imposed on the subservient strain. We can see this happening in our fair Australia -- most young children will now pronounce "clerk" as "clurk" and "territory" and "terry-tor-y". The sad thing, I think, is that most young people will not even realise that they are, in effect, breaking with tradition.

This is a roundabout way of saying that, by advocating the multiculturalism that makes life so appealing, certain people are wiping out the very spice they are advocating. This would be a problem for me if I actually liked Thai food, but since I think the food is the spawn of Satan's butthole (to use the proper culinary term), I've got nothing to worry about.

"Grammer" Nazis

2006-09-01T14:29:00.000+10:00

I was having a look at the blogs on the Sydney Morning Herald website, and I ran across an interesting bit of correspondence -- two people, both quite twitty, and I couldn't work out which one of them upset me more.

To illustrate, here is the first message:

*has got to be the* - *has to be* the will do fine.have
got to be, i've got to be, it's got to be, whatever's got to be.what has
happened to our grammer?i have to be. we have to be. etc.apart from this basic
grammer that occurs everywhere nowadays (and i am loathe to use such a word) it
is a significant misgiving (and code fault, amognst it's many code faults) that
this message board has major problems with apostrophes, colons; semi-colons,
apostrophes, and various other grammical requirements of the english language.
very dissappointing, given that it is database driven, and given my years of
management of database driven sites, smh disappoints me with their lack of blog
capabilites (i would have half their team on solving their blog design problems,
let alone the site design issues - oh, for another life...).and why am i
bothering here?because, to date, i have (observe the non use of i've) found no
other outlet to express my concerns, so i am using the currently availalbe
meduim, and i'm hoping......

This was posted by somebody with the screen-name "englishnazi".

A reply was posted thusly:

Englishnazi:Suggest you do a spellcheck before lecturing
others on their lack of grammar!!!! Three words can sum up your post. Pot.
Kettle. Black.

This was posted by somebody with the screen-name "Goose".

Firstly, this "englishnazi" fellow/fellowette is a tit. Besides the occurrences of the word "grammer" (and let's not forget its adjective -- "grammical"), the word "loathe" appears, when it should be, in this context, "loath".

Then we've got the reply -- which quotes the venerable "pot calling the kettle black" proverb. In this case, it pains me to say, it doesn't matter. What "Goose" appears to be saying is that englishnazi's observations on the grammar of the posters are not valid, simply because englishnazi him-/herself employed suspect grammar.

This is (another) logical fallacy. If both the kettle and the pot are black, what difference does it make if one identifies the other as such? Would the kettle be any less black, just because the thing identifying it as black was also black? Of course not.

All this being said, perhaps there were some crossed wires. If all this talk of "grammer" was supposed to relate to the loveable and Right-leaning star of TV's "Frasier", I stand corrected. To demonstrate my love, here is a photo:

$0 joining fees

2006-09-01T09:15:00.000+10:00

I was walking past a gym on my way to work today (the prevalence of which will be the topic of a future post, believe me), and there were a number of signs in front of the building: "Join today -- no joining fee!" read one, while another said: "Join today and pay a $0 joining fee."

Besides the fact that it is pretty much ridiculous that I would surrender any money to pay for the privilege of sweating, I was plunged into deep thought by these signs -- they're not really the same thing, are they?

"No joining fee" means that there is no charge for the transaction. There is "no fee" for breathing in air -- this doesn't mean it's free (even though it is), but, technically, it means that no economic transaction is actually taking place. A "$0 joining fee", on the other hand, would imply that there is a transaction of some form occurring; it's just that, in this case, the amount of money transferred is zero.

Anybody agree with me?

Chai

2006-08-31T09:08:00.000+10:00

What the fuck is chai?

Logic watch

2006-08-30T08:47:00.000+10:00

Have you seen those new Apple Macintosh ads?

You know, the ones where the hip, trendy and "with-it" young guy, representing Macintoshes, is contrasted with the boring, staid, reliable older man, representing PCs.

The impression you're supposed to take away from this advertisement is that Macs are interesting and PCs are boring -- Macs can play dazzling multimedia presentations, and PCs can draw spreadsheets.

Besides the obvious problem with this advertisement -- ie. both Macs and PCs can both play dazzling multimedia presentations and draw spreadsheets (and usually using the same file formats) -- there is also a logical fallacy contained in the argument.

This is the fallacy of the false dilemma -- Apple want you to believe that you must do it their way or not at all. What they are saying, in essence, is that: "We can do presentations. You are not us. Therefore, you cannot do presentations." Completely incorrect.

It's much the same as George W. Bush's statement -- "You're either with us, or against us." Just because somebody was not "with" George W. Bush, it does not automatically mean that they are "against" him (and his country). Witness Switzerland, New Zealand, and any host of other non-involved countries.

Just remember this the next time you attempt to buy a personal computer.

Logic watch

2006-08-29T10:00:00.000+10:00

Since it seems that logical argument is the flavour of the minute here at Spleen Central, I've decided to introduce a new segment -- "Logic Watch" -- dedicated to finding the flaws in advertisements and other general public releases.

First up, the Sydney Home Loan Centre. For those of you who aren't in the know, this series of advertisements concludes with the business owner standing outside (in front of the Sydney Harbour Bridge, no less), with a throng of people behind him.

In an attempt to convince us that his product is the best one, he points to this large group of people and says, "That many people can't be wrong."

Well, actually, they can. This is an argumentum ad populum, and one needs to look no further than the Pussycat Dolls to see the holes in this argument -- just because a large number of people like (or accept) something, it doesn't necessarily make it good/right.

In other news, I was looking at my tube of toothpaste recently. Instead of telling me the ingredients, it stated: "No Colgate toothpaste contains sugar." I thought this was pretty neat -- the manufacturers were relying on me to make the link that this particular tube of toothpaste was manufactured by Colgate, and, therefore, didn't contain any sugar. Stuff like that is what keeps the general populace on their toes.

Groups of people who refuse to accept the obvious, #2

2006-08-29T09:09:00.000+10:00

#2: Feminists.

First, a little exercise in semantics. The suffix -ism, when applied to a concept, implies that this concept is being exalted, to the detriment of other, similar, concepts.

Thus, "racism" technically does not refer to denigrating certain races, but rather to advocating other races (the net result is, of course, the same). Witness communism, socialism, post-modernism... You get the idea.

The same principle applies to feminism -- it is advocating the supremacy of females, at the expense of males. Now, I've got a certain friend who would have you believe that I'm talking poop... That the literal meaning of the suffix "-ism" is to be discarded for what the public generally understand the phrase "feminism" to mean.

That argument might carry water (and I mean might), if the fervent feminists themselves weren't so insistent upon violating this principle. To illustrate with an example -- last night I was in the Humanities and Social Sciences building of my local university. A flyer on a noticeboard was advocating a "Womyn's Film Night". The flyer began by stating that only (approximately) six of the top two-hundred-and-fifty-grossing films of all time had been directed by women.

They intended, in their charmingly ineffectual way, to remedy this situation by hosting a film night where the fare was going to be exclusively films directed by women.

What? Sorry? Equality, you say? Nothing of the sort! This is just as bad as any (perceived) injustice delivered upon women. The aim of a film night should be to show meritorious films -- not films simply directed by women (or men, for that matter).

Of course, I am not expecting most people to believe me on this. "We've got scores to settle!" they shall cry, thrusting extended index fingers with chipped fingernails into the air. "You bastard men have had it good for so long, and now we're going to redress the balance."

A few points, darlings:

(1) If that's truly what you believe, whatever your motivation, then the literal definition of "feminism" holds -- you are promoting females at the expense of males. Fine, if that's what you want to do, but drop any pretence of equality.

(2) This is a very flimsy way of going about things. Allow me to demonstrate with example, using the technique of reductio ad absurdum:

(1) Many Jewish people were killed by the Nazis.

(2) The Jewish people have a right to exact revenge.

(3) It is proper that Jewish people kill Germans.

Preposterous, you say? Statement (3) couldn't possibly follow on from (1) and (2)? Well, yes, that's kind of the point. Same deal with the "womyn" and their film night.

Just pointing a few things out, that's all.

Groups of people who refuse to accept the obvious, #1

2006-08-28T14:09:00.000+10:00

(This is to be an ongoing series.)

#1: Advertising executives.

It seems to me that advertising executives aren't prepared to accept the fact that people do not want to watch the fruits of their labours. They began by putting advertisements into broadcast television. Humanity was given the VCR and, lo! some form of power was returned to the masses. Programs could be taped, minus the advertisements.

This battle continued for a long while, until free-to-air television became less and less important. Advertising executives have at least realised this on some level, because it is now a stated goal of theirs that they need to work harder in capturing an audience.

This is poop. Doctors need to work harder to cure cancer. Advertising executives need to stop making ads. Haven't they ever turned on a radio station -- common station slogans now involve promoting the frequency (or, rather, infrequency) of the station's commercial breaks. They are attempting to attract people to their station by promising to play fewer ads than their competitors. This is not a subtle message.

Software exists that attempts to hide advertisements on Internet pages. Again, there is nothing subtle about this. People don't want advertisements. If what it takes is a subscription service to any entertainment stream of worth, I know I'm ready to pay for it. It's not that radical an idea -- when a person goes to a music store, that person pays for an album... that is, the person is paying for music, not advertisements.

As an aside, allow me to vaguely paraphrase an extract from Carl Sagan's only novel. In it, a character is described who is the bane of the advertising companies. This character has invented a device that is able to detect a commercial break in a television broadcast. Upon identification of the advertising, the channel is automatically changed.

In the novel, this character is taken to court by the advertising companies, who assert that the character is undermining the companies' right to free speech; they assert that he is being unpatriotic.

In response, the character claims that his device is extremely patriotic -- if all products were the same, there wouldn't be any need for advertising. Consumers would simply buy the better product. By preventing advertisements from reaching the consumer, the character was ensuring that the public would not engage in lazy decision-making. It would also have the benefit of pushing manufacturing companies to produce products that actually were improvements on existing designs.

The courts find in favour of the character, and his device continued to be marketed. He then attempted to market his device on the commercial networks (who were, of course, partnered with the advertising companies). In this case, the networks attempted to block the character from advertising his device -- the character then took the networks to court, and won.

No real point to this story, but it does make me feel warm and fuzzy inside.

Lefties

2006-08-28T13:52:00.000+10:00

Fuck 'em all. Seriously.

How is that an entire sub-species of humans can co-opt what is, actually, a reasonable political philosophy?

You people know who I'm talking about -- I'm talking about the people in possession of useless degrees, godawful haircuts and tetanus-inducing body piercings. The people who think that wearing tight jeans (preferably in darker colours) somehow confers upon them "hip" status.

I'm talking about the people who congregate at places of congested traffic flow and insist on handing out pamphlets.

Now, this is what you have to understand: I agree with most of what these people say. I'm a little too clever to indulge in a lot of the polemic that they seem to throw around, but, generally, these are reasonable ideas. So why is it that I hate these messengers so much?

Well, it's mainly for the reasons I've outlined above. It's also for the reasons I will continue to outline -- see below.

I hate the fact that these people are, essentially, useless. What frigging purpose does the world have for a twenty-five-year-old "intellectual" who occasionally strums an out-of-tune guitar and thinks that he's supplying the world with profound poetry? These people have no skills. This may come as a shock to a lot of these people, but there are individuals out there who are just as capable of the same sort of "action", but who are also in possession of real, honest-to-God, saleable skills. People who can actually benefit humanity in some way -- people like doctors, scientists, mathematicians, engineers.

A surprising number of engineers, for example, are left-leaning and would, in prinicple, agree with what it is that these drop-outs are saying. I, as an engineer, am supportive of state-owned utilities. I happen to think that, on paper, communism isn't such a bad idea. The difference is, however, that, in addition to having these beliefs, I can actually serve humanity in some way. My sole purpose in life is not to block the entrance to pedestrian tunnels.

A doctor can heal patients, a scientist can reveal the underlying structure of nature, an engineer can build a bridge over an impossibly wide body of water -- these are all useful activities. A drop-out left-leaning Arts student, on the other hand, can't do much at all. The atmosphere in their places of congregation seems to fill them all with the feeling that they are superior to those who can manage a figure of numbers, for example.

In this case, allow me to tell you all something -- you are not superior.

In case I'm running the risk of being misrepresented, let me qualify a few things. I am not complaining about artistic people. I am not advocating that we fill the world solely with useful people. But haven't you noticed that most of the people producing worthwhile art are the ones who eschewed these sort of degrees in the first place? The best writers and the best musicians are not products of these colleges. They don't necessarily inhabit these dens of faux intelligentsia (the "inner west", to you and me). They just do what they do, and that's that.

I'm actually not too sure where I'm going with this. Perhaps I can come back to it at some point and refine my argument (such as it is). I just wanted people to understand a few things.

Batten down the hatches!

2006-08-28T13:41:00.000+10:00

Those of you who aren't idiots (although I daren't venture what that percentage might be) might have noticed a decided lack of updates to this blog in the past two months. There are many reasons for this, some having to do with the alignment of the stars, some having to do with hair growing in strange places, and most having to do with my terminal laziness.

I have been roused into action, though, by an insidious force that took me completely by surprise. And what was it? you ask. A world event in need of some world-class satire, perhaps? The Second Coming of the Messiah, requiring the unjaundiced eye of a dutiful observer? No, my friends, it is neither of these things.

This site, ladies and gentlemen, has been spammed. Spammed!

I didn't think such a thing was possible in today's enlightened times, but apparently it is. Looking through my list of comments (because I value what each and every one of you have to say, truly, I do), I noticed some suspiciously inflated figures on some of the entries.

My reference to the lyric from the Travis song, for example, features seven comments. Seven. This is, I'm sure you understand, a little suspicious.

And, sure enough, displaying these seven comments reveals that only three of them are pertinent to the original comment, and I was responsible for one of those, anyway. Four more comments are useless -- "Hi! Just want to say what a nice site. Bye, see you soon." -- and each of them is followed by a link.

A link! A hyperlink... sending the unsuspecting reader off into a strange land, possibly having something to do with penis pumps, or possibly having something to do with European health funds, or possibly something in between.

And it's happened to me... to my little blog. Well, we aren't going to stand for it, are we? It looks like I have no choice but to resume my schedule of blog-posting, in the interests of attracting genuine comment. Stay tuned, young apparatchiks, and I shall school you in the ways of advertising, and together we may combat the spammers, where it hurts*.

* In the testicles, that is.

2006-08-12T00:15:00.000+10:00

God and sporting contests

2006-06-22T01:31:00.000+10:00

I was just watching a World Cup match (God help me, I don't know why)... Portugal was playing Mexico. These are, as far as I can tell, both Christian countries. Indeed, I believe they're both Catholic countries. Every time a player was substituted (on both sides), he would make a sign of the cross and mouth some words (presumably) to his Heavenly Creator.

A penalty was then awarded. The defender, upon seeing what he had caused, said a prayer. The striker being given the penalty kick then said his own prayer. In light of my observation in the first paragraph, both of these people werepraying to the same God. Why would He favour one more than the other? (Indeed, why would God care at all about a soccer match?) Do the players of these respective teams realise they're asking their Lord to effectively play favourites? That doesn't seem like the all-loving God, about whom quite a bit is preached in the Bible.

Incidentally, the striker missed the penalty shot, which proves my long unspoken theory that God loves the Portugese and hates the Mexicans.

As do we all, nachos notwithstanding.

Record watch

2006-06-21T20:41:00.000+10:00

The Pet Shop Boys: Fundamental [LP]

Names to wish upon your worst enemies, voodoo-style

2006-06-21T04:24:00.000+10:00

Johnny Worth-His-Weight-In-Shit

Eric Wangdoodle

Willy Weiner-Weiner Von Willy-Willy-Weiner-Weiner, III

Buttsparkle Von McEvoy

Michael Shit

Albert Poop-In-Your-Mouth, Esq.

Minnie Von FatSlut*

Harry "Hairy Nut" Testicle

Figgitty Foggotty Faggotty McFuckity (Jnr.)

* This one isn't mine, but I thought I'd pinch it, 'cause it's funny.

The Dinner Party

2006-06-19T18:31:00.000+10:00

a tale in five courses, by Kieren Martin

Entrée.

Vivienne Fremer and Horace Fremer were rich.

Very rich.

They had made their money on the stock market. This engendered in them the feeling, especially in Horace, that their money had not been particularly hard-earned. In fact, their money had not been hard-earned. Horace had misheard an instruction from his stock broker and had placed his father’s inheritance in an unknown and mismanaged company. In one of those twists of fate by which the stock market distinguishes itself, Horace’s false hunch had paid off, and he and Vivienne had found themselves overnight millionaires.

They moved from their inauspicious house to what was technically a mansion on the city’s shorefront. They appropriate all of the trappings of the upper class, including a world-class wine cellar, and an émigré gardener from a developing country. Vivienne made sure that multiple children were sponsored using the services advertised in the pamphlets she received, and their smiling, gleaming-toothed visages were placed in conspicuous locations around the house, more for the benefit of any visitors than for Vivienne. She didn’t like looking at them.

And yet, Vivienne found that she was not accepted among her new neighbours. Horace had noticed this also, but he was less concerned. He was still comfortable with making the journey down one of the city’s arterial roads, back to his old tavern and ring of friends. He light-heartedly brushed away their jibes about his newfound wealth, and relieved his guilt with the occasional generous gesture, such as picking up the bar cheque every couple of weeks.

Vivienne’s concerns were not so easily assuaged, however, and she found the idea of public houses repellent. She had hoped that the move to a four-storey house would relieve Horace of his predilection for them, but this had unfortunately not been the case. Vivienne had attempted to gain entry at a number of the local country clubs but, without a subscribed member as her sponsor, she was able to see no more than the guest lounge of most of the establishments. As she would sit and drink the excessively priced cocktails, she watched the patrons come and go. She did not feel any malice towards them, but she did desperately wish that she would be acknowledged.

One day Vivienne had an idea. “Horace,” she said. “Why don’t we have a dinner party?”

Horace looked up from the investor magazine he was reading. “Sure,” he said. “Why not? I’ll call my mates tomorrow. It’ll be nice to have them all around here. You’ve only let them over once since we moved here.”

Vivienne shuddered at the memory. She had let Horace talk her into having his friends over once, just after they had moved. Along with the friends had come a sizeable contingent of alcohol, and the resulting noise and drunkenness had not gone unnoticed in the rest of the neighbourhood.

“No, darling,” she said, as sweetly as she could manage. “I was thinking of something a little more sophisticated. Why don’t we ask the MacKenzies from up the street? There’s also that arts festival in town at the moment—I’m sure we could invite one or two of the visiting guests from that.” Vivienne’s eyes flickered with ambition. “We could even ask a politician along. How about a senator? Pull some strings at work, Horace, and see what you can do.”

Horace mumbled something in disappointment and returned to his magazine. He would have preferred to have his own friends around, but that seemed to his wife to be a cardinal sin.

First course.

The dinner party had been arranged. Amazingly, Vivienne’s adventurous guest list had become a reality. Horace’s money might not have commanded respect, but it did attract certain people’s attention. It bought the appearance of respect. Through contacts at his firm, he was able to invite a senator—simultaneously the Minister for the Arts—and his wife, two visiting arts critics, currently in town for the festival, and Harold and Joy MacKenzie, the richest couple in their neighbourhood.

Horace’s money also got Vivienne entry into the city’s art museum, after hours. Vivienne had pushed past the embattled curator, Mariella Michaels, and into the main gallery.

“I don’t know if you know this,” Vivienne said, “but I’m having a dinner party.”

Mariella looked down at her watch, thinking of her husband and child at home, waiting for her. “No, I didn’t know that,” she said. Nor, she wanted to add, did she care.

“Oh, yes,” Vivienne said. “It’s going to be very important. Very upper class, you know? We’ve got the Minister for the Arts coming along, as well as Harold MacKenzie, the wine-maker.”

Mariella sighed inwardly. She didn’t care. But—and this was the way these things always worked—the Minister for the Arts was her boss, if only indirectly, and the whims of the richer components of society had to be satisfied.

“That’s very interesting,” Mariella said. Then, attempting to prod the conversation in a productive direction, she added, “You mentioned on the phone that you’d like to talk about a painting?”

“That’s right. I need the Minister to think that I’ve been collecting this stuff for years. Give me the most expensive and impressing painting you’ve got and wrap it up. My credit card’s in my purse.”

Mariella stifled a laugh. “It doesn’t work that way, Mrs Fremer. These paintings are hundreds of years old. They’re worth millions of dollars. And, besides—they’re not for sale, anyway. On the other hand, we’d be happy to loan you a piece for the weekend, in consideration of how generous the Minister has been to our museum through the years.”

“Oh, okay,” Vivienne said. “A loan would be fine.” She reached down into her handbag and began rummaging, hoping the activity would distract Mariella from the redness creeping into her face. Horace’s pseudo hunch on the stock market had paid out well, but not that well. On the other hand, Vivienne did aspire to wealth of that scale one day, and made a note to investigate companies that would experience explosive growth in the future.

Mariella directed Vivienne through the main gallery, pointing out works of significance as she did. “Was there anything in particular you had in mind? Do you have a favourite artist? A favourite period?”

Vivienne stared back at Mariella blankly. “No,” she said. “Not really.” She paused for a moment. “I would like it to match the décor in my dining room, though. That’s where the Minister is going to be spending most of his time. It should all match.”

Mariella stopped walking. “I see… What colour is your dining room?”

“It’s brown. Well, burnt sienna, actually. That’s what the brochure called it. Did you know it cost fifty thousand dollars to have that living room redecorated?”

“No,” Mariella said. “I didn’t know that.” She began walking again. “Brown, you said?”

“Burnt sienna.”

Second course.

Vivienne heard Horace walk in through the front door. “Horace!” she called. “Come in here! I’m in the dining room.”

Horace didn’t even have the chance to drop his briefcase and loosen his tie before his wife’s insistent cries coerced him into the dining room. He walked through the doorway and gave his wife a kiss on the cheek. “Good evening, darling. What did you want?”

Vivienne put her hands on her hips. “Can’t you tell?” she asked, pouting.

Horace placed his briefcase by his feet and looked at his wife for signs new coiffure; nothing. He looked at the dining table, looking for a new tablecloth or cutlery set; nothing. In desperation, he looked to his own shoes, attempting to remember how long it had been since his wife had bought him that particular pair; nothing special came to mind.

“I give up,” he said. “I can’t tell.”

Vivienne frowned and pointed to the wall immediately behind the dining table. Horace squinted and peered. He scratched his cheek.

“Where’s the window gone?” he asked. “What’s that hanging where our window used to be?” (Horace was more attached to that window than any other person might necessarily be—the window looked into the house next door’s backyard, and the owners of that house had a nineteen-year-old daughter who would sunbathe in a bikini on occasion.)

“It’s a Van Gogh,” Vivienne said, still a little unsure of the pronunciation. She had first heard of him that afternoon. “The Potato Eaters. It’s very brown, don’t you think?”

“Yes, it is,” Horace said, clearly displeased. “You’d want to take that back.”

“Oh, no,” Vivienne said. “This is going take pride of place at the dinner party tonight. Don’t you love the way the painting goes with our burnt sienna curtains?”

“Not really. And anyway, those are brown curtains. Brown.”

“You’re so uncultured, Horace. I sometimes think you’re not even trying to better yourself. Look, get upstairs and get changed. You’ve also got time for a shower, which I recommend. I really want to impress our guests tonight.”

Horace mumbled something under his breath but, nevertheless, ascended the stairs and entered his first-storey bedroom.

Ninety minutes later, Horace had showered and changed into a suit hand-picked for him by Vivienne. Vivienne herself had changed into her evening gown, accompanied by an array of glittering jewellery. She had encountered a minor dilemma in applying the jewellery—she, too, wanted to match the curtains and the painting, but her jewellery box was almost obstinately devoid of any brown pieces.

She settled instead on one of the more ostentatious pieces—a large diamond brooch, bought for her by Horace as a conciliatory gesture after Vivienne had caught him making use of the dining room window to observe the nineteen-year-old daughter in the backyard next door.

The doorbell rang.

“Get the door, darling!” Vivienne called. “I’m just freshening up my make-up.”

Third course.

Vivienne had the guests assemble first in the lounge room. The lighting was dim and there was a Yanni LP playing unobtrusively in the background. Vivienne had hired a small group of three catering staff for the night, one of whom was a dedicated cocktail specialist. (The man referred to himself as a “mixologist”, but Vivienne had a sneaking suspicion that that wasn’t a real word; she wasn’t certain that it wasn’t, however, and so afforded the man an uneasy respect.)

The cocktail specialist set up a makeshift bar in the corner of the lounge room and dispensed drinks to the guests. The Minister was engaged in conversation with one of the art critics, and the other art critic was discussing something with the MacKenzies. This left Vivienne and Horace standing awkwardly alone, outsiders at their own party.

Vivienne took a deep breath and walked over to the MacKenzies, placing her body in between the husband and wife pair. “What do you think of the uniform on the bartender?” she asked. “I picked it out myself.”

Joy MacKenzie took a sip from her cocktail—which was, she had to admit, excellent. “It’s certainly unusual,” she said. “You don’t see too many food servers dressed in brown.”

Horace had walked over in time to hear Joy MacKenzie’s comment. “That you don’t,” he said. “Do you want to know why? It’s because it reminds people of shit. And that’s not something you want to do when you’re serving them food.” He laughed coarsely at his own joke, spraying beer from his lubricated lips. Joy MacKenzie looked uncertain and Vivienne withered inside.

Attempting to block her husband from view by strategically positioning her feet, Vivienne turned to face Joy head on. “It’s not brown,” she said. “It’s burnt sienna. It’s a very earthy colour.” She took a sip of champagne. “That’s what all the magazines say, anyway.”

Joy MacKenzie nodded slowly. “I suppose you could say that, yes.”

Vivienne looked down at her watch and gave a startled gasp. She put her champagne glass down on the nearest bench and then clapped her hands sharply. “Everyone!” she called. “It’s time for dinner now. If you’d all like to follow me in to the dining room…”

Ten feet away and fifteen seconds later, Vivienne beckoned to all her guests to sit down. The guests complied, and each prepared for dinner. Vivienne listened to the metallic ring of cutlery being adjusted, and waited for somebody to notice the dining room’s centrepiece.

It didn’t take long.

“Isn’t that interesting?” Harold MacKenzie said. “You’ve got brown curtains. How nice.”

Vivienne sighed. “They’re burnt sienna. It’s an—”

She was interrupted, however, by an exclamation of surprise from one of the art critics. “That’s not… that’s not The Potato Eaters, is it?” he asked.

Vivienne said a silent prayer of thanks. Finally. “Yes, actually, it is,” she said.

The art critic stood up and walked over to the painting. “It’s a reproduction, surely.”

“No,” Vivienne said, “that’s the original.”

“I don’t think so,” the other art critic said, standing up and joining his colleague in front of the painting. “The dimensions don’t seem right.”

Vivienne turned around and leaned into the kitchen. She waved at one of the chefs and indicated that he should begin to serve the first course. To the art critics, she said, “It’s authentic. I went down to the museum today to pick it up. They were very nice to give it to me on loan.”

“The museum!” the Minister said, joining in. “They’ve always been very nice to me there. Very nice. I appreciate it immensely.”

Vivienne nodded, remembering that the curator had said something along those lines.

The two critics were talking to each other. Vivienne stood up and formed a trio with them in front of the painting. “Trust me, it’s the real thing. With all the paperwork I filled out, it would want to be.” She gave a sigh of mock exasperation.

“I’m having trouble accepting that,” one of the critics said. “It’s as I said before—the dimensions don’t seem right.”

“Do you mean its size?” Vivienne asked. “That’s probably what’s confused you. Don’t worry—I trimmed off the edge of the painting. It was too large, and that section also didn’t go with my burnt sienna curtains.”

“Trimmed?” the critic asked, incredulous. “You cut up a Van Gogh?”

“Yes,” Vivienne said, speaking slowly. “It was too big. You don’t think I threw that bit out, did you? No, it’s rolled up safely upstairs. I can sew it back on tomorrow morning.”

“You did, didn’t you?” the critic repeated. “You cut up a Van Gogh.”

“I had to,” Vivienne said. “It didn’t go with the curtains.”

Even Horace could tell that his wife had crossed a line. “You and those bloody brown curtains.”

“Jesus, Horace!” Vivienne said, a sheen of tears over her eyes. “They’re burnt sienna!”

Dessert.

The dinner party had ended abruptly after that. The critics had left instantly, each desperate to get back to his respective office and write the necessary reports. The Minister also left for this reason—he knew he was somehow connected to the mess, and he wanted to distance himself as much as possible. He had already paged his secretary and told her to inform any press enquiring about the event that he had emphatically not been present at the party.

The MacKenzies were the last to leave, but they did not remain behind more than a few minutes longer than the other guests. Joy hurried through the front door without speaking to Vivienne, but Harold put his hand on Horace’s shoulder. “Wives, eh?” he said. “They can get that way sometimes. Listen, I’ll send you around a crate of our newest chardonnay. It’s not a bad drop of plonk, if I do say so myself.”

Horace nodded, pleased. At least something had come of the night. He could call his mates and share the bottles with them. They’d have fun.

Beeping refrigerators

2006-06-19T18:10:00.000+10:00

Does this bother anybody but me?

It's always seemed to me a pointless exercise to have a fridge beep at its user when the door has been left open. I find that, usually --

If the user is in the room when the fridge beeps at him, he generally knows that the fridge is open -- for example, he is making a delicious Ovaltine milkshake, and has the milk and ice-cream out at the same time, knowing that he'll put them back in a minute. In this instance, a beeping fridge is unnecessary and annoying.

In the second instance, let's say I've made my Ovaltine milkshake and I've already gone upstairs to drink it. It takes something like forty-five seconds before the fridge begins to beep. By that point, I'm upstairs and firmly ensconced in the drinking of my milkshake. I'm not going to hear the beep -- on the one occasion that it might actually help me.

Does nobody sit down and take the time to design these things properly?

Record watch

2006-06-19T18:06:00.000+10:00

I've got two weeks of backlog here.

Caravan: In The Land Of Grey And Pink [second-hand LP]
Eagles: On The Border [180-gram LP]
Eagles: One Of These Nights [180-gram LP]
Eagles: Hotel California [180-gram LP]
Free: Free Live! [180-gram LP]
David Gilmour: On An Island [180-gram LP]
Jewel: Goodbye Alice In Wonderland [CD]
Pink Floyd: The Wall [2 second-hand LPs]
Split Enz: Corroboree [second-hand LP]
Steely Dan: Pretzel Logic [second-hand LP]
The Streets: The Hardest Way To Make An Easy Living [2 LPs]
Neil Young: Greatest Hits [2 200-gram LPs]
Frank Zappa: Cruising With Ruben And The Jets [second-hand LP]

I've got a few new LPs coming in this week. More update on those later.

Ovaltine update

2006-06-15T01:45:00.000+10:00

I just sneezed into my milkshake, sending Ovaltine powder spraying all over my desk.

FUCK!

Recruitment into the armed forces

2006-06-15T01:40:00.000+10:00

I was just watching television at the good hour of 1:30 in the morning, and I was bombarded with two advertisements for the Army, and one for the NSW Police Force, both in the same ninety-second commercial break.

Is this really where these guys think they're going to get the best recruits? Advertising on late night television? Am I the sort of person they really want to recruit?

(In case you're wondering, at the time the advertisements were being broadcast, I was attempting to get as much Ovaltine into my milkshake cup as I could without spilling the milk. What happens -- and I do this every time -- is that I fill up the cup before applying the Ovaltine, forgetting every time that I'm going to need some extra space to put the flavouring in. I guess I never learned the lesson of Archimedes.)

(Again, I repeat: does the Army really want people like me?)

Record watch

2006-06-06T19:17:00.000+10:00

Purchases for Tuesday, 6 June 2006

Eagles: Desperado (1973)
Eagles: The Long Run (1979)

Both are LPs in Rhino UK's "Back to vinyl" 180-gram series. I've got the remaining four studio Eagles albums due in within the week. I'll post a complete series update when those do arrive.

Why does it always rain on me?

2006-06-06T08:56:00.000+10:00

Is it because I lied when I was seventeen?

Record watch

2006-06-05T19:33:00.000+10:00

Purchases for Monday, 5 June 2006

Belle and Sebastian: Tigermilk (1996) [on Jeepster vinyl, JPRLP007]

I like it more than the newest album. Sue me.

Record watch

2006-06-04T20:22:00.000+10:00

I bought these a couple of days ago, but forgot to add them at the time.

Purchases for Friday, 2 June 2006

The Rolling Stones: Hot Rocks, 1964 - 1971 (2 LPs)
The Strokes: First Impressions Of Earth

The Rolling Stones LP is one of the deluxe DSD-sourced remasters Abkco put out in 2003 to accompany the SACD issues (which I actually have). I've already purchased Beggars Banquet and Exile On Main Street in this series, and I am amazingly impressed with the quality of the sound.

The Strokes album was bought on the recommendation of a few people, mainly on the basis that it's a Strokes album for people who don't usually like the Strokes. This closely enough describes me, so I thought I'd give it a go... It's not too bad. The production is interesting, because it leaves the drums sounding a little flat (intentionally, I'm sure, but remains a slightly distracting effect). There are, however, a few too many chord progressions and melodies that are too familiar. Julian Casablancas has always flirted with his Lou Reed impression, but I found a couple of lines on the new album to be line-for-line quotations. Overall, though, it's not too bad, and it's fairly decent for an album that's only a few months old.

It's no Toto IV, though.

How to sound hip in one simple step

2006-06-04T20:18:00.000+10:00

1. Pronounce "business" as "bidness". Say it aloud and see that I'm right.

Voila! Instant trendiness.

Incorrect proverbs

2006-06-02T17:33:00.000+10:00

Is this really a proverb? I don't know. We'll work through this together.

"It's the exception that proves the rule."

Quite a common saying, and I'm sure we've all heard it before. The travesty, however, is that most people are using the phrase incorrectly. "Prove" in this instance relates to an archaic use of the word, meanly simply "to test". No assumption of a positive outcome is made.

Therefore, when we talk about an exception proving the rule, we are actually talking about it testing the rule. The next time somebody cites an instance of a rule being disproved by an exceptional case, followed by them asserting the correctness of the rule because it failed, please throw a bible at him/her.

We do this sort of thing in software engineering -- it's called exception testing. A banking system, for example, may work perfectly well with standard numbers. But what happens when one enters a ridiculously large number? Or a negative number? If the system still holds, then the exception has tested the system.

Consider, in modern usage, that one cites, say, the rule that "All Frank Zappa LPs are good". If a person is then able to provide a Frank Zappa LP that is not good, the inclination will be to say that the rule is still valid, because it was disproved by its exception. That is bullshit.

If we're talking about speed cameras, and that they're supposed to be able to photograph all speeding vehicles. Let's say they photograph all speeding cars with ease... So far, so good. But what about a motorcycle? Different from the usual fare. If the camera photographs the bike as well, then we can safely say that the exception has proved (read: "tested") the rule.

Sorry that this took so long, but it's something I strongly believe in.

Fast food advertisements

2006-06-01T20:56:00.000+10:00

I understand that the purpose of the pictures in fast food advertisements is to make the food look as good as it possibly can. This explains the presence of those perfect, six-storey-tall Big Macs (which actually are rarer than that three-titted woman in Total Recall).

What I don't get is why the soft drink in all these pictures always appears to be in motion -- to the point that it is spilling out of the glass. If we accept these advertisements as "best possible scenario" sort of things, why is spilling one's Coke a desirable outcome?

Large print editions

2006-05-29T21:14:00.000+10:00

You know what I’m talking about, right? Books published with slighter-larger-than-normal text, to benefit the aged or otherwise sight-impaired members of the populace?

This I am cool with. It troubles me in no significant way.

But -- I have a little bit of trouble when one publishes romance novels in large print editions. Think about it -- do we really need the septuagenarians of the world reading -- and actually getting sexually aroused by -- romance novels? The thought is, quite frankly, sickening. Imagine all of the attendant squelching sounds, and then wonder in horror which particular body part is producing the fluids necessary for the squelching.

There are just some things that shouldn’t be done. This is one of them. I suppose another would be publishing a book called "How to take over the world" in German.

Zing! Ethnic humour!

Jokes about Jesus Christ's penis

2006-05-29T17:22:00.000+10:00

Hi, all.

One my minders (yes, I have them) has brought something very distressing to my attention. Apparently somebody has written a piece about Jesus Christ and Mary Magdalene. I’ve tried to block most of the details from my mind but, from what I can gather, there’s some friction between the Royal Couple... and, at one point, Mary says "Oh, God", and Jesus says, "Yes?"

That, ladies and gentlemen, is stupid. To demonstrate how stupid it is, let me show you this piece I wrote aeons ago. It is presented in its entirety, preserved in the ether, so that my sinfulness may now and forever be acknowledged by the cosmos.

JESUS CHRIST AND MARY MAGDALENE in MARITAL PROBLEMS

[interior: bedroom. Mary Magdalene, wearing a sheer nightgown, is reclining on the bed, whilst Jesus Christ, Son of Man, is standing, naked except for a pair of modest boxer shorts, in front of the dressing table. He is admiring his bare chest in the mirror. Mary appears upset.]

JESUS: Do you know what, Mary? I’ve got the most amazing cock in the whole world. Seriously, it’s perfect. Heavenly, you could even say. It’s long, it’s thick, it’s elegantly proportioned. It’s a gift from God.

MARY: I’m sick of hearing about your penis, Jesus. Really.

JESUS: Cock, Mary. The word is cock. And, besides, how could anybody be sick of my cock? It’s long, it’s thick...

MARY: I know, I know, believe me, I know. Our waiter tonight also knew, by the time we got to the second course.

JESUS: I thought he’d want to know.

MARY: And did he?

JESUS: [quietly] It’s hard to say.

MARY: He didn’t, trust me.

JESUS: He’s just jealous that his cock isn’t as perfect as mine.

MARY: You know that for a fact, do you? He confided in you during some secret, special moment?

JESUS: Something like that, yes... Look, are we going to fuck or not? The Heavenly Father has only given me so much time on this earth, and I want to stick my cock in you as many times as possible. I’ve got the Jews coming at me from one side, and the Romans from the other. My cock isn’t getting the work-out it needs.

MARY: No, Jesus, I don’t think so...

JESUS: What? Why? You don’t want to fuck?

MARY: Now, listen, Jesus. I don't want you to take this the wrong way... but you’re not as good in bed as you seem to think you are.

JESUS: Impossible. I don’t think I’m good, I know I’m good.

MARY: Do you?

JESUS: I haven’t had any complaints.

MARY: I think you have. I think you’re just too stuck up to listen to them.

JESUS: Christ, you’re being serious, aren’t you? Fine, I’m listening. Talk to me.

MARY: Well, you pe-- your cock, I mean... it’s not that wonderful, you know.

JESUS: Whoa, hold up. I’m willing to listen, but this is unreasonable. I know my cock is perfect. It’s long, it’s thick...

MARY: How do you know? Have you compared it to other men’s?

JESUS: No, of course not. I’m not a poof. I hate those fucking poofters.

MARY: I’m not either, but I’ve seen a few cocks in my time. And, let me tell you, Jesus, yours doesn’t make the big leagues.

JESUS: Really? Truthfully? Is it not long enough? Not thick enough?

MARY: Neither, actually. It’s not even that pleasing visually.

JESUS: How can it not be? It goes up, it goes down. It’s a cock. It’s not a particularly complicated piece of machinery.

MARY: I know. That being said, I’ve seen better.

JESUS: Shit. Well, anything else?

MARY: Well, um... yes, actually. You also don’t know how to use it that well.

JESUS: [laughing] I know what you’re talking about. My cock is such awhirling dervish that you experience sensory overload and black out. That’s it, huh? You’ve just been overwhelmed by my technique.

MARY: No, that’s not it, Jesus. You plain don’t know what you’re doing. In and out, in and out, three times if you’re lucky, and that’s that.

JESUS: How many times do you want? Six? Or possibly seven? Maybe eight?

MARY: It’s going to take a lot more than that to satisfy a woman, Jesus. I’ms urprised you haven’t learned that yet.

JESUS: You don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re a whore. That’s why it takes so much to satisfy you. Wear and tear, that sort of thing.

MARY: Jesus, you watch your mouth! I won’t let you anywhere near me again if you talk like that. Fucking Christ!

JESUS: I’ll caution you to not take the Lord’s name in vain, Mary. It offends me.

MARY: I’ll take the Lord any way I fucking well want. I’ve taken him in the ass before, what does anything else matter?

JESUS: Are you mocking me? You didn’t like it when I stuck it there, either?

MARY: No, Jesus, I didn’t. Not pleasant.

JESUS: [sheepishly] Are you sure it’s not because you’re a hooker? I can try with some other women, if we need proof. I am the son of God, you know...

MARY: I don’t give a fuck who you are. If you can’t make me come then it doesn’t mean shit to me.

JESUS: This is too much for me. Look, are we going to fuck tonight or not?I’m starting to feel a little antsy.

MARY: I--I don’t think so, Jesus.

JESUS: Oh, come on! I’ve got to get a load off! This is heavenly jizz I’ve got building up in my balls. I need to get rid of it.

MARY: There’s more than one way of doing that, you know. I don’t necessarily need to be in the room.

JESUS: [looking over to open bathroom door] That’s not going to happen. You know that’s not what my Heavenly Father meant when he was talking about the Second Coming.

MARY: Nevertheless, it might be your only option tonight...

JESUS: Fuck, Mary.

A question

2006-05-25T11:57:00.000+10:00

Is it wrong to love Geoff Jansz as much as I do?

Lines on the road

2006-05-22T21:07:00.000+10:00

In this amazing technological age, where it possible to watch Big Brother on our mobile phones and, well, do lots of other things, why is it that we cannot paint lines on the road with any degree of certainty? To clarify, when councils and government decide to erase old lines and paint new ones -- why is it that the older lines are just as visible as the new ones? And then, sometimes when the sunlight hits the bitumen in a special way, the old lines become even more prominent, to the extent that the newer lines are effectively invisible.

How many accidents has this caused?

Is the greatest single conspiracy of our times? Did Elvis and JFK rendezvous with a secret alien society to keep the bloodline of Jesus Christ a secret (and fake the moon landing), just so they could wipe out conscientious drivers -- like myself -- who can’t see the frigging lines on the road?

Just a thought.

Record watch

2006-05-21T17:34:00.000+10:00

Lest one get tired of the jokes about penises and tortoises (and the jokes about penises and tortoises, more of which later), I’ve decided to introduce a new feature -- Record Watch. In this feature, I’m going to list all of my recent album purchases -- mostly vinyl, but the occasional CD may pop up now and again. If I get the inclination, I may even get around to reviewing them. We’ll see. That might be too much work.

Purchases for Saturday, 20 May 2006

The Alan Parsons Project: Eye In The Sky (1982)

Julian Lennon: Valotte (1984)

Paul McCartney and Wings: Red Rose Speedway (1973)

Roxette: Look Sharp! (1988)

Cat Stevens: Catch Bull At Four (1972)

Talking Heads: Talking Heads: 77 (1977)

Traffic: The Low Spark Of High-Heeled Boys (1971)

PS. This is of interest to me and nobody else. Do you think I care? I do not.

Have you seen this man?

2006-05-21T10:54:00.000+10:00

Wanted

Have you seen this man? If so, you may be able to help police with their enquiries. Darryn King (21) is wanted for gross negligence and malfeasance involving a tortoise. The alleged act took place on multiple occasions over the past two years, leaving the tortoise emotionally crippled, and more than a little bit sore around his naughty bits.

The tortoise, who wishes to remain unnamed, alleges that Darryn King "bought me dinner, told me he loved me, and promised that he'd never leave". Indeed, for the first couple of weeks, things were rosy. But then it all turned nasty.

"He brought all these horrible contraptions home. I tried escaping into my shell, but he had a disgusting tool to get me out of there too. My own private sanctuary -- violated. His horribleness knew no bounds. He wanted to do it from behind, in a group, even interracial. He wanted me to get naked with a turtle, for God's sake."

If you have any information on the whereabouts of this filthy mistake of a human, please contact the police immediately. You can also contact Spleen Central, and we'll be sure to pass the information on. After having a good laugh about it, of course.

Great alternate moments in history

2006-05-19T08:38:00.000+10:00

No. 309: the Gettysburg address in the electronic age

"Four underscores and seven carriage returns ago..."

Great compound words of the twentieth century

2006-05-18T01:08:00.000+10:00

No. 594
Titty-fuck.

No. 299
Cum-rag.

No. 606
Ass-bang.

In Bed with John and Cindy

2006-05-18T00:19:00.000+10:00

A television programme... with a difference! Have you ever thought of breakfast morning television as staid, boring, uninteresting? If you did, the authors wholeheartedly agree with you, and concede that nothing we can do is going to improve that.

We can, however, offer an interesting gimmick, whereby your hosts — John and Cindy — present interviews and infomercial segments in bed, wearing their pyjamas.

JOHN: Thank you for the warm words of welcome, Kieren. Tonight on the programme, we have Father Peter Pecker, an ultra-conservative Catholic priest.

FATHER PETER: Hello, John. Thank you for having me on the programme.

CINDY: Good evening, Father Peter. Thank you for visting us. We’re only just getting established, and we’re having a hard time securing a decent guest roster. There’s a certain type of guest we’re after, and we’re having a singularly bad time booking them... Brad Pitt, Colin Farrell, Orlando Bloom...

FATHER PETER: Tom Cruise, I’d imagine...

CINDY: Oh, God, no. He volunteered, but we had to say no. There’s something not right in that man’s head.

JOHN: I think it’s got something to do with religion, hasn’t it? That junk he believes has poisoned his mind.

FATHER PETER: That’s an interesting thing to say, John. It’s funny you should mention that.

JOHN: I think so, too. That’s pretty much what you’re involved in, right?

FATHER PETER: Religion? Well, yes, that’s true. Although, I must say that I must make a distinction between Scientology and Christianity. There’s a difference there.

JOHN: Really? What’s that?

FATHER PETER: Well, one doctrine preaches that our loving God gave his only son to us, and that he was crucified and rose from the dead…

JOHN: [laughing] Well, yes, that is quite stupid, isn’t it?

FATHER PETER: And then there’s Scientology. It has a system of eight Operating Thetan levels, whereby information is only divulged to a select few. And, even when it is, it tends to be fantastic and highly unbelievable.

JOHN: I’m sorry, I can’t see the difference.

FATHER PETER: You don’t believe that the Lord created the universe, and everything within it?

JOHN: Not particularly, no. I think the scientists are doing quite well in that department, without the Lord’s help. Hell, they’re doing it without government funding. That is dedication.

FATHER PETER: I don’t know what to say to that.

CINDY: All right, John. Perhaps we should move on. Do you have another question?

JOHN: I think I might… buried here somewhere… Ah, yes, here we go. Father Peter — are you aware that both your first and last names are synonyms for the male penis?

FATHER PETER: They are? I’ve never heard the words in that usage.

JOHN: Oh, come on… I find that hard to believe. You’ve never seen a particularly attractive young schoolboy and wanted to stick your peter in him somewhere?

FATHER PETER: Please! What are you saying?

JOHN: What about your pecker? Have you ever innocently bumped into young children and felt it, say, come to attention?

FATHER: Oh, Mother Mary and Joseph! These things you’re saying.

CINDY: John! Father Penis has a point. Leave the poor man alone.

Say hello to your new hosts!

2006-05-17T23:55:00.000+10:00

Is it uncommon for a blog two have two hosts? Two fictitious hosts?

Even if it is, and even if it isn’t, I’m introducing them -- say hello to John and Cindy!

Insanely obsessive readers may remember John and Cindy from the distant past, where they navigated various journals and written escapades, bringing their wit, pathos, and comforting journalistic integrity to any and all proceedings.

Such stipulations have not been written into their contract this time, but, if nothing else, they should provide welcome relief from the unending tide of dick jokes. Hello, John and Cindy. We welcome you!

JOHN: Thank you kindly. It’s nice to be out of storage and moving about again.
CINDY: Watch where you put those mothballs, John.

Ha ha, banter at its finest. Tune in shortly, when John and Cindy will have more timely tidbits to entertain the masses.*

* Not necessarily.

Things about history I'll bet you didn't know...

2006-05-17T23:45:00.000+10:00

Interesting fact No. 2
Ariel Sharon, ex-Prime Minister of Israel, was named after Ariel, The Little Mermaid. I'd post a picture for comparison, but Disney and their barrage of copyright lawyers scare me.

Adjunct fact
Isn't it interesting that one of the scariest men in international politics (and certainly one of the fattest) has two girly names? Ariel and Sharon? In keeping with the pattern, I wouldn't be surprised if his middle name was "Sheila".

Adjunct fact the second
I just realised that the hypothesised middle name "Sheila" would provide ol' Ariel with the initials A.S.S. That's funny in its own way.

Things about history I'll bet you didn't know...

2006-05-17T20:51:00.000+10:00

Did you know that the "C. S." in "C. S. Lewis" actually stands for "cock-sucker"?

Toilet graffiti

2006-05-17T20:47:00.000+10:00

Spotted in the men's room on campus:

Gay's should be shot on site! Dirty fuck's.

The two apostrophes were circled, as was the word "site". Next to the annotations was the comment, "Scratch a straight. Find an illiterate."

A few thoughts:

(1) The word "site" isn't necessarily wrong. The poster could be referring to a designated location where gays are shot. The opposite, of course, being off-site.

(2) That being said, this doesn't excuse the apostrophes.

Underneath these lines was the line, "Homosexuals are soooo gay." This was, I thought, exceedingly redundant. Lest I be accused of lacking a sense of irony, I would like to add that the word "soooo" is, in itself, kinda gay.

Pillars of engineering industry

2006-05-17T20:45:00.000+10:00

How to make an iPod appeal to a neo-Luddite:
Put a hand-crank motor on it.

How to make yo' mama appeal to a hand-crank motor fetishist:
Put a hand-crank motor on her.

How to make yo' mama appeal to me:
You don't need to do anything. She's absolutely perfect. Hi, Gladys!*

* This joke doesn't exactly work if yo' mama's name isn't Gladys. Indeed, some might argue, it doesn't work even if yo' mama's name is Gladys.

New to this site!

2006-05-17T16:54:00.000+10:00

Single-word reviews of the great works of Western literature*
(* said single words being derived from the anatomical features of insects.)

Milton's Paradise Lost:
"prothorax"

Shakespeare's Much Ado About Nothing:
"coxa"

Dickens's Barnaby Rudge:
"subesophageal ganglion" (well, that's two words)

Anything by Peter Carey:
"shit"

Things you don't want to buy second-hand...

2006-05-17T16:39:00.000+10:00

1. Lawnmowers.
2. Portable stereo systems.
3. Hands (prosthetic or otherwise, it doesn't really matter).
4. Anal dildos.*

* This entry is not a joke.

Things feminists are good for...

2006-05-17T16:36:00.000+10:00

I've been thinking about this for a while, and I decided to come up with a list.

1. (I'm having trouble with this one... let's leave it blank for the moment.)
2. (See above.)
3. (Ditto.)
4. (As per No. 3.)
5. Defending the rights of women, and demanding fair and equitable treatment for all females.*

* This entry is a joke.

Blogging? Is it just for poofs?

2006-05-17T16:21:00.000+10:00

Firstly -- can I get into trouble for using the word "poof"? Is it necessarily a bad thing, if used in a humorous and friendly context? I mean, nobody complains about the word "nigger" any more, do they? If the coloured folk are prepared to let bygones be bygones, then what's to say that the homosexuals and the normal people can't exist in peace?

Now that we've cleared away any issues pertaining to libel (or, worse, hate-mongering), I'd like to say... welcome to my blog. I understand that I've potentially only got one person reading this (and that's me, and I don't know who often I'll be able to stop by), but we've all got to do something, haven't we?

My foray into Internet blogging was prompted by a friend of mine. Why? No reason, particularly. But if he can do it, surely I can do it too, right? There's no monopoly on jokes relating to penises and monkeys, is there? I can understand if he's got some sort of trademark on jokes simultaneously about penises and monkeys, but I still believe there's a lot of wiggle room there. Which is, incidentally, exactly what the monkey said when I stuck a penis up his... well, you get the idea.