Things Someone Should Have Mentioned At The Time, Part 1.

Welcome to a new series on this blog where I take the time out of my busy day to mention things that really, someone else should have mentioned earlier and saved us all a lot of trouble (and in my case, sleepless nights).

1. Star Trek. Now, let's get one thing straight: when I talk about Star Trek i'm talking about the REAL Star Trek. Shatner, Nimoy, Deforrest. You know a show is good when one of it's stars is named after a military tactic the yanks are using to kill the Viet Cong. You can keep all of your Next-gen, DS9 poofery, I once saw Captain Kirk build a primitive blunderbuss from dirt. Here endeth any competition and you haven't even had your turn yet. Awesome.
However, there was one part of the show that wasn't all that awesome. Correct me if i'm wrong, but the Enterprise was on a five-year mission of exploration and discovery, right? So how come every time the ship wasn't in orbit around a planet it was speeding past stars like nobody's business? Surely if you're supposed to be exploring you should stop at a few. Captain Cook didn't go tear-arsing past Australia, he got out and had a look around. Have you told Starfleet you're just phoning the trip in, Jim?

2. Tom Bombadil. I like Lord Of The Rings for a number of reasons, mainly because i'm pretty much convinced it's all true. You couldn't make that shit up, and one day Oxford scholars are going to find all of the ancient runic scrolls that JRR copied it from. Probably in CS Lewis' wardrobe. What does annoy me is that Tom Bombadil isn't in the movie. Yes yes, it's a non-linear part of the narrative. No-one likes it. He's weird and has singing sheep. But did you know that Tolkien's publishers put all of these reasons to him and told him to take Tom out of the book? His refusal delayed publication by about five years. FIVE YEARS. That's how much he wanted it in there, Peter Jackson. He was willing to put off earning cubic buttloads of cash and more elven groupies than his tongue could cope with (admittedly, 1950s British elven groupies) just to get a crazy dwarf and his choral bovines some page space. Given that, you'd think the matter would have come up while his estate (yeah, i'm lookin' at YOU, Christopher Tolkien) was negotiating the film rights. Twice, 'cause the shitty 70's movie left him out too.

3. Star Wars. In The Empire Strikes Back, Darth Vader had to take the Executor out of the asteroid field just to take a call on the hologram phone thingie. He had to sit on a huge metal plate just so's he could see a massive hologram of the Emperor. This technology was so limited, expensive and rare that in order to talk to his Admirals ON THE SAME SHIP (admittedly, a pretty big ship) Vader just used a TV screen. So can someone with the last name Lucas please explain how, 25 years earlier, this shit was handheld? And able to beam across the galaxy, from Tatooine to Coruscant? And while we're on the subject, it Tatooine is the place which is farthest from the bright spot in the galaxy, as Luke Skywalker puts it, absolutely everything that was ever important in the history of the galaxy happens there? Bloody hell.

Perhaps I Have Been A Bit Hasty

Recently certain comments on this emblogulation may have given people the impression that I dislike those members of our community of the Teutonic persuasion. Nothing could be further from the truth, as the following table shows:

Good German Things:
1. Mettwurst
2. Hefeweisen
3. Fanta
4. Hahndorf, SA.
5. The Schutzenfest

Bad German Things:
1. Sebastian Vettel
2. Operation Barbarossa
3. Auschwitz

I think that sums things up a little more distinctly.

A Poem Explaining Why I Now HATE GERMANS.

I hate Germans,
Because I am an Australian Formula 1 fan,
and Vettel just crashed into Webber,
Losing him first place and bumping him to third which,
although still enabled him to retain the lead in the championship over Button,
was still nothing less than you'd expect,
from a country who couldn't even hold onto Tobruk,
(shithole that it is)
we taught you once,
you sausage-sucking squareheads,
and if you think we'll be afraid to again,
you're bloody dreaming,
may all your chooks turn into emus,
and kick your dunny doors in.

sniffIMPERTINENCE

Austin Returns To F1

SILVERSTONE- In a bold move, Formula One will see its ranks swelled in the 2012 season by Austin. The motor manufacturer was thought defunct, having been bought by Lord Nuffield, then by Morris, then rolled into British Leyland before finally being encased in concrete and dumped in the North Sea.
However it has been learned that the former motoring giant who brought the world the 1800 Land Crab, the Kimberley and the Tasman will once again compete in every major race in a new chassis specially designed by a bloke called Sid in a shed in Northhamptonshire. Engines are more problematic, Sid explained in a press conference today, as the current requirement for 3-litre capacity has meant that all of the 2-litre Tasman straight sixes salvaged from the wreckers will have to be bored and stroked. On the plus side the formerly FWD powerplants will be able to retain their original 3-speed gearboxes, now mated to the rear wheels. The engine's transverse orientation is believed to be a first in the modern F1 era.
Drivers are yet to be announced although it is understood that Ralf Schumacher's bicycle was seen parked out the front of Sid's shed last Tuesday.
Pundits have yet to comment on the team's fortunes, other than to say that at last Lotus will have some serious competition.

From Little Things Big Things Grow

For those readers of this emblogulation who may be unaware, as an adjunct to by busy life as an author, jeweller, unemployed supply professional and actor, I occasionally may be found directing amateur theatre productions. Yes, I do occasionally stir from my underwater lair in the GReat Southern Ocean with my faithful retainer Scrotum in order to delve into the strange and eerie world of the theatre.
Most recently I have directed a production of Oliver Goldsmith's "She Stoops To Conquer". We bumped-in to the theatre last night, and the work of six months came to a head. I had decided to run the show in an authentic 18th century setting using modern technology. Hence the stage is shallow and bare, it's lit with footlights and all lighting is tinged with yellow. All costumes are authentic. All furniture is authentic. The manner of acting is as close as we can get to the semi-pantomime style of the era. This show is going to kick arse.
As I was sitting watching the dress rehearsal last night it occurred to me that the entire production grew from my purchase about four years ago of a penguin paperback containing the script. This was bought on a whim, secondhand, for $2.50 from the Rotary Book Exchange. My mind was duly blown. All of the effort, laughter, tears, heartbreak and accidental discharges of plasma rifles that has occurred in the last 6 months are all due to a secondhand book that cost $2.50.

There's a kind of nobility in that, I think.

Selected Quotes From Last Night's Bookclub Meeting

Mr A: CGI ruins a movie.
Me: Yes, a case in point being the recent remake of 'Last Of The Mohicans'.
Mr A: There hasn't been a recent remake of "Last Of The Mohicans".
Me: Yes there has: "Avatar"
Mr A: That was a remake of "Dances With Wolves"!
Me: Er, "Dances With Wolves was a remake of "Last Of The Mohicans".

But it got even better:

Mr A: I dislike people who won't read other genres. You mention sci-fi/fantasy to them and they won't even look at it, but then they start gushing about "The Time Traveller's Wife" or "The Road".
Me: Yes, but how many people here will read "The Road" but won't read any of Cormac McCarthy's other books?
Mr A: He's written other books?
Me: Yes, they're over in the Western section.
Mr A: Pfft! Westerns.

The Man With The Iron Heart: A Review

It's not often that I feel moved to review books on this emblogulation but in the case of Harry Turtledove's "The Man With The Iron Heart" I simply had to.
I've had a love/hate relationship with Turtledove's work for some years. I find his concepts good but his writing poor, and so while good sense should have prevented me from even picking up this book, I was intrigued by the idea of the Nazi resistance movement, the Werewolves, as a potent force.
I needn't have bothered. The book has almost nothing to do with WW2 and is simply an allegory for the current war in Iraq. In this respect it lends itself to an earlier short story by Turtledove exploring the ramifications of a hostile press to the US war effort in WW2. In that story, however, at least the details were correct. In TMWTIH a great many details, such as the anti-Nazi sentiment of the US population and the German population, are simply ignored.
Mr Turtledove presents us with a world in which the Germans hide in the Alpine Redoubt and strike at the occupiers with suicide bombers and other terrorist tactics. He should have done some reading. An Alpine Redoubt was extensively planned by the Nazis but work was begun too late in the war to complete it in time. This redoubt, however, was designed to house regiments, armament factories and Messerschmidt squadrons in order to continue conventional war.
My main problem with this book however is the author's treatment of the home front. He has congressmen and housewives begin an anti-occupation movement. His use of Congressmen and not Senators is very telling. In the real world, any opposition to State policy regarding the Nazis would have come to the attention of Senator McCarthy and his House Committee on Un-American Activities. While this body is more well known for the communist witch-hunts of the 50s and 60s, it was formed after the declaration of war in 1941 with the mandate of hunting down Nazi sympathisers within America, with the help of the FBI. The fact that Mr Turtledove used these elements in his earlier short story but chooses to omit them here makes TMWTIH a sham, a fake. One gets the impression that it's nothing but a pro-Iraq right-wing propaganda tool seeking to paint the US government and military in an angelic light whilst showing the short-sightedness and stupidity of all those who oppose it. Which is not necessarily a bad thing, but it's not what the book was marketed as and frankly, i'm not interested in it. I like my alternate history to be intelligent, plausible and not a political allegory. This book was less Turtledove and more Turkey.

And Now, a Limerick.

A Transylvanian Count named Dracula,
Composed limericks most spectacular,
but he said, "I tell you,
It's quite hard to do,
as it requires uncommon vernacular."

An Open Letter To The Asian Gentleman Who Chooses To Use My Comments Section To Advertise His Sexually-Oriented Products.

Dear Sir,

Firstly, fuck off.

Secondly, why on earth are you advertising IN CHINESE on a blog which, to my knowledge, has never displayed any Chinese text? If it weren't for translation software I wouldn't even know what it meant. While i'm not sure of the exact demographics of this blog's readership i'd hazard a guess that getting off their arses to translate a comment isn't among their strong suits.

In conclusion, Ho Chi Minh: a) fuck off; and b) WTF?

Yours,

D C White.

P.S. Fuck off.

The President frowned as the aide walked into his office. "Well?" he barked. He liked barking at aides. Barking at aides wasa what being the President was all about, frankly, as far as he was concerned.
"S...sir," replied the aide, a small man in an ill-fitting brown suit, "NORAD have managed to track the radar contact, sir, and they've managed to extrapolate it's transit vectors both previous and future-"
"The friggin' what?" bawled the President, "I ain't got time for all this crap ya goddam fruit!"
"S...S...sorry sir. What I mean was, we think we know where it came from, and we're sure that we know where it is now."
The President leaned back in his chair and puffed on his cigar. "Better," he drawled, "Talk."
"We're fairly sure that it's an extra-terrestr...an alien craft, sir. We have several shots of it. It came from somewhere around the orbit of Jupiter."
"Hooooollllllleeeeeshit!" cried the President, jumping to his feet, "Aliens! Well, we ain't gonna have any of that Roswell Area 51 shit this time. Roll out the welcome mat, boys, and show the scaly green suckers in."
The aide looked doubtful. "Um, sir, they're not here."
"Not here? Where in the sam hill are they then?"
"Norad tracked them to a small island in the South Pacific," the aide said, "Home to the Umbutu tribe."
"Umbutu? Who the hell are they?"
"A small tribe of headhunters." The aide gulped.
"Headhunters?"
"Yes sir, headhunters. And," the aide paused, "cannibals."
The President nearly fell out of his chair. "Why the heck are they goin to a buncha cannibals?" he roared.
"We've got some sattelite imagery sir," the aide said, "and that's the bad news. THey appear to be swapping recipies."

Exciting Opportunity

I am available to assume monarchial duties in your country.

Yes, that is correct. If your country is currently lacking a titular head then you need look no further. All applications will be considered*.

As well as a commanding presence on the world stage and a prodigious sense of self-worth, installing me as your monarch will ensure that all ceremonial duties will now be more than adequately fulfilled with a minimum of fuss but a maximum of pomp and circumstance. Thanks to my background in the Public Service you may be assured that all duties of higher government will be carried out. I am able to supply my own monocle.

Applications may be sent via this website.

*No riff-raff. Yes, i'm looking at you, Iceland.

Bloody Hell

Last weekend I was over in Perth, in Western Australia, making the enity currently known as D C White into a transnational. I am now, indeed, nationwide.
Perth was quite good. I launched Scary Kisses (I had to sign autographs!) and generally had a ball. I took a trip to Fremantle which now brings the number of oceans I have immersed myself in to 3*.
As good as Perth was, however, strange things happened to me there. In the first instance I had a yiros (as is my wont) and while delicious I found it far too small for my tastes. I'm used to the sturdy, robust yiroses of Adelaide: thich as Popeye's forearm and with as much stopping power. While the ingredients in a Perth yiros (note: doner kebab) are identical to Adelaide, there are far less of them. The whole thing is about the same diameter as a Chiko Roll! And the pita bread was barely toasted. I found the whole experience deeply unsatisfying. So far, the official scorecard stands as follows:

1. Adelaide (Yiros)
2. Melbourne (Souvlaki)
3. Auckland (Kebab with *ahem* 'garlic yoghurt')
4. Perth (Doner Kebab)
5. Brisbane (Kebab)

Once this obstacle had been overcome I picked up a book in a Perth discount book store entitled "The Leather Nun and Other Incredibly Strange Comics". It is in essence a listing (with pictures) of some of the retarded crap people in the comics world have managed to publish in the last 100 years. My personal favorite however, is "Mr A". Written and drawn by Steve Ditko (ex-Stan Lee inker at Marvel), Mr A was born after Steve read Ayn Rand's "Atlas Shrugged" and decided that the world needed an Objectivist superhero. I've since looked this up and it's quite true. Not only that, but Ditko later produced a second, less trigger-happy Objectivist: The Question. Alan Moore has stated that Mr A was the inspiration for his Watchmen character Rorschach. Ditko has described Rorschach as "Mr A, but insane". Alan Moore has made no such concession.

*Southern, Pacific and Indian. So there.

Some Pretty Shameless Self-Promotion

Hot on the heels of the announcement that a story by yours truly is to be published in the upcoming anthology "Scary Kisses" comes the announcement that my other anthology, "People Of Few Words Vol. 2" is not available. This was published by the Short Humour Website and all proceeds go to Uganda, or something. it's available from lulu.com and much as i'm loath to admit it, all of the other stories in there are pretty good too. Humph.

Scary Kisses is being launched at Swancon (in Perth!) on Good Friday. I shall be present to sign autographs and generally working my new z-list celebrity status. This will be my first ever visit to Perth, so i've decided to go over Easter when everything's shut.

The History Of Stuff No. 9765

Rock and Roll.

13 billion years B.C.: The Big Bang (shortly followed by the Big Bopper)
200,000B.C.: Homo Erectus er, erects himself.
4004B.C.: Cliff Richard thinks the world begins.
3000 B.C. (morning): The first primitive stringed instruments are invented.
3000B.C. (lunchtime): The opening riff of "Stairway To Heaven" is first played.
0 A.D.: Neil Young born in a manger in Bethlehem.
1604 A.D.: Birth of the modern guitar (Andalusia, Spain).
1604 A.D.: World's first groupie (Andalusia, Spain).
1605 A.D. Syphylis invented (Andalusia, Spain).
1891 A.D.: Scott Joplin's "Piano Rags" published in sheet music form.
1893 A.D.: A young man is beaten to death at a Scott Joplin recital in Alameda, California, by members of an outlaw cavalry group hired by Joplin as security.
1899 A.D.: Keith Richards born in Vladivostok, Imperial Russia.
1921 A.D.: Hyman "Screamin' Mudguts" T Spunkfelcher, an itinerant musician in Mississippi, invents the blues when he sings about his political ambitions.
1929 A.D.: The Great Depression (Leonard Cohen is born).
1932 A.D.: Screamin' Mudguts Spunkfelcher develops Parkinsons; birth of Rythym and Blues.
1948 A.D.: Carl Perkins is ignored.
1953 A.D.: Elvis Presley is invented by the Lockheed-Martin Corporation at the notorious 'Skunk Works'.
1953 A.D.: Carl Perkins now relevant.
1955 A.D.: Chuck Berry begins rocking. Everyone else gives up for a while.
1963 A.D.: The Beatles hand Chuck his arse on a plate.
1965 A.D.: Neil Young, Richie Furay, Bruce Palmer and Steven Stills form Buffalo Springfield.
1969 A.D.: Woodstock; everyone billion-year-old carbon.
1970 A.D.: Wings.
1971 A.D.: Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young.
1976 A.D.: Cliff Richard releases Devil Woman. Also records song of same name.
1976 A.D.: Neil Young releases "Harvest". World momentarily ends.
1977 A.D.: William Shatner releases "Transformed Man".
1980 A.D.: John Lennon shot by Holden Caulfield.
1980-1990 A.D.: Absolutely nothing of note happens musically.
1991 A.D.: Frente release "Accidentally Kelly Street".
1992 A.D.: Grunge is born. People just start wearing any old tat.
1993 A.D.: Neil Young releases "Harvest Moon". Kurt Cobain decides not to kill himself just yet.
1994 A.D.: Neil Young releases "Sleeps With Angels". Kurt Cobain swallows a bullet.
2000 A.D.: Birth of Pseudo-emo-alt-rock/country fused with Ska.
2003 A.D.: iPods blow everyone's minds.

Cthulhus That Look Like Hitler

More Lolcthulhu!

Funny, That.

Have you ever noticed how the Great Unwashed keep away from anything even vaguely country & western* like it carries bubonic plague or something, but whenever something C&W hits the mainstream, like Firefly or Crazy Heart, everyone runs around falling over themselves to say how good it is.

Well guess what, world? There's plenty more where that came from! Open your eyes, stop being genre snobs and you might find a lot more that you like outside the goddam sqeaky clean mainstream you cling to like a bland, vanilla security blanket.

*Yes, i've heard that one quote from Blues Brothers about a billion times. Aren't you clever.

H P Lovecraft Had A Really Big Head

The title of this enblogulation may seem incorrect to those of you who have seen the several pictures currently doing the rounds on the internet purporting to be of H P Lovecraft. While it is true that these pictures DO show the idiosyncratic facial qualities of the author in question, they are an early example of trick photography.
H P Lovecraft was shunned by boys in his early years due to his massively enlarged cranium and strange, pervasive odour. The strange smell came from the turnip and sarsparilla poultice his mother made him wear constantly. This isolation from other boys (and the necessity to sleep on a pillow shaped like a piece of cheese) made him insular and bookish. This well-read boy would one day write some of the most astonishing fiction the world has ever known, but at a cost. As his fiction became more and more popular the media clamoured for more information about him. While his publishers released a short, modest brief at his behest he pleaded with them not to release details of his strange cranial gigantism or his ant farming fetish (at the time the urge to ant-farm was not understood as readily as today and was considered a form of low-grade witchcraft). However, the public's thirst for knowledge about their newly-crowned dark king did not abate, so H P was forced to engage the services of Mr Hyman T Spunkfelcher: a well-known photographer and vaudeville illusionist. Using all of the knowledge that his twin professions gave him Spunkfelcher was able to make a photograph in which Lovecraft's freakish head appeared seated on his shoulders quite in normal proportion.
Interestingly, the knowledge of 'perspective photography' was lost when Spunkfelcher unfortunately went missing off the coast of Innsmouth in 1923 and was only rediscovered late last century, in time for Peter Jackson to make Lord Of The Rings.

Superheroes Of Nashville

Johnny Cash: After snorting cocaine from the buttock-cleft of an irradiated groupie, this mild-mannered country singer began to discover superpowers he had not previously possessed. Simply by singing a song and accompanying himself on his trusty Gibson 6-string, Trigger, anyone within hearing distance was instantly compelled to obey. Henceforth, Johnny made a vow to make villains everywhere walk the line.

Kris Kristofferson: While driving his 18-wheeler with the rubber duck on the hood through the Nevada desert at midnight, Kris gave a ride to a strange female hitchhiker whom he subsequently rooted and who looked a bit like Ali McGraw. In exchange she granted him the boon of being able to shoot heat rays from his eyes. But was it a boon, or a curse? Sadly, though he has pursued her ghostly figure all over the highways of the world, Kris has never been able to catch her again.

Waylon Jennings: After giving up his seat on the American Pie to Richie Valens, Waylon begins to be plagued by voices of his dead comrades inside his head. He soon learns that now he has three guardian angels he can summon at will: Valens, Buddy Holly and The Big Bopper. He becomes the voiceover man for the Dukes Of Hazzard anyway.

Willie Nelson: When his tour bus accidentally catapulted itself off the side of a cliff, Willie Nelson was struck by lightning. For Willie the world stopped and he met with the Guardians of the Time-Sphere, who told him that he could not die, as he had important work to do. He awoke atop the cliff unharmed, but now when he becomes angry his ponytail grows to massive size and carries an electrical current strong as lightning. Willie learned to crack his ponytail like a whip, and his mission is to fight the enemies of the Time-Stream.

These four heroes work alone, amid the entertainment world by day and in the seamy, crime-ridden ghettos by night. However, occasionally they unite to become an evil-fighting force the like of which the world has never known*: They are The Highwaymen.

*Since Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young, but that's a whole OTHER story**.

**And Simon and Garfunkel and their time-travelling Kombi, for long-term readers.

Why I Eat SPAM

My love affair with the pork-based superfood, SPAM, began initially on the frozen tundra of the Siberian island of Novalya Zemla. I was location scouting there for a new movie I was planning, tentatively titled "Resink The Bismark!"when I discovered that enterprising snow foxes (bless 'em!) had crept into my camp late the night before and had decimated my store of food. Yes, they had only taken ten percent of the available total but the ninety percent of what was left consited solely of a job lot of a strange-looking tinned meat that I had been keeping until last due to the sinister overtones associated with the design on the cans.
As i looked at the cans I realised that there must have been something about them which had warded the snow foxes off. Gingerly I tore the top off of one can and slid the contents onto the cooking stove. By the time it was frying nicely and my mouth was beginning to water there came a cry from outside the tent. I froze. It was the unmistakeable cry of the polar bear! Hurriedly I looked around for a weapon but I had foolishly used my M40 carbine in plaace of one of the tent posts when setting up camp. I realised with mounting horror that the only weaponish object in the whole of Novalya Zemla right now was the frying pan upon which the SPAM sizzled.
I had not a moment to waste. Like a man possessed I crammed the spiced ham product into my gullet as outside the polar bear cries became more and more insistant.
As soon as the SPAM had been eaten, however, I underwent an epiphany. I have never been a heroic man, but now I strode forth through the tent-flap and calmly faced the beast. It's huge white, rippling bulk meant nothing to me as I belted it straight between the eyes. It crumpled to the icy ground, stunned, and I was able to break camp and leave it to be devoured alive by snow foxes in peace. As I left the icy Russian waste in my space-capable helicopter I wondered at the source of my instant courage. I glanced across at the co-pilot's seat and saw, through the open flap of my trusty old rucksack, the tins of SPAM therein, and I knew.
I achieved orbital insertion and waited while the good work of Sir Isaac Newton took me back to Australia, all the while thanking my lucky stars that i'd bought that itinerant Russian's food parcel and not his sister as he had intended. While I find it hard to condone cannibalism at the best of times I doubt that even she, wiry and strong-hipped as he had advertised, would have been of as much use to me as that small tin of luncheon meat.
And that's why I eat SPAM.

More Random Doobings

"God damn it!" declared Captain Doobie forcefully as he entered the loungeroom.
Goodtime Slim looked up from his Big Book For Important People**.
"I beg your pardon?" he said, mildly miffed at the sudden intrusion.
"I was at the shops just now and I heard the Beatles singing 'I Wanna Hold Your Hand' and now i've got it stuck in my head."
Goodtime Slim nodded. "Ah," he said, "that old chestnut. You have my sympathies."
He had just settled down to his book again when Captain Doobie, whom he had thought was finished, started talking again. Captain Doobie did this a lot.
"It's true what they say, you know," Captain Doobie said.
"It usually is," replied Goodtime Slim, "what in particular do they say in this instance?"
Captain Doobie's brow grew dark and he crossed himself. Leaning in close to Goodtime Slim he said in a voice that was little more than a whisper, "They say that John Lennon made a deal with the devil himself. They say that he stood at a crossroads at midnight on Hallowe'en and sold Old Scratch his soul in exchange for being able to play the blues."
Despite his housemate's best efforts to make the world a scarier place Goodtime Slim remained deadpan. "No," he told Captain Doobie, "he didn't."
"He did!"
"No he didn't. You're getting him confused with that other bloke. Robert Jordan."
This gave Captain Doobie pause for thought. "Robert Jordan? "
"Yes."
"Are you telling me that the author of the Wheel of Time series was the world's best blues guitarist?"
"Yes."
"I'm glad," said Captain Doobie, "because his books were shit."

*By which I mean more of the random doobings, not doobings that are any more random than normal.
** Atlas Shrugged, by Ayn Rand.

Random Doobings

The plane hadn't even taken off yet and already Captain Doobie was bored. He'd spent the first few minutes fiddling with the barf bags and the 'complimentary'* magazines, and in a rather worrying move was now investigating the underseat storage space. Goodtime Slim buried his nose in whatever airport book he'd been able to buy with a picture of an exploding airliner on it, did his best to ignore him.
It didn't work. Next to him Captain Doobie sat up again, triumphantly clutching a life-jacket.
"Put it away!" hissed Goodtime Slim in alarm, hurriedly looking around for the Stewardesses he felt sure would be approaching like a proverbial yet horizontal ton of bricks.
"Pig's arse," replied Captain Doobie, "I want to find out how to inflate it."
In desperation Goodtime Slim grabbed the life jacket and threw it over the seat in front of him, where it landed around the neck of a small child who subsequently thought it was Christmas.
"Let it go," Goodtime Slim told Captain Doobie in a stern voice, "You're not to touch anything for the rest of the trip, is that clear?"
"You know what your trouble is?" cried Captain Doobie, "You're anally retentive."
Goodtime Slim considered this. "What does that mean then?" he asked.
Captain Doobie had not expected this. "Um," he declared, "Well, it means that you, er, retain your...bum."
"Oh," said Goodtime Slim, "right. That's a bad thing, is it? Only I notice that you've still got yours and all."
"You don't understand," Captain Doobie yelled, "It's an insult!"
"No it isn't. It's not like people's bums just fall off all the time and the nasty people pick them up and put them in a green bag** while all the cool people just walk around with their large intestine hanging out."
"Look, it is an insult. Just live with it."
Goodtime Slim wasn't having with any of that. "I agree that normally anything mentioning bums is an insult. If you had told me, for instance, that I had a face like a smacked arse, then i'd be properly insulted, mainly because I don't but also because the first ever English usage of it occurred in an Enid Blyton book ***, and when you've been insulted by Enid Blyton you've been insulted fullstop. But this nonsense about being anally retentive doesn't seem to cut the mustard. Dick."
There was silence on the plane, or at least it was as quiet as you could reasonably expect on a plane full of bogans, business executives and stewardesses hurrying to extricate a child who had discovered how to inflate a life jacket.

*Anything that claims to be complimentary yet requires you to pay $100 to recieve it, isn't.
** People outside of SA shouldn't even ask about this one.
*** And it bloody well did, too. One of the Amelia Jane Adventures, if memory serves.

Signs That I Am Getting Old.

I did want to write just the one post today but then I thought of another so i'll do both.

1. I Hate Bridgestone.
I came home from work today to discover a leaflet in my letterbox advertising "Back To School Deals With Bridgestone". I don't have children, but i'm fairly sure that the current SA school curriculum does not require them to bring their own tyres. I am willing to stretch to the idea that if people weren't quite so litigious the school might want a tyre-swing for the playground, but even then i'm fairly sure that Bridgestone could work something out with the schools directly instead of sending me the leaflet.

2. It Doesn't Feel Like Ten Years.
I just realised that it's now more than ten years since "Star Wars: The Phantom Menace" was released. It's never been the strongest movie in the series but it's better than "Attack Of The Clones" and even dare I say, "Return Of The Jedi". Yes, i'll see your Jar-jar and raise you an Ewok or two. At least the bloody Gungans didn't sing.
I will admit that in recent years my attitude towards 'Episode 1' has softened. It's not as visceral as Eps 4, 5, and 6; it doesn't grab you quite as much, but I do now get off on seeing the ships and the droids and Qui-Gon Jinn CUTTING THROUGH A BLAST DOOR WITH A LIGHTSABER. Yes, the villains could have been more evil and had proper entrances like Darth Vader at the start of Ep 4, there should have been a Han Soloesque character (scoundrel) in there somewhere and I could have done without the stupid NASCAR-style podrace, but I still enjoy watching it every now and again. It's still visually stunning in a way that, say, Avatar will never be. It still draws me into the story. It's still fun. I refuse to apologise for liking it.

In Which I Get Mah Deutsch On.

It's halfway through January and it's 42 degrees in the shade, so it must be time for Schutzenfest, the largest German festival that's not actually in Germany.
Many people in Adelaide deride the Schutzenfest as being merely an excuse to buy really big steins of lagerbier and get astoundingly drunk, but there's many more facets to it than that. There's cakes, for a start, and air-rifle shooting, and lashings of Aussie Cider. It's the one weekend of the year that you can wear a truly awful hat in public and say the words 'pretzel wench' with feeling. And what's more, you'll probably end up with a pretzel.
It's also the only place in Adelaide where you can reliably buy German-language CDs. Apart from the sublime tones of Zillertaler Schurzenjager, last year I found Germany's answer to Status Quo: a band called 'Normaal'. This year I picked up a live CD of 'De Dijk', who have a damn fine brass section, if I may say.
So there you have it. Schutzenfest: an Adelaide institution of dubious morals and even more dubious musical tastes. Long may it run.

Australian Fiction

Last week while jonesing for more secondhand books that I don't need I stumbled across a three-book volume by an Australian author called Ion Idriess. Ion was an author in the 1930s, 40s and 50s and was one of the bestselling authors of his day. I have a non-fiction book of his about diamonds (Stone of Destiny) and so I decided to pick up the set, which contained the books 'Silver City', 'Lightning Ridge' and 'The Desert Column'.
'Silver City' recounts the author's childhood in north-western New South Wales in the 1890s, culminating in his family's settlement at Broken Hill after the big lode was discovered. 'Lightning Ridge' picks up the story when Ion is old enough to go roving and heads to the opal-fields to become a 'gouger', or opal-miner. 'The Desert Column' is set several years later and recounts the author's experiences at Gallipoli and in the Palestine Campaign of WW1.
While I have struggled to read colonial fiction before (the sadistic 'For The Term Of His Natural Life' and the excrable 'Robbery Under Arms' being cases in point) Ion's work proved very different. I devoured the three volumes in a matter of days. I liked it so much that I decided to read Xavier Herbert's 'Capricornia' as soon as I could find a copy.
What was it about Idriess that struck a chord? The reality. There was no "beauty of the bush" arty soliloquising, and no overdone "we're all white Irish slaves banished to a life of the lash" moaning. It was a simple story told in simple language and, thank Hubbard, the words 'crikey' and 'strewth' do not appear anywhere. My previous excursions into Australian 'literature' had convinced me that unless your main character spoke like Alf Stewart then you just ain't got it, kid.
I'm actively on the hunt for more of Idriess' work now, particularly his major work 'Flynn Of The Inland' but also 'Nullabor Crossing', in which he proves that the Nullabor can be crossed in a tiny post-war Peugeot.
All in all, thank you Mr Idriess for restoring my faith in Australia historical fiction. It was looking a bit bullshit there for a while.

Aparrently I'm Big In Asia

Then again, when you drink as much beer as I do, you're pretty much big everywhere.

An Open Letter To Clive Cussler

Dear Mr Cussler,

While I'll admit that I stayed away from your books for many years because I didn't want to be seen reading the same books that my dad reads, I got into them a while ago and enjoy them immensely. There is, however, only one problem.
Recently I read 'Valhalla Rising' in which I was introduced to Dirk's son and Daughter, Dirk Jr and Summer, who were apparently gestating inside their mother (Summer Moran) after Dirk shagged her then left her to die in a subterranean underwater cave-in way back in the events of 'Pacific Vortex!' While she was thought dead it turns out that she survived, was washed to shore and lived to give birth to the two non-identical twins mentioned above.
The problem is, Mr Cussler, that I've just read 'Pacific Vortex!', having tracked it down in my local secondhand book exchange, and Dirk and Summer NEVER SLEEP TOGETHER. Every meeting we see it all in real-time, so there's no point at which they could have nipped out for a quick knee-trembler without mentioning it in the narrative.
Please explain.

Yours,

D C White

P.S. Can we see a return to the use of exclamation marks in the titles? They were cool.

A Trivial Pursuit

Ladies and gentlemen, please find below a hitherto unknown and unreported cornucopia of facts recently discovered behind the radiator in the original offices of the Encyclopedia Brittanica. These were uncovered during a routine tea-drainage check of the premises at Dickenspot Lane and appear to predate the original compilation of the encyclopedia in the 19th century.

Necks: The longest known neck in the animal kingdom is that of the cameleopard. The author recommends the use of .50 calibre rounds.

Speed, Aquatae: The fastest recorded mammalian (air-breathing) speed is displayed by the Capybaras rodent of the Spanish Americas. The author recommends the use of a Benchley & ffyfe breech-loading smoothbore scatter-ball rifle.

Wingspan: The largest wingspan ever recorded belongs to the Greater Southern Albatross, known to frequent the frozen wastes to the south of Van Diemen's Land. The author recommends .357 rimfire rounds in use with a repeating rifle.

Sloth: The laziest form of life in the animal kingdom is the Irishman. The author recommends use of hollow-point ammunition from .32 to .577 (service revolver) calibre.

Something Something Something Bullshit

I like Family Guy. I like the Star Wars movies. Ergo, when 'Blue Harvest' was released I was ecstatic with joy. Likewise, when Dec 23rd rolled around I couldn't wait to head to JB Hi Fi on my lunch break and pick up the second installment, 'Something Something Something Darkside'.
I needn't have bothered. While I have only seen a few episodes from the latest season of FG, from what I see in this movie there's been some shark-jumping going on in a major way.
Family Guy has always pushed boundaries: that's why I love it. But until now they've always used the crudities they use in very witty ways. In BH, for example, when Darth Stewie starts making diaper jokes then magically pulls out a list and says 'I could go on, i've got hundreds of these', that's funny and a great moment. By contrast the moment in SSSD when Stewie starts doing 'Darth farts' is just crass, and far less funny. There are some good gags, don't get me wrong, but on the whole it not only feels forced, it feels MEAN, like the writers really wanted to stick it to everyone in a major way. It really made me feel like I was watching some dickhead rant about how much he hates Empire and pointing out all of the plot holes. There are constant cheap digs at gays, blacks, gays, hispanics and gays. Did I mention there are a LOT of gay 'jokes'? The whole thing goes just way too far. I can put up with watching jokes about race and sexuality when they're witty and good-natured, but this was simply too juvenile and unnecessarily harsh and as such, unfunny.
It's a pity. BH was fantastic. What the hell happened?????

2012: A Review

When I first heard that "2012" was coming out I was very excited and couldn't wait to see it. However, now that I have seen it i'm sorry to say that the naming convention is almost the only thing that connects this movie with the first two in the fanchise, "2001: A Space Odyssey" and "2010: The Year We Make Contact".
Initially it looked good, opening with some nice shots of the sun and Saturn, and I thought we were going to see a repeat of the end of "2010" when Saturn gets turned into a second sun. However, it appears that this has now been retconned, and the power of our original sun has just been increased, with some rather disastrous results for the Earth I must say!
Most disappointingly there is no HAL, no monoliths and no space travel. There's barely even any Heywood Floyd, but when he does show up at the end he's played by the original Nite Owl and is now the captain of a boat. Odd.
I simply didn't see the reason for this sequel as it just seems tacked-on to the series, particularly when you consider that there's a perfectly good Arthur C Clarke-written sequel in "2063: Odyssey Three".
Oliver Platt was good though, as always.

In Which I Behave In The Manner Of A Character From A Charles Dickens Novel

Today I officially entered the 19th century, as I made use of the services of a Cobbler for the first time. As I have now started work at a job that requires nice shiny shoes, my old boots looked a bit shabby. I polished them and found that the leather is still really good but the heels had worn down. Unwilling as I am to throw some otherwise perfectly good (and expensive!) boots in the bin, I hunted down a strange and wizened Cobbler by the name of Mr Minit, who NAILED some new heel pads on. How cool is that? I now have hob-nailed boots.

I am not a Dustman, however, because I fail to refer to them as 'daisy roots'.

That is all.

This Is Just Plain Cool

As an amateur gemmologist with delusions of grandeur I was poking about on the PIRSA (that's Primary Industries and Resources of South Australia to you) website looking for new fossicking grounds, and I found this:

http://outernode.pir.sa.gov.au/minerals/earthquakes/recent_earthquakes_in_sa

How cool is that? I know that SA is fairly unstable (heh heh, I live 5 houses down from the Darlington Fault Line) but I had no idea that SA experienced shocks and tremors with this sort of regularity.

A Message From Our Sponsor.

sniffIMPERTINENCE

Hyundai Announces Production In Alabama.

Pyongyang: Ginormous Automotive Chaebol Hyundai have opened a new production facility in Birmingham, Alabama, and have promised that the move will not inhibit the lack-of-quality for which the brand is reknowned.
"This is a very exciting move for us," announced Hyundai spokesman Yay Wee Suk at a news conference, "Until now, consumers unhappy with their purchase have always been able to be given the standard excuse 'What did you expect? It's made in Korea'. However, recent advances in education and standard of living in Korea have now made this excuse untenable. Now, when a consumer drives down the road and his or her door falls off and their seat explodes they will be told with a shrug and an embarrassed grin 'Well, it is made in Alabama...'. This should solve a great many problems."
Consumer groups have welcomed the move, with automotive lobby group the Ku Klux Klan embracing wholeheartedly the return of profitable industry with low expectations. "Toyota din't like the way we'all did things 'round hyar," Klansman Hyman T Spunkfelcher III reported, "They came in hyar wit all they highfalutin' idees bout sheeit actually workin'. But these here Hyundai fellers, I seen the kinda crapola they'all want, an I think we'all kin work together, us and they'all, even if'n they is a bunch o'commies.
In light of Hyundai's announcement local Australian manufacturers Holden and Ford re-eiterated their commitment to continue to build at Elizabeth and Geelong.

Random Doobings

Goodtime Slim pulled the binoculars from his eyes only with extreme reluctance. "Oh my g'quan," he breathed slowly.
Next to him Captain Doobie sat peering out of the front window, but without the benefit of any form of visual augmentation he was at a loss to know what would cause such a reaction.
"What?" he asked Goodtime Slim, "What is it? What do you see?"
To Captain Doobie's consternation his housemate merely shook his head. "I can't tell you," he replied, "You wouldn't believe it."
Captain Doobie, who was even more prone to irrational belief than an Electric Monk, was nonplussed. "I might," he challenged.
"No, really, you wouldn't."
Captain Doobie was hurt, as this was his reputation on the line. "I would!" he cried, "remember that time that I accidentally superglued myself to the TV and ended up believing that the guy on the Flight Centre ads was a real pilot for a whole week?"
Goodtime Slim nodded sagely. That had been a bad week all round. "I'm sorry," he said, "but you just wouldn't believe it. The Flight Centre guy was nothing compared to this. The Honey-Making Powers of Wasps was nothing compared to this. The time I got you to believe that Jeremy Clarkson was the new British Prime Minister was nothing compared to this. If I were to tell you what i've just seen you'd spend so muct brain-power trying to believe it that your brain would simply explode and i'd get muck on my lapel."
"Lapels," supplied Captain Doobie, indicating that Goodtime Slim did indeed have a plurality of lapels on his person at this time.
"Lapel," repeated his housemate, indicating that his use of the singular implied that one would be all that was necessary in this instance.
Captain Doobie's mood had plummeted from 'curious' to 'high-dudgeon'. "So you're not going to tell me?" he grumbled.
"No."
In reply Captain Doobie booted Goodtime Slim really quite hard in the arse. His housemate flew forwards over the Occasional Table, banged his head on a doily and went down for the count. In triumph Captain Doobie grabbed the discarded binoculars and looked through them, hurriedly fiddling with the little focussing thingie in the middle of the bendy bit.
"Oh my g'quan," he breathed, "I don't believe it."

You Might Be A Fascist Dictator if...

1. You wear peaked caps and aviator sunglasses with a regularity above that which is currently considered excessive.
2. Bono organises charity concerts for your population whilst never actually setting foot in your country.
3. You own at last one gold-plated firearm.
4. The official currency of your country is unknown.
5. Dirk Pitt has killed you at least once.
6. Your first name is also a military rank.
7. There exists a preponderance of statues of yourself in your country.
8. You have released a book which every single person in your country has bought.
9. You own some form of Citroen.
10. You look good in Khaki.

It's A Thanksgivin' Hootenanny!

Today is the American holiday of Thanksgiving, so if you're wondering why all of your favorite websites haven't been updated in the middle of the week, that'll be why.
But what, really, is thanksgiving? As a holiday, it can be hard for those portions of the world who aren't America* to comprehend a holiday that doesn't involve the birth/death of a deity or monarch/despot, or a horse race. This shouldn't be a stumbling block, as Thanksgiving is really quite easy to get your head around. All it requires is a little knowledge of American history, like what I have got.

Thanksgiving: In the Olden Days some people from Europe with funny hats discovered America. Though many people with funny hats had discovered it beforehand (Phoencians, Egyptians, Romans, Vikings, Basques and the Irish) they didn't count. The native Americans, or Injuns, did not appreciate the intrusion and tried to Sioux them, but their hats were only made of feathers so this didn't count. As the native Americans were displaced by the new native Americans they began to have reservations. Unfortunately the new native Americans had even bigger hats by then and they all got shot by John Wayne. Four-score and seven years ago everyone started driving Cadillacs and were pretty happy, so they decided to give thanks by walking on the moon. They asked George Washington to have a lie down and he chopped down a cherry tree with Abraham Lincoln. That is why every November they carve shit into pumpkins.

*Basically, the Communists and the British Empire.

On Pulp

I love pulp fiction. I recently read Raymond Chandler's "The Big Sleep", and my literary horizons have been astoundingly increased by the discovery of Robert E Howard's "Conan" stories (not to mention Solomon Kane and Sailor Steve Costigan). The only problem is of course that the Golden Age of Pulp is well behind us. I still pick up Asimovs' Magazine when I see it, and I've read my was through a few of the paperback westerns from the newsagents, but otherwise i've had to rely on comics to give me that good old short-story, punchy plot, hard-edged fiction that I crave.
However (and I guess you've been thinking since the start that there was always going to be a 'however' coming up somewhere) today I found in my local newsagents a small a5 chapbook (some a4 sheets stapled on the fold line) of about 60 pages or so. It was called "After The World: Killable Hours", and across the top of the cover was emblazoned the motto 'All-New Australian Pulp'.
I bought a copy. It turned out to be quite a well-written piece about the inevitable zombpocalypse* occurring in Melbourne, and a young lawyer who gets caught up in it all. I'm quite taken with it, and from the looks of things it's going to be the first in a series novellas all set in the same universe, but otherwise not linked. There's no word yet on when the next installments will be out, but if it follows the procedure set out by Black House's earlier release "The Dark Detective" comics it should appear monthly.
It only cost me $5, it's a good story and it's a change to help both Australian writers and a new Australian publishing company. I can't think of anything more worthwhile to get behind.

*yes, its a word.

Crikey O'Trousers

Bloody hell. It's been longer than simply ages since I updated this rotten thing. You'd think I were dead or something, judging from the smell. So, long story short, there is no story. I'm just here because i'm feeling guilty about not supplying my legions of fan with any new material, and thus am forced to do one of those tricky (and slightly nauseating) actual blog posts about life. My life, to be precise, because I can't think of anyone else's worth a damn at the moment.
So, to recap the events of the last few weeks:
Stories published: 3. Surprisingly good, if I say so myself. Harper-Collins may not be beating a path to my door, but other people are. Two stories being published in a South Australian crime anthology (despite one being set in rural Pomgolia and the other in Paris, Frograq); and one being published in an English humour anthology (despite being set in Straya). Go figure.
Competitions won: Sort-of, a bit. I ended up coming second in this year's Burnside Literary Awards for a story about Robin Hood. This marked my first attempt at writing something arty-farty in order to please judges and it worked a fair-to-middling treat. The fact that it was peer-judged by Malcolm Walker (of The Stone Crown fame and all-round jolly nice chap) was a pleasant bonus.
Novels published: 0. A dissapointment on this score. However, the relentlessly-commercial "Shannon Stone" vampire opus is currently being read by Curtis Brown, and hope springs eternal. I saw a pig flying the other day, so it all bodes well.

A Public Service Announcement

Due to poor planning Movember has been shifted into early 2010, where this time it will be known as Mobruary. Thank you.

Landaulet Country

Being the noble tale of Edward of King's Wood.

Chapter the First, in which Edward returns home;

Yoo-hoo, i'm home - How was your day - bloody shambles of course - oh dear, what has happened now - where's me paper - in the loungeroom - oh.

Chapter the Second, in which visitors arrive;

Heydy-hody everybody, here comes the party - it's Bob - shutup Bob - and Merle.

Chapter the Third; in which a man of Continental descent is addressed;

Buonjiorno wog - yeah yeah sure Ted - did you park your Valiant in the driveway - can I have a beer - money on the fridge wog.

Chapter the Forth; in which miscellaneous catchphrases are utilised;

Pickle me grandmother - ha ha Miss Smarty-emu-drawers - here we go again (too right we go again) - The Kingswood - You're not taking the Kingswood - grubby little Datsun dealer.

Ruddy Heck, That's Torn It

Well, its been a while between drinks, but today I got the news that another of my short stories is being published. In recent months i've been a contributor to the Short Humour site (www.short-humour.org.uk) and they've just emailed me to say that they're publishing a second compilation of articles from the website (following on from their rather successful 'People Of Few Words' compilation) and they want one of my pieces in it! Naturally I jumped at the chance. I don't know when it will be released yet, but i'm sure i'll find out more details soon.

Things I Think About When I Should Be Working #45

Oka, so i'm in line to shake hands with the Queen right, only when she gets to me I get the great idea to high-five her instead so I shout, "Hey little Queenie, make with the slappy!" and she's all into it and does, but it's only then that I suddenly realise i'm an amputee and my arm's gone at the elbow and the Queen's got nothing to slap so her momentum carries her over the edge of this big abyss that I totally forgot I was standing in front of and she just falls and falls and then explodes like Emperor Palpatine, all blue and shit.

Thoughts On The Earth Sciences

Because i've been a collector of gemstones and a keen amateur lapidary for several years now, i've found myself drawn in the last few months to the meetings of the Field Geology Club of SA. In order to keep up I recently purchased an excellent book, "The Amateur Geologist" by Peter Cattermole. As illuminating as this book is it is the rear of the dust cover which has caused this enblogulation. On the back of the book it lists other books in the series, such as 'Amateur Astronomy', 'Naked-Eye Astronomy' and perhaps most intriguing of all 'The Practical Amateur Astronomer'.

This last book by its very existence posits the existence of the Impractical Amateur Astronomer. But what are the hallmarks of the impractical astronomer? Are they:
1. Blind
2. Allergic to telescopes
3. More than two connecting buses away from the nearest observatory
4. On fire
5. Werewolves

I include this last observation because the thing with werewolves has always been that they 'turn' when the moon is full, i.e. when the most light is being reflected from the lunar surface. It seems to me that if they were looking through a telescope at the moons of Saturn (for the purposes of example) they'd be getting a great deal of moonlight beamed straight into their eye. And that can't be good, really. Everyone else would get eaten, and that's not terribly practical at all.

I Failed To Buy A Book Today

Lest the above title appear extraneous, let me explain. Not only did I set out to buy a book today and not do so, but the circumstances in which this occurred caused me acute discomfort and embarrassment.

This evening I went late-night shopping, as is my wont of a Thursday. In particular I was looking for a new pair of shoes, but that's by-the-by. When I reached the shopping centre I decided to pop over to the secondhand bookshop and pick up a cheap, fun paperback to read whilst eating my planned yiros.
It was not to be. In the bookshop the minutes lengthened to quarter-hours as I, spoilt for choice, agonised over my decision. After half an hour I had an epiphany of sorts, and I looked at my behaviour through the cold, sterile eye of reason. Here I was, a man of not inconsiderable means, agonising between Harry Harrison's "Montezuma's Revenge" and a box set of 4 of Richard Gordon's "Doctor" books. Both of these items were retailing for the princely sum of 50 cents.
I felt disgusted at my own inanity. I put both books down and left the shop, returning instead to the car where I retrieved my copy of Clive Cussler's "Black Wind", which I read over dinner instead. My chagrin pervaded the rest of the evening and may have influenced my subsequent decision to buy a pair of purple/white gingham Dunlop Volleys.

Magnum!!!!

That's Leslie Goddam Phillips To You.

For those of you who have no idea who this is in this picture here, it's none other than Leslie Phillips, star of Doctor In The House, Doctor At Sea, Not Now Darling and many other fine British comedies no-one under sixty has ever heard of.

Bunch of philistines.

Enough With The Goddam Literary Crapola Already

This afternoon whilst out shopping for cravats I espied the latest release in what appears to be a series now by Quirk Classics. Yes, "Pride and Prejudice and Zombies" now has a stablemate: "Sense and Sensibility and Sea Creatures".
Which will tank. And i'm going to sit back and watch. For I well remember the heady days of this last autumn gone by when breath was held by all (yours truly included) in anticipation of the release of PPZ, and I remember even more the realisation ten minutes after buying it that i'd just wasted twenty-five smackers on a slightly-polished turd.

There were three phases associated with reading PPZ:
1. Real, actual laughter. This soon morphed into;
2. An appreciation of the cleverness of the concept, which in turn became;
3. "This is just one joke repeated over and over. I'm only ten pages in and I want to bin it. It's not funny any more and i'm so bored I could eat my own earwax."*

I don't often give up on books but I did on this. I've already read Pride and Prejudice, and I don't need to self-flaggelate by reading a dismal half-parody. I suppose a sequel was inevitable given PPZ's runaway (and quite unexpected) success but I can't help but think that the publishers have got their market research all wrong. A lot of people bought PPZ but not many finished it, and most people got pretty cheezed off with the whole concept. So my hopes aren't high for the success of SSSC. I might eventually buy it for the novelty of having it on my shelf, but only in a few months when it's out for $5.

*And we all know how horrid that tastes, right kids?

They were all there, gathered around the table. Madam Blavatsky, Pierre Medellin, Guru Shwami, all had come in response to the summons they had recieved.
Davenport Rockefeller, last scion of the Long Island Rockefellers, gazed cooly at each of them in turn while he chewed on his ever-present cigar. "Thank y'all for comin', " he drawled around the cheroot, "y'all know why your here, don'cha?"
Medellin was the first to talk. "You believe the house to be haunted," he replied in his exquisite Parisian accent.
"Darn tootin'!" Rockefeller replied, "and y'all is gonna help me. The feller that owned this house died right here, an' you folks are gonna help me talk to him, kapish?"
Medellin fingered his natty moustache. "That should be no problem," he replied.
Madame Blavatsky nodded, her fat jowls cascading with the rythym. "Mere child's play," she said in a lofty tone, "hardly worth our time."
"Bullpucky!" Rockefeller cried, "Listen lady, I didn't haul your fat Ruskie fanny halfway around the world to listen to you yap." He sized the three mystics up with an appraising eye. "I ain't got time for this shit," he declared, "damn well git on with it."
On with it they got. All three sat around the small occasional table, hands linked. They began to chant, softly at first and then louder, with greater intensity, until with a roar that sounded like thunder their heads snapped back with mouths open, an eerie blue light cascaring from their open mouths. From their mouths also poured steam, a heavy mist redolent of sulphur and decay. As Rockefeller watched the mist coalesced into the cruel, thin visage of a man cruelly pulled back from the very abyss of death itself.
"What do you want, Davenport?" the apparition sneered, "I had little enough time for you in life, what makes you think I have any more for you in death?"
"I moved into your old house in Boston."
The ghostly face seemed surprised. "Lake Street?"
"Fifth and Main."
"Oh, the Lloyd-Wright."
"Yeah, and I got a question."
The face nodded. "Ask what you will. You have summoned me, and I will answer."
Rockefeller smiled. "Good," he said, "What the hell is up with the hot tap in the upstairs latrine?"
"Turn it on and off quickly, then slowly turn it on again. It always was a bugger for banging."
"Thanks, buddy, i'll try that. Say, while you're here, what are those trees out back? I asked the gardener but he says he can't recall when they went in."
"Dutch elms," replied the face, "They'll need pruning in autumn and a good mulching in the early spring."
"Hot dog, thanks a bunch. You're a pal."
"Anytime," the face said, "was there anything else?"
Rockefeller thought for a moment, then snapped his fingers. "Boy, i'll say, I plum forgot. When's bin day?"
"Thursday," the head intoned gravely, "Friday if there was a holiday Monday."

Day Without Cats

The creative team behind The Impertinence Of It All would like to state for the record that although this blog has never shown any cat-related content, they would like the organisers of the infamous 'Day Without Cats' to take that fucker of an idea and ram it where the sun don't shine.

Repeatedly.

We now return you to your scheduled programming.

List No. 459

People I have Heard Of Who Have Freaky Doubled-up Names.

1. Boutros-Boutros Ghali, Former Secretary-General of the United Nations.
2. Robby Robby Roenfeldt, former host, "C'mon Kids" (Formerly former host of "The Channel Niners").
3. Dee Dee Bridgewater, Jazz Musician.
4. Kris Kristofferson, legend*.

*The legend of Kris Kristofferson has yet to be verified. Despite a personal eyewitness sighting by the author in Melbourne, the Government of the United States of America still will neither confirm nor deny the existence of Kris Kristofferson to the public at large.

I Can Haz Nyalarhotep?

Horse Noises

Viking Rock

Today my iPod lists a new genre of music: Viking Rock. I was previously unaware of this genre, having only made it up this afternoon. However, once I had made it up I discovered that there were several examples of it which had been extant since the early 1970s.
Viking Rock is just as it sounds: rock music by, for, or mainly concerning Vikings: those Scandinavian sea-pillagers of yore. Actually when I think about it they weren't really sea pillagers as they only pillaged land. Perhaps I should say via-sea pillagers just to take the curse off it.
Anyway, rather than bore you with etymology, as fascinating as it is to me and the International Society of Pedants, here are some sterling examples of Viking Rock:

'Immigrant Song', Led Zeppelin
'Cold Wind To Valhalla', Jethro Tull
'Lady In Black', Uriah Heep
Everything ever written, performed or recorded by 'Saxon'.

Doctor What and the Pot Noodles, by Terrance’s Dick.

“Sir! Sir!” The young UNIT soldier came crashing through the door.
Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart looked up from some random paperwork on his big important desk and ruffled his otherwise-impeccable moustache. “What is it man?”
“Brigadier, sir, you asked to be told instantly the moment that anything strange happened,” the young soldier answered.
“Yes, I remember,” mused Lethbridge-Stewart, “Well, what of it?”
“Sir,” continued the soldier, “there’s…there’s…there’s Pot Noodles™ in the vending machine.”
The Brigadier had seen many things in his time but at this his blood ran cold. “Great Scott!” he cried, “Has anyone told The Doctor?”
“No sir,” said the soldier, “I thought it best to come straight to you.”
“Good man,” agreed the Brigadier, “but I expect he’ll want to know immediately. Come on.” Pausing only to grab his special Brigadier’s hat he swept out of the office and into Unit HQ.

Looking for all the world like an old police box, the familiar shape of the TARDIS stood in the corner of UNIT’s main Hangar One, where it had stood more or less ever since the Doctor’s enforced sojourn on Earth had begun. Stepping forward the Brigadier rapped smartly on the door.
It was answered by a complete stranger who for all the world appeared to be Peter Cushing. “Can I help you?” he asked the Brigadier.
“Who the heck are you, and where is the Doctor?” demanded Lethbridge-Stewart.
“He’s on holiday,” replied the Peter Cushing lookalike in a pleasant tone, “I’m a locum. My name is Doctor What.”
“What?”
“Yes,” beamed the Doctor, “That’s right.”
Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart hadn’t risen through the ranks to command the finest UN-based anti-alien brigade in the BBC by being slow on the uptake. “Holiday, eh?”
“Yes. Skegness, I think. Or Weng Chiang’s house. One of the two. Now, did you want anything in particular? Lethbridge-Stewart, isn’t it?”
The Brigadier would have been pleased that his reputation preceeded him had he not caught this new Doctor peeking at a “Jane’s All The World’s Moustaches” behind the TARDIS door.
“That’s right,” he replied, “and I’m here on official business. Something strange has cropped up and we thought you should know about it. Something in this very base.”
“Hmm.” The Doctor frowned, “You’d better show me.” As he stepped out of the TARDIS the Brigadier could not help but notice that he was followed by what appeared to be a robotic duck.
“What is that?” he asked coldly.
“That is Quark,” replied the Doctor, “Is there a problem?”
The Brigadier frowned. “The other one usually has a dog.”
“I know. I wanted that but he was ahead of me in the line. I got old Quark here, and a jolly fine robotic duck he’s turned out to be I must say.”
The Brigadier mulled this over. “Quite,” he said, “Maybe I could borrow him someday?”
“I don’t know that I could spare all of him,” the Doctor frowned, “but I could always send you the bill.”
On this note it was decided that time was a-wasting and that the world in general would be better served if they went and had a look at the vending machine.

“Hmm,” said the Doctor in a tone that didn’t really inspire confidence, “yes, I see what you mean. Very mysterious.”
“It certainly is,” agreed the Brigadier, “Pot Noodles don’t belong in a vending machine! Good god, this isn’t Japan for heaven’s sake!”
There was a longish pause.
“Well?” asked the Brigadier.
“Well what?”
“What do you think it is?”
The Doctor looked a bit blank. “Oh,” he said, “Um, well, could be anything really.”
Behind his back the Brigadier felt his hands clench. “Would you care to take a guess anyway?” he said through gritted teeth.
The Doctor appeared to pick up on the way the wind was blowing. “Right,” he told the Brigadier, “Well, let’s see. It could be…I don’t know…the Zarbi?”
The Brigadiergot the distinct impression that this had just been pulled straight out of the Doctor’s arse.
“The Zarbi,” he said flatly.
“Yes,” replied the Doctor, beaming absently, “classic Zarbi behaviour, that.”
“The Zarbi,” repeated the Brigadier, “a peaceful insectoid race who live in the caves of their homeplanet Vortis, who are largely non-technological and have never developed space and/or time travel.”
“Yes.” The Doctor looked a bit uncomfortable, “they’re the ones.”
The Brigadier sighed. “Look, why don’t you pop back to the TARDIS and catch up on some reading,” he told the Doctor, “I think we’ll handle this one from here.”

Random Doobings

"So what i'm wondering," said Captain Doobie to his doctor, "is whether it would be possible to drink a VB with a VC and catch VD whilst driving a VE."
The doctor considered this. "It's certainly possible," he said, adjusting his glasses, "just not very likely."

My Footwear Takes An Unexpected Turn

I am aggrieved to report that despite their strong start the Rivers Chuck knockoffs have lasted but a scant month before developing the old enemy, a tear in the fabric where it meets the rubber strip at the ankle. I don't know why this plagues chuck knockoffs but not chucks themselves. I get the feeling that even without this their days would have been numbed. Their soles were wearing at a prodigious rate, faster than any other knockoff i've worn, and I think that the sole would have worn through in another couple of days regardless. This was a pity as they were certainly the most comfortable of the knockoffs i've worn, and the closest in feel to actual Chucks yet.
Having now exhausted all of the chuck knockoffs on the market I was going to declare the investigation closed and buy the pair of Harlem Globetrotter-branded Chucks that i've been hankering, but I decided to give the other type of Rivers chuck another try. Regular readers will remember that I picked a red pair of these up the day before I went to Melbourne for the Grand Prix and go so disgusted by them that I threw them out and bought other shoes after three days. I decided to give them another go, mainly due to the fact that the three days was a period of abnormal usage (I was constantly on my feet) and that I could have made them more comfortable by putting some insoloes in them. I didn't test them until they broke, so here I go again. Also, the first pair were made out of a horrible type of stiff polyester-style material which didn't breath. My new ones are made of good old cotton, but are in every other way identical to the ill-fated pair of Grands Prix gone by. theyre black, and the best way to describe them would be that theyre what chucks would look like of a 5-year old drew them in crayon. They're wider than normal but stubbier, almost squared off at the toes. They are also the only chuck knockoff to deviate from the normal production pattern. Normal chucks are, as you may know, made of a sole, a canvas upper, a rubber toe and a strip of rubber around the circumference of the sole which holds it all tobether. The new Rivers chucks comprise of canvas uppers enclosed within *one single piece of extruded rubber*!!!! This piece is the sole, toecap and sidestrip combined. It is designed to still look just like a normal chuck. What advantages or disadvantages will this novel method of contruction bring? Only time will tell. They feel quite sturdy, but it's early days yet.

Somewhat Self-Explanatory

Michael Jackson Dead In LA

LOS ANGELES- Pop singer and recluse Michael Jackson died today of heart failure after collapsing at his home and being rushed to LA’s St Elsewhere Hospital.
The County Coroner’s office reports that Mr Jackson’s death was 'unlikely' to have been accidental. Police are following up several leads, but it is believed that sunshine, moonlight and good times have been ruled out as suspects at this stage. Detective Superintendant Ron Pfarch told press that: “Until further investigations can be made and evidence of it’s innocence is uncovered, we will continue to blame it on the boogie.”
Jackson was famously reclusive in later years due to allegations of child abuse and a long-running paternity claim by alleged former lover Billy-Jean.
Jackson is survived by his sister Janet and her boyfriend Willis, a train wreck named LaToya and a small rat named Ben.

Rol Fol A-Dillo!

Warning! Graphic Images!

The Contest Continues

The Botswanan Chucks didn't really work out. To their credit they were the longest-lasting non-Converse Chuck i've owned to date, coming in at a staggering month and a half (45 days) of wear before they developed a hole in the fabric above the left heel instep. This seems to be the achilles heel of most Chuck knockoffs, with both the Levi Horse and K-mart pairs going in the same spot.
The most annoying aspect of the Botswanan Chucks (apart from the price, being more expensive than normal chucks) was their apalling ergonomics. Don't get me wrong, i'm for anything that gives Botswanan people an income and prevents them from sitting around all day chewing qat, but they really do need to have some sort of inkling as to what shoes are for. the seam over the knuckle of my left toe (mentioned in a previous post) never wore away, which meant that for the last two weeks wearing them was an agony and the right side of my big toe was permanently numb.
So the Botswanan Chucks from Etiko are out, consigned to the dustbin of history, and they have been replaced by a serious contender for the crown. This is, however, something of an upset. Readers will remember my scathing remarks regarding the Chucks from Rivers earlier this year. I wore them to Melbourne for the Grand Prix and threw them away after 3 days due to extremely poor ergonomics, crapy construction and poor cloth choice. Well, I ventured into Rivers the other day to discover that they have changed the design. I bought a new pair straight away and they have performed exemplary service ever since. They are hardier then the K-mart knockoffs and could very well end up breaking the actual Chuck record of two months. At the present sole wear is looking likely to be an issue (very soft rubber) but only time will tell. In the heady game of Chuck Taylor knockoffs anything can happen, and probably will.

In Which An Explanation Is Requested.

Recently I trotted down to the fdlicks to see the new Terminator movie, Terminator: Salvation. I've been a big fan of the series throughout it's lifespan, but I must admit that this time around, the new movie DOESN'T MAKE ANY SENSE!!!!!! I've read several reviews and no-one has mentioned this fact yet. Tsk tsk, the sorry state of journalism today etc.

Consider:
1. In the first Terminator movie Kyle Reese is about 30. This immediately dates the moment that he travelled back in time to at least 10, probably closer to 12 years later than when we see him in Terminator: Salvation. T:S is set in 2018, making the point from which Kyle and the T-800 were sent back from about 2030.

2. No-one except Kyle (before he died), Sarah Connor and John Connor knew that Kyle Reese was John's father. I will allow here the possibility that Skynet, having seen him go back in time after the T-800, *may* have put 2 and 2 together, but boy is that ever a leap.

3. There was no time travelling in T:S.

Putting 1, 2 and 3 together, why did Skynet in 2018 want to kill Kyle Reese? Why did they put his name on the list, and why did they go to such lengths to track him down? Until 2030 Skynet should have been completely unaware of his existance.

I'd like some answers, please. Someone is responsible for this. I can't sleep.

I've Had It Up To Here With You People

I was taken to task on Monday night. Yes, me. Yes, taken to task.

Why, I hear you ask, was this colossus of industry treated in such a derogatory fashion? Why, for marking my page by folding the corner over in a book. Aparrently this enrages some book owners even (and i'd like to make this point quite clear) when the book belongs to me in the first fucking place.

According to these OCD suffering, niggling pedants, books are not there to be used in any fashion but are to remain pristine and, I assume, unread. To do anything more than place them in a bookshelf sullies them, or somesuch tommyrot.

Well let me tell you something, bucko. I read. Constantly. And you know what? I fucking well read books however I please. If I want to *shock! horror!* bend the odd corner over, I will. If I want to keep it in my bag and read it in my lunch break and get a bit of mustard or whatever on it, I will. I paid for it and if I want to use it to wipe my arse on, I will. Thankfully I no longer read Kevin J Anderson so this last step is rarely necessary.

Furthermore, I like my books with character. I remember reading the first of the Lensman Series (Triplanetary) and every pages was dogeared and yellow from age. Fantastic! There was a book that had been well-read and loved. It hadn't spent it's life taking up space on some arsehole's holy sterile bookshelf, watching him force people to use coasters, take their shoes off before entering the house and sit on the plastic-covered couch.

There. That's you fucking telt.

Random Doobings

Gootime Slim awoke to the sounds of cursing. Of all of the sounds he could have awoken to, this was his second-to-least favorite. His least favorite, awakening to the sound of an axe-wielding serial killer, was probably forgiveable.
He rolled over in bed and looked at his alarm clock, which to his eyes positively reveled in it's 3:30ness.
In the morning? the recumbent slacker thought.
He stumbled out to the source of the cursing, the kitchen, to find a tousle-haired, pyjamaed Captain Doobie flicking through the Yellow Pages.
"What the ruddy ding-dong is going on here?" he demanded.
Captain Doobie looked up and fixed him with a glare. "Aha! You might know," he told him, "How do I get in touch with the Postmaster General?"
While it really shouldn't have (given Goodtime Slim's long association with Captain Doobie's wierdness) this statement took Goodtime Slim by surprise. "What?" he asked, "Why do you want to get in touch with the Postmaster General in the middle of the night?"
"I've got something to ask him."
"Couldn't you ask him in the morning?"
Captain Doobie shook his head, unwittingly dislodging a piece of cake from his hair. "I can't get to sleep until I find out. To tell the truth, I haven't slept in tree days."
Goodtime Slim was somewhat uncaring about all this. "What," he jibed, "could possibly be so compelling that you have to ring up the Postmaster General at 3:30am to ask him?"
Captain Doobie looked at him resignedly, the bags under his sleepless eyes looming large under the kitchen bulb. "When the postie opens the mailbox, does it have a little light in there like the fridge does?"
Goodtime Slim began to scoff, but then felt with growing dread the enormity of the situation he had now landed himself in. "You bastard," he breathed, shaking his head, "give us the phone book. Maybe he's under 'Essential Services'."

Random Doobings

After a breathless Goodtime Slim had rushed through the front door, Captain Doobie slammed it shut and locked it, even drawing across the small chain and snib. His hands felt the door shudder as the forms of several of the pursuing zombies piled into it on the other side. Both men looked at each other, worried.
"What are we going to do?" Captain Doobie cried, "they'll crack our skulls open and eat our brains!"
"You should be alright then," Goodtime Slim demurred.
"Oh, ha ha," replied Captain Doobie acidly, "Yes, it must be at least five minutes since you made that joke last. Now be serious. What are we going to do?"
"Don't worry," Goodtime Slim told him, "it's time we brought out the big guns."
Caoptain Doobie was aghast. "You don't mean..."
"Yes," replied Goodtime Slim, stepping aside to reveal a bright red 44-gallon drum with a picture of a sailing ship on it, "It's time to use the weapons-grade Old Spice we bought on the black market."

Swine!

I haven’t been at all well lately. I should probably say that right from the start. It started with a fever in the middle of last week, but there wasn’t much I could do about it at the time. Jobs like mine don’t stop just because you’ve got a sniffle or, in this case I suppose, an oink.
Turned out it was Swine Flu. Yes, the one you’ve all heard about. Turns out I was the first person to bring it into the country, then I spread it around. So, if anyone has died, they can blame me.
I didn’t mean to catch it. I haven’t even been to Mexico or wherever it started. I just like chilli. A friend of mine found a small stash of mega-hot chili in tins at the local discount store. I ate one, then the next morning I had the sniffles. I put my clown makeup on and went to work, handing out balloons to small children at the Zoo. It’s a living, but I should have called in sick.
The next morning I woke up thirsty, and hungry, and with a welter of large green spots where, to my best recollection, I’d never had spots before. This unnerved me somewhat, but the clown blouse covered the worst of it and I headed for the zoo again.
Big mistake. They say that children pick up these things more easily. I should have thought of that.
By lunchtime my big red clown nose had become somewhat superfluous given the pig’s snout that had grown underneath it. More disturbing was the hair on the palm of my hands and the small curly tail which now poked out above my coccyx.
At the time I took some small comfort in the fact that I was not the only one. By the afternoon the zoo was filled with small children who bore a close relationship to piglets.
I know that Swine Flu encouraged a metamorphosis in adults, but I don’t think anyone expected its effects on children. I’m no doctor, but I suppose it was a consequence of their faster metabolisms that the children didn’t just become hungry, they became ravenous.
In the absence of any other reliable food source, in children ranging from small infants to tweens, cannibalism soon became an option. Soon most unaffected adults (apparently it takes longer to incubate in adults) had been eaten, swallowed by the porcine aberrations that were once their progeny.
When the adults had been consumed they turned their bloodstained little faces to me, entreating the only authority figure they had for more food.
I did what I could, but I did what I shouldn’t have done.
“To parliament!” I cried, “there’s good eating on a politician!”
Through the zoo gates a tide of little pig-persons swarmed like locusts, eating everything in their path. Hobos, parking wardens, little old ladies out for a walk, all were relentlessly consumed by the pink tide.
I won’t continue with the details. Suffice it to say that I recovered, as did most of the children, before the week was out. The only detail I wish to add was that in no way did the Swine Flu engender any form of merciful amnesia in child or adult. We stand now, safe in our humanity once more, the taste of human flesh still uppermost in our children’s minds. Can these children, whose teeth have rent and swallowed the flesh of their fathers ever go back to the innocent pleasure of baked beans on toast for tea? Probably not.

New Zoo Hullabaloo Over Great Ape Caper

Adelaide Zoo: Zookeepers have today admitted that their strategy for catching the escaped Orangutan was fundamentally flawed.
Head Zookeeper Namby Treehugger said in a prepared statement today "The capture and rehousing of escaped animals is not a task that zoo staff are trained to do. When a proposal was put forward by a local firm claiming expertise in this area it was considered our best option. However, we now concede that the proposal should have been read in full before a contract was signed."
Security footage of the Zoo after dark has revealed a man dressed in a large banana suit and a man in a large pith helmet and wielding a large net, hiding behind a bush. Police have positively identified the two men as employees of DoobieSlim Enterprises.
While fottage of the capture attempt cannot be located, later footage showed the pair being chased over the Zoo's outer fence by an enraged Orangutan.
A spokesman for DoobieSlim Enterprises, the contracted firm, could not be located, although a woman claiming to be Mr Slim's mother has offered to leave a message for this reporter.

The Case Of The Feathered Filcher

“Stop that bird!”
The cry, strangely effeminate in its stridency, reached my ears just as I was about to tuck in to my usual corned-beef and mustard sandwich.
I looked up from my lunch only to see a large, camp individual running my way. As he ran waves of motion rippled across the broad expanse of his belly, which was clad in a light, tight shirt of silk. He appeared to be wearing jodhpurs, and a beret to boot. This ghastly apparition ran across Victoria Square, interrupting a bevy of lunch-eaters who, like myself, had chosen to partake of luncheon outside, a fine day as it was.
Sandwich forgotten, I simply stared. He ran up to where I sat and halted, about ten metres or so away. “Psst!” he stage whispered to me, “grab that bird!”
I stared at him, incredulous. “What bird?” I asked.
He winced at the normal volume of my voice. ‘SSSSH!” he almost screeched, “Not so loud, or you’ll frighten it off!”
All through his speech he seemed to have been pointing to the vacant part of the seat next to me, and I turned to see quite an unexpected sight. Next to me, quite unconcerned about the hullabaloo it was causing, sat a pigeon, cooing softly and wearing around its neck a necklace that even to my untrained eye seemed worth a bit, encrusted with precious stones as it was. I turned to the fat man. “Is this yours?” I asked.
“Yes!”
“Why is it wearing a necklace?”
“I was doing a photoshoot for the new Tiffany catalogue,” the fat man wailed, “we thought we’d put the bracelet around a birds neck, but the bloody thing flew away!”
“Right,” I said, “Worth a bit of money, is it?”
“Yes!” hissed the fat man, “now grab it!”
Gently, I put down my sandwich. The bird began to peck at it in an idle fashion. I slowly stood up, and took off my jacket. While the bird seemed distracted by the sandwich I held my jacket out in front of me like a matador’s cape. Sensing what I was about to do, the fat man drew a nervous breath. Behind him, a small crowd had gathered.
Swooping, I lunged at the bird, which in an instant went from eating a desultory lunch to being airborne. I landed heavily on the seat, feeling beneath me my sandwich, now thoroughly inserted into my jacket lining. The bird took off towards King William Street, chased by the fat man and the small crowd, who were madly hulloing up to it and trying to run whilst keeping an eye on its progress. They disappeared towards the end of the square as several car horns started blaring. I lay on the bench, my role in the affair forgotten.
I straightened back up and began to scrape the sandwich from my jacket, dislodging as I did so several hundred carats of sapphire, ruby and diamond bracelet. Idly I picked it up, then glanced down towards King William Street. The fat man and his entourage were no longer insight. I sighed, pocketed the bracelet, gingerly put my jacket back on and went to Macdonalds for lunch instead.

He...has gone.

Regular readers of this emblogulatory entertainment will know that occasionally I will take the time to deviate from the usual hearty chuckles I give out to address a more serious topic. Today I was saddened to learn that Dom Deluise, the original jolly fat man, has passed away.
While I enjoyed Dom in many movies, such as Smokey and the Bandit Part 2, both Cannonball Run 1 and 2 and the immortal (and much searched for on DVD) Hot Stuff, I will forever remember him for his wonderful cameo in Blazing Saddles. Watch me faggots...

Stick out your chest,
poke out your tush,
hands on your hips,
give 'em a push,
Don't be surprised you're doing the French Mistake!

I think that if all you're ever remembered for is making people laugh, you've done something wonderful.

Note To Self:

Never buy a pair of shoes made in a country where the general population do not know what footwear is.

In my quest to find the perfect pair of Chuck Taylor knockoffs, I recently expanded my search out of Asia and bought a pair of Etiko hightops from the Oxfam Shop. This was the first time I have ever bought shoes made in Botswana. I think there is a reason for this. The shoes are undoubtedly well made, and show every indication of doing very well on the "Days Worn Before They Break' chart (below). However, the Botswanan cobbler responsible for shoe construction has completely failed to take into account the knuckle of my big toe. I know this because right where my knuckle is, he (or she, let's not deny it) has put a whacking great seam, a fold of fabric which stands proud of the lining and has since Saturday been digging into my foot like a bastard. Still, it's lessening, and I wouldn't dream of letting them go now when they look like breaking all records for Chuck knockoffs.

The Chuck Taylor Knockoff Standings (days worn before developing tears and rips)
Actual Chucks (for comparison): 3 months (90 days)
Levi 'Horse' Red Tab Denim: 20 days
Hot Chilli (K-Mart): 11 days
Rivers Hi-tops: 3 days (and good riddance!)

An Excerpt

From my upcoming novel: "Country Mouse Vs City Mouse".

"Hello," said the City Mouse, "My name's City Mouse, but you can call me 'Cit' if you like."
The Country Mouse thought about this. "My name is Country Mouse," he replied, "And i'd rather you didn't shorten my name."

Doobie And The Bandit

"Look, dude, I admit," said Captain Doobie, "In the past, I may have done you wrong. But I promise, I will never do you wrong again."
Goodtime Slim pulled the pillow over his ears. "There ain't gonna be no more Captain Doobie and no Goodtime Slim," he told his housemate, "You understand me that? I gotta go down to the shop and pick up a bag of fertiliser."
Captain Doobie grimaced. "Shitty job."
Sensing the he wasn't going to get any further sleep that morning Goodtime Slim crawled out of bed. "Well I got a news flash for you," he told Captain Doobie, "you take those Cadbury Creme Eggs east of Mount Gambier, and that's bootleggin'. And that's against the law."
Captain Doobie treated his housemate to a wide grin. "Well who gives a turkey" he asked expansively, "when Captain Doobie and Goodtime Slim are doing the driving?"
Goodtime Slim fixed him with a baleful stare. "Why?"
"For the money, and for the fun. Mainly for the money."
"How much money did you say again?"
"Seventy-five thousand Spanish doubloons."
This made Goodtime Slim's mind up. "Wynette!" he yelled.
Captain Doobie turned to look in the direction he had yelled. "Who's Wynette?"
Godtime Slim stared at him, puzzled. "You know," he scratched his head, "I have no idea."

The Hunt For Atlantis - A Review

As I am currently writing my own archaeo-adventure novel about Atlantis, I thought i'd better read 'The Hunt For Atlantis' by Andy McDermott.
I wish I hadn't. Note to Mr McDermott: have a point. If you're going to send an archaeologist, her bodyguard and a wealthy philanthropist around the world hunting for Atlantis whilst being pursued by a sinister ancient brotherhood, try giving everyone some form of motivation prior to the showdown at the end of 600 pages. It makes it so much more exiting for the reader than a bunch of nice people trying to get somewhere before the not-very-nice people do for NO APARRENT REASON. A billionaire throws money and resources at the project, for what? Kicks?
Adding plenty of gunplay does not stop this from being a very boring book. Especially since when they reached Atlantis they blew the place up before anyone got to see it. Oops! Spoiler warning. Well, it would be if I was encouraging anyone to actually read this. Bloody hell.

Tongue Like A Sock Puppet, A.

I'd just like to say that if anyone discovers that they have wisdom teeth, and the dentist plans to remove them even though they're not causing you any pain, these people should punch their dentist in the cock.*

I failed to take this extraordinarily simple precaution last week, and now i'm at home spitting blood everywhere and living on Cup-a-soup. Ever since my day surgery in the Wakefield Hospital on Thursday, i've been a quivering mass of dextropropoxyphene, paracetemol and easily-swallowable MSG.

This enforced convalescence has it's upsides, of course. I'm not at work, and I'm reading voraciously. I've already finished off the tail-end of Perdido St Station (an excellent work which I avoided for far too long). I've also made short work of "A Practical Guide To Racism" and "Conan The Bootylicious"**, and i'm about halfway through Clive Cussler's "Atlantis Found".

I just wish I could eat chocolate, that's all.

In other news, the first draft of my new vampire novel has been finished. It's on hiatus while I'm up on blocks, then the redraft will begin in earnest.

*or fanny, as the case may be.
** or similar. They all sound the same anyway, and Conan belts heaps of people.