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So the Botswanan Chucks from Etiko are out, consigned to the dustbin of history, and they have been replaced by a serious contender for the crown.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.

Sequels That Never Caught On.

War and More War, by Tolstoy
Duke of the Bangle, by JRR Tolkien
Bridge Going The Other Way Over The River Kwai, by Pierre Bouille.
Knitting Circle, by Chuck Palahunik

Random Doobings

And so it came to pass in the house of Doobie/Slim that Goodtime Slim didst awaken one morning, lo, and he didst remove himself hence to the loungeroom where he did espy Captain Doobie peering intently through an empty toilet roll.
"What the fuck are you doing now?" He didst spake.
And verily didst Captain Doobie reply, "This is my dickhead telescope."
And Goodtime Slim was filled not with mirth but with great sadness, and he did say unto Captain Doobie, "For fuck's sake."
Whereupon Captain Doobie didst commence to peer upon the countenance of Goodtime Slim, announcing "Yes! It's working perfectly!"
And it came to pass that Goodtime Slim waxed wroth and took the Dickhead Telescope from Captain Doobie, peering through it himself unto the other's visage, declaring, "Yes, it fucking is, isn't it?"
Here endeth the lesson. Amen.

The Credible Hulk

"Don't make me pedantic.
You wouldn't like me when i'm pedantic."

Dr David Banner, librarian, grammarist, searching for a way to tap into the hidden literacy that all humans have. One night, working alone in his lab he is subjected to an accidental overdose of grammar radiation. Now, whenever Dr Banner hears incorrect usage of the English language a startling transformation occurs. The creature is driven by pedantry, and pursued by an investigative reporter. The creature is wanted for a dangling participle it did not commit. David Banner is believed to be dead, and must let the world believe that he is dead until he can learn to quell the raging beast that resides within him.

He is: The Credible Hulk.

A Geological Report On The Music of Boney M.

When one thinks of the 1970's harmony supergroup Boney M, one generally thinks of peppy, upbeat disco music. However, lyrically the band who sang such hits as 'Daddy Cool', 'Rasputin' and 'Painter Man' also displayed a remarkble propensity for geology. For example:

"Sunny", arguably the band's biggest hit, is quite specific in this regard. The lyric couplet 'My life was tossed like the wind-blown sand/and the rock was formed when you held my hand' can refer to nothing less than the formation of basalt through surface vulcanisation. I say basalt only with the caveat that the song does not specifically mention pressure of any kind being applied during the process of vitrification, which would result in the formation of crystalline or crypto-crystalline substances being formed (dependant upon the pressures involved and the time period allowed for the process overall). It is also possible where vulcanisation is concerned that the rock may have been pumice, this being the aereated form of basalt.

"Brown Girl In The Ring" does not specifically mention any types of rock but rather a geologic process. The line "cuttin' a way to wash my clothes" may refer to either the forces of glaciation or erosion on soils and substrates, in this case specifically to form a river valley or bed suitable for use as a primitive laundry facilty.

"Rasputin", nominally about the Mad Monk of Czarist Russia, contains the lyric "he wanted Russian land but never mind the Czar/but the Kozakchak he was really wunderbar" clearly refers to the desire for the acquisition in the early 1900s of large tracts of Russian real estate. This would have been an astute move for Rasputin geologically, as the initial years of the 20th century saw some of the richest mining activity in Russia's history. Alexandrite (the Russian national stone named after the Czar himself) was being mined in the Ural Mountains, and several kimberlite formations were discovered in Sibera (home to the Kozakchak) which would go on to yield 1/3 of the world's total diamond production.

The Force Delusion

Professor Richard Dawkins, holder of the Charles Simyoni Chair for the Understanding Of Science, has seen fit to assail all and sundry with his non-belief in his new book, 'The Force Delusion'.

In his book Dawkins seems to miss the essential point of belief in The Force; that is, that the existance of The Force is essentially unproveable, and has been proven many, many times over.

While it is true that none of the known facts about The Force can ever really be known, those that are known are irrefutable. If we look at the source material, "Star Wars Episode 4: From The Adventures of Luke Skywalker" we find a great many of these things inside. Indeed, in reading TFD, one finds oneself wondering if Dawkins has even ever read SWE4:FTAoLS!

In maintaining his skepticism in the face of unknowable imponderables, Dawkins casts himself in the mould of a fundamentalist of the worst kind, demanding 'facts' when the balm of knowledge is all around him, surrounding him and binding him, if he would only open his mind.

Dawkins would do well to remember that not only is his rational skepticism completely irrational, but that in identifying himself as an unbeliever he allies himself with those oppresive regimes of the galaxy whose members also advocated aforceism: Darths Malak, Revan, Palpatine and Caedus all spring to mind, not to mention Exar Kun and Karness Muur.

Most unsettling of all is Dawkin's assertion that teaching a belief in the Force in young children is child abuse. Mr Dawkins, the Jedi Order does not kidnap children, we merely forcibly seperate them from their parents at birth and raise them in a communal environment to have no knowledge of their former life. To call this behaviour abuse is surely overreacting to a huge degree.

In short, Professor Dawkins' new book has the smack of fundamentalism about it. I'm not accusing him of destoying planets with a space-based superlaser, but if the shoe fits Mr Dawkins, then wear it.