...and as Luke stood by his father's funeral pyre, the noise of the Ewok celebrations close by, Han and Leia joined him and led him back to the party, and they all lived happily ever after.
The End...
...except for the Ssi-ruuk invasion, Prince Isolder, the Black Fleet Crisis, Grand Admiral Thrawn, Kyp Durron and the Sun Crusher, Joruus C'Baoth, Admiral Daala, the death of Anakin Solo, the Darksaber Incident, Mara Jade, the Yuuzhan Vong invasion, Jacen Solo becoming Darth Caedus, the Second Galactic Civil War, and the next exciting chapter set 40 years ABY concerning YET ANOTHER fucking 'crisis that shakes the galaxy to it's core', ad infinitum.
There, fixed that for George.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Fun With Words!
Car Names That Are Palindromes.
1.
Car Names That Would Be Palindromes If It Wasn't For One Miserable Bloody Letter.
1. Toyota
2. Viva
3. Tata
4. Honorable Ancestor Most Glorious Beauty Leopard (in Chinese).
1.
Car Names That Would Be Palindromes If It Wasn't For One Miserable Bloody Letter.
1. Toyota
2. Viva
3. Tata
4. Honorable Ancestor Most Glorious Beauty Leopard (in Chinese).
Thursday, February 19, 2009
New Novel Ideas
White Line Nightmares: After the apocalypse, entire population of the world are zombies, except the vampires. The vampires are starving due to lack of good eating in zombies, so fight each other over the last few remaining blood-cows (humans). Focus on hero-vampire driving through the outback in an 18-wheeler petrol tanker full of blood, ala Mad Max 2. Unsure whether autogyros will be involved at this point.
Mr Flopsy Has An Adventure: The ancient greek tale of Ulysses, retold using a group of suburban cats who get accidentally taken across town in a delivery van. Note: cats do not wear waistcoats and/or hats.
Dashed Odd People In The Earlies: In 1850's British India, Colonel and regiment anschluss a northern maharaja only to find thuggees and the cult of Kali operating on their patch. They begin to eradicate them, only to discover that the whole thing is a cover for the return of Yog Sothoth.
Mr Flopsy Has An Adventure: The ancient greek tale of Ulysses, retold using a group of suburban cats who get accidentally taken across town in a delivery van. Note: cats do not wear waistcoats and/or hats.
Dashed Odd People In The Earlies: In 1850's British India, Colonel and regiment anschluss a northern maharaja only to find thuggees and the cult of Kali operating on their patch. They begin to eradicate them, only to discover that the whole thing is a cover for the return of Yog Sothoth.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Where Did You Get That Hat?
Here on The Impertinence Of It All, I like to help out with the very latest in fashion advice, so i've decided to add a regular column wherein people may ask my advice about hats.
Dear The Impertinence Of It All,
I have recently invested in a rather smashing trilby and wish to know the correct angle to wear it at? I do not wish to appear a poltroon.
Yours,
P G Wodehouse (deceased).
Well, Plum, it just so happens that the very latest issue of 'Briar Pipe' magazine has the answer for you in the following chart*:
10 degrees; dashing
15 degrees; raffish
22 degrees; jaunty
27 degrees; rakish
Anything over 27 degrees is never to be seen. Chico Marx regularly wore his hats between 50 and 70 degrees. I think this speaks for itself.
*all angles are measured between the brim and the horizontal plane.
Dear The Impertinence Of It All,
I have recently invested in a rather smashing trilby and wish to know the correct angle to wear it at? I do not wish to appear a poltroon.
Yours,
P G Wodehouse (deceased).
Well, Plum, it just so happens that the very latest issue of 'Briar Pipe' magazine has the answer for you in the following chart*:
10 degrees; dashing
15 degrees; raffish
22 degrees; jaunty
27 degrees; rakish
Anything over 27 degrees is never to be seen. Chico Marx regularly wore his hats between 50 and 70 degrees. I think this speaks for itself.
*all angles are measured between the brim and the horizontal plane.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Local Men Get Swedish Message
ADELAIDE AIRPORT: Local identity Captain Doobie and cohort Goodtime Slim have been arrested following an incident at Ikea, at the Adelaide Airport. The pair were first charged with Behaviour Likely To Cause A Breach Of The Peace, to which was later added the charge of Resisting Arrest.
Police spokesman Superintendant Farch told assembled media that Police had first received a call from frustrated Ikea personnel. When officers attended the scene they apprehended Mr Doobie in what appeared to be a lion costume, and Mr Slim in what appeared to be a witches’ outfit, replete with broom.
The pair were said to be known to the officers attending.
According to bystander’s accounts the pair had entered the furniture store some hours earlier but had then disappeared. They were not seen again until an elderly customer, Miss Eileen Pooffe, inspected a large wardrobe whereupon the two men leapt out and attempted to force upon her an unknown substance, later discovered to be Turkish delight. The two men were then detained by store security until police arrived, whereupon they attempted to evade capture by leaping from wardrobe to wardrobe, a tactic which failed when 'Captain' Doobie's tail got spectacularly caught in some loose wainscoting.
A spokesperson for the pair, Ms O’Trousers, corroborated this version of events and stated that “They’re fluppin’ eejits, the pair of ‘em. I hope they get locked up!”
A bail hearing has been set for this afternoon.
Police spokesman Superintendant Farch told assembled media that Police had first received a call from frustrated Ikea personnel. When officers attended the scene they apprehended Mr Doobie in what appeared to be a lion costume, and Mr Slim in what appeared to be a witches’ outfit, replete with broom.
The pair were said to be known to the officers attending.
According to bystander’s accounts the pair had entered the furniture store some hours earlier but had then disappeared. They were not seen again until an elderly customer, Miss Eileen Pooffe, inspected a large wardrobe whereupon the two men leapt out and attempted to force upon her an unknown substance, later discovered to be Turkish delight. The two men were then detained by store security until police arrived, whereupon they attempted to evade capture by leaping from wardrobe to wardrobe, a tactic which failed when 'Captain' Doobie's tail got spectacularly caught in some loose wainscoting.
A spokesperson for the pair, Ms O’Trousers, corroborated this version of events and stated that “They’re fluppin’ eejits, the pair of ‘em. I hope they get locked up!”
A bail hearing has been set for this afternoon.
Friday, February 06, 2009
Copper Kettles?
As my mother is awfully fond of saying, there is little in this world which cannot be solved with a nice cup of tea. The truth of this statement has become readily obvious to me as I have slowly but surely come under the spell of the dreaded weed. I mainly drink it at work, it must be said, and recently I noticed something rather strange, almost incongruous if you will, regarding the work kettle.
The work kettle is one of those industrial-size wall-mounted urn affairs, nothing more than a white box on the wall with a spigot attached to the lower part. Its always hot and raring to go, and many a jolly decent cup of char has been brewed thereon. It was whilst brewing a thoughtful mug of formosan recently that I noticed something that had always been on the kettle, but that I had never noticed. It was one of those stickers instructing people of the number for police assistance.
I mean, really. How often do I look to the kettle during an emergency situations? For succour and solace certainly, but not whilst being chased by homocidal maniacs with chainsaws. The idea is frankly preposterous. Its a given in my life that any situation requiring tea will not require the intervention of the constabulary. I keep those facets of my life seperate, and intend to continue.
The work kettle is one of those industrial-size wall-mounted urn affairs, nothing more than a white box on the wall with a spigot attached to the lower part. Its always hot and raring to go, and many a jolly decent cup of char has been brewed thereon. It was whilst brewing a thoughtful mug of formosan recently that I noticed something that had always been on the kettle, but that I had never noticed. It was one of those stickers instructing people of the number for police assistance.
I mean, really. How often do I look to the kettle during an emergency situations? For succour and solace certainly, but not whilst being chased by homocidal maniacs with chainsaws. The idea is frankly preposterous. Its a given in my life that any situation requiring tea will not require the intervention of the constabulary. I keep those facets of my life seperate, and intend to continue.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
The Impertinence Of It All Proudly Presents:
Her Majesty The Queen in,
More Tea, Vicar?
Prrrpt!
“Ey say,” pronounced The Queen from her end of the dinner table, “ey’m sure there was no need for thet!”
“Sorry m’dear,” replied the Duke of Edinburgh, fanning the air about him with his special Duke’s hat, “I’m afraid that dinner tonight was rather rich.”
The Queen had to agree. Although born and bred as royalty even she had to admit that tonight’s turkey stuffed with goose stuffed with swan stuffed with pheasant stuffed with chicken stuffed with bantam stuffed with spatchcock stuffed with quail stuffed with finch ( a turgooswaphechbaspatquanch) had been particularly filling. As she delicately dabbed at her cakehole with the royal napkin, she gave a little belch.
“Aha!” cried Prince Philip and the Duke of Edinburgh at the same time, being as they were the same person and all, “that wasn’t me this time!”
Parp.
“And neither, m’dear, was that.”
“Ey say, ey em most terribly embarrassed,” said The Queen, giving the royal wave, “still, et least this doesn’t look et all suspicious.”
“While you’re at it, wave this one around,” retorted the Duke, curling out a blinder that made the corgis leave the room.
“Oh ey say, you are most terribly awful! One must remember not to layt ey metch!”
“Yes,” said the Prince, leaning back and contentedly enjoying his own brand, “I’d give it about ten minutes if I were you.”
It was at this inopportune moment that the doorbell to Buckingham Palace rang.
“What?” cried The Queen in alarm, “whomsoever could thet be, end et this taym of neyt?”
Quickly The Queen leapt up and ran to the throne room, returning with a can of Glen 20 which she liberally sprayed about the place, finishing just as Jock, the royal retainer, strode into the room, kilt a-flapping. “Ma’am, you have a visitor,” he intoned, “The Archbishop of Canterbury”
“Oh no!” cried The Queen, “How unlucky ken ey get? Just when mey husband end ey get ey dose of the parping great trumpets, the vicar comes to tea!”
One of the few advantages inherent in being The Queen was that rather than hobnobbing with the ordinary clergy, your local vicar was the Archbishop of Canturbury. This came in particularly handy in The Queen’s case as she’d been working on the Archbishop for months, trying to arrange to have Fergie excommunicated. The Archbishop had been pretty firmly in the negative camp at first, but a few evenings of nude Twister at the Palace with Zara Phillips had soon sorted that out and The Queen suspected that tonight was the night and he was ready to sign on the dotted line, as it were.
“Show him in,” The Queen told Jock, then whirled around and shot a warning glance at Prince Phillip, “End ey would strongly edvayse you to put a blummen cork in it.”
“Why?”
“He’s en Erchbishop,” The Queen replied gravely, “he has been raised only on the faynest of things. Were he to ever smell one’s botty-coughs the shock could very well kill him, and thet would be you-know-who’s excommunication up the Swannee, wouldn’t it?”
“But m’dear,” reasoned Prince Phillip, “I’ve been chuffing them out constantly for the last five minutes! I can’t hold my nipsy for that long! My ruddy council gritter will explode!”
“You’ll hold it,” replied The Queen cooly, “until I tell you to stop. Ey’m related to Henery the Eighth, ey em. Besayds, ey’m in the same situation as you.”
At that moment Jock returned, with the Archbishop of Canterbury in tow. “Delightful to see you, The Queen,” the Archbishop began. The Queen hustled him to a seat and began to shovel Albert Cake into him. The Archbishop liked Albert Cake a lot, even thought it took him days to comb all of the crumbs out of his beard.
The evening went well. The conversation began with the latest Formula One gossip, then headed around to the ever-popular subject of Zeppelin design, before The Queen was able to get it around to the red-headed strumpet.
Down below, however, things were not going quite so well. The turgooswaphechbaspatquanch was not sitting well, and the royal ringpiece was taking quite a hammering. The Queen looked across the table to where Prince Phillip sat with his legs and eyes crossed and his face all red.
“And so you see,” mumbled the Archbishop around his third slice of Albert, “I’ve given it a lot of thought and I’ve decided to…”
He was cut off in mid sentence by the loudest cutting of cheese that he had ever heard. Long, deep and sonorous, it sounded like nothing so much as a funeral dirge played solely upon the tuba. On and on it went, reverberating around and around the royal dining room like a sparrow that had gotten in through the window which the Queen was madly chasing with a broom. All up, it lasted for about 35 seconds, with aftershocks. These followed an acute silence.
“More tea, vicar?” asked the Queen to no avail.
The Archbishop had fainted.
“Quickly,” cried the Queen, “Get the embulence!”
“Don’t be silly,” replied the Duke of Edinburgh, “we haven’t got an ambulance.”
Under the sensible guidance of Jock an ambulance was called. As the Archbishop was loaded into the back like so many sacks of spuds, he motioned to Prince Phillip. “Now I know,” he whispered in a scratchy voice from underneath the oxygen mask.
“Know what, old chap?”
“Why you call her ‘cabbage’…”
More Tea, Vicar?
Prrrpt!
“Ey say,” pronounced The Queen from her end of the dinner table, “ey’m sure there was no need for thet!”
“Sorry m’dear,” replied the Duke of Edinburgh, fanning the air about him with his special Duke’s hat, “I’m afraid that dinner tonight was rather rich.”
The Queen had to agree. Although born and bred as royalty even she had to admit that tonight’s turkey stuffed with goose stuffed with swan stuffed with pheasant stuffed with chicken stuffed with bantam stuffed with spatchcock stuffed with quail stuffed with finch ( a turgooswaphechbaspatquanch) had been particularly filling. As she delicately dabbed at her cakehole with the royal napkin, she gave a little belch.
“Aha!” cried Prince Philip and the Duke of Edinburgh at the same time, being as they were the same person and all, “that wasn’t me this time!”
Parp.
“And neither, m’dear, was that.”
“Ey say, ey em most terribly embarrassed,” said The Queen, giving the royal wave, “still, et least this doesn’t look et all suspicious.”
“While you’re at it, wave this one around,” retorted the Duke, curling out a blinder that made the corgis leave the room.
“Oh ey say, you are most terribly awful! One must remember not to layt ey metch!”
“Yes,” said the Prince, leaning back and contentedly enjoying his own brand, “I’d give it about ten minutes if I were you.”
It was at this inopportune moment that the doorbell to Buckingham Palace rang.
“What?” cried The Queen in alarm, “whomsoever could thet be, end et this taym of neyt?”
Quickly The Queen leapt up and ran to the throne room, returning with a can of Glen 20 which she liberally sprayed about the place, finishing just as Jock, the royal retainer, strode into the room, kilt a-flapping. “Ma’am, you have a visitor,” he intoned, “The Archbishop of Canterbury”
“Oh no!” cried The Queen, “How unlucky ken ey get? Just when mey husband end ey get ey dose of the parping great trumpets, the vicar comes to tea!”
One of the few advantages inherent in being The Queen was that rather than hobnobbing with the ordinary clergy, your local vicar was the Archbishop of Canturbury. This came in particularly handy in The Queen’s case as she’d been working on the Archbishop for months, trying to arrange to have Fergie excommunicated. The Archbishop had been pretty firmly in the negative camp at first, but a few evenings of nude Twister at the Palace with Zara Phillips had soon sorted that out and The Queen suspected that tonight was the night and he was ready to sign on the dotted line, as it were.
“Show him in,” The Queen told Jock, then whirled around and shot a warning glance at Prince Phillip, “End ey would strongly edvayse you to put a blummen cork in it.”
“Why?”
“He’s en Erchbishop,” The Queen replied gravely, “he has been raised only on the faynest of things. Were he to ever smell one’s botty-coughs the shock could very well kill him, and thet would be you-know-who’s excommunication up the Swannee, wouldn’t it?”
“But m’dear,” reasoned Prince Phillip, “I’ve been chuffing them out constantly for the last five minutes! I can’t hold my nipsy for that long! My ruddy council gritter will explode!”
“You’ll hold it,” replied The Queen cooly, “until I tell you to stop. Ey’m related to Henery the Eighth, ey em. Besayds, ey’m in the same situation as you.”
At that moment Jock returned, with the Archbishop of Canterbury in tow. “Delightful to see you, The Queen,” the Archbishop began. The Queen hustled him to a seat and began to shovel Albert Cake into him. The Archbishop liked Albert Cake a lot, even thought it took him days to comb all of the crumbs out of his beard.
The evening went well. The conversation began with the latest Formula One gossip, then headed around to the ever-popular subject of Zeppelin design, before The Queen was able to get it around to the red-headed strumpet.
Down below, however, things were not going quite so well. The turgooswaphechbaspatquanch was not sitting well, and the royal ringpiece was taking quite a hammering. The Queen looked across the table to where Prince Phillip sat with his legs and eyes crossed and his face all red.
“And so you see,” mumbled the Archbishop around his third slice of Albert, “I’ve given it a lot of thought and I’ve decided to…”
He was cut off in mid sentence by the loudest cutting of cheese that he had ever heard. Long, deep and sonorous, it sounded like nothing so much as a funeral dirge played solely upon the tuba. On and on it went, reverberating around and around the royal dining room like a sparrow that had gotten in through the window which the Queen was madly chasing with a broom. All up, it lasted for about 35 seconds, with aftershocks. These followed an acute silence.
“More tea, vicar?” asked the Queen to no avail.
The Archbishop had fainted.
“Quickly,” cried the Queen, “Get the embulence!”
“Don’t be silly,” replied the Duke of Edinburgh, “we haven’t got an ambulance.”
Under the sensible guidance of Jock an ambulance was called. As the Archbishop was loaded into the back like so many sacks of spuds, he motioned to Prince Phillip. “Now I know,” he whispered in a scratchy voice from underneath the oxygen mask.
“Know what, old chap?”
“Why you call her ‘cabbage’…”
Sunday, January 18, 2009
A Tip-off...
Jimmy Carter's bicycle has been stolen from a sports centre in Atlanta, Georgia. However, as horrific as this may be, this is not the first time something similar has happened to President Carter.
During the last days of the Carter Presidency, if I recall correctly, the Presidential Limo made an emergency stop in the small Georgia hamlet of Hazzard, so that the driver could have a jimmy riddle. Whilst the limo was stopped at the Boar's Nest, an inhabitant of Hazzard, one 'Cooter' was seen making off with the car, which then took 45mins (plus ads) to retrieve.
'Cooter' then went on to become a United States Senator, but has since retired. If I were the FBI or the Department of Homeland Security or whoever is searching for the Carter Bicycle, i'd be checking the barn out on the old Duke farm, just quietly.
During the last days of the Carter Presidency, if I recall correctly, the Presidential Limo made an emergency stop in the small Georgia hamlet of Hazzard, so that the driver could have a jimmy riddle. Whilst the limo was stopped at the Boar's Nest, an inhabitant of Hazzard, one 'Cooter' was seen making off with the car, which then took 45mins (plus ads) to retrieve.
'Cooter' then went on to become a United States Senator, but has since retired. If I were the FBI or the Department of Homeland Security or whoever is searching for the Carter Bicycle, i'd be checking the barn out on the old Duke farm, just quietly.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Just A Thought
Why don't they name more cars after rocks? The only one that I can think of is the Triumph Dolomite. I mean, I know thaat 'Monaro' is supposed to mean 'a pair of small hills' (nudge nudge wink wink) and I seem to remember the HSV Avalanche, but I don't think they count.
Likewise, the Suzuki Ignis and the Lancia Stratos: close, but no banana. Why don't we get some cars named:
Scree
Malachite
Chert
Boart
Hornblende
Likewise, the Suzuki Ignis and the Lancia Stratos: close, but no banana. Why don't we get some cars named:
Scree
Malachite
Chert
Boart
Hornblende
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
The History of Stuff, an ongoing serial
Tea.
The earliest traces of tea have been found in an ancient mineshaft in Mbekegwanaland, Nairobi, dated to 7000bc. It was here that scholars believe that the first raw tea ores were mined. These ores were the first tea consumed. It is believed that the first teas were made by dumping the ores in a river and then drinking from downstream, as the earliest known teapot has been dated only to Ancient Sumeria.
As the process of tea-drinking refined, so too did civilisation. Eventually the peoples of Babylon found that adding bauxite to the tea ore at the smelting stage resulted in an entirely different beverage that we know today as coffee.
Tea spread throughout the world, becoming an important commodity in many ancient civilisations. Rome traded tea with India to such an extent that tariffs had to be placed on kettles.
The next real step forward in the world of tea came in 1764, when Earl Grey married Sir Thomas Lipton. Their third child, Dilmah, patented the world’s first teabag. Weighing in at twenty five kilos and only available in 25-bag packets, teabags soon became the number-one cause of hernias during the Regency.
Today, tea is consumed the world over. Tea refineries can be found in many countries, but the massive stripmines of India and China still dominate the industry. The importation of Tea to the west is strictly controlled by cartels headed up by the controversial ‘tea barons’. These callous profiteers carefully control the supply of tea, always ensuring that demand is slightly greater than supply. While the UN has called for greater freedom in the distribution of tea, it is rumoured that the Tea Barons are contolling supply to shield the world from the reality of a dwindling supply. A British company, TeaCo, has recently set up the world’s first undersea tea dredging operation in the North Sea. While returns are small at present, this advance may see a return to the cheap and plentiful tea of the British Empire.
The earliest traces of tea have been found in an ancient mineshaft in Mbekegwanaland, Nairobi, dated to 7000bc. It was here that scholars believe that the first raw tea ores were mined. These ores were the first tea consumed. It is believed that the first teas were made by dumping the ores in a river and then drinking from downstream, as the earliest known teapot has been dated only to Ancient Sumeria.
As the process of tea-drinking refined, so too did civilisation. Eventually the peoples of Babylon found that adding bauxite to the tea ore at the smelting stage resulted in an entirely different beverage that we know today as coffee.
Tea spread throughout the world, becoming an important commodity in many ancient civilisations. Rome traded tea with India to such an extent that tariffs had to be placed on kettles.
The next real step forward in the world of tea came in 1764, when Earl Grey married Sir Thomas Lipton. Their third child, Dilmah, patented the world’s first teabag. Weighing in at twenty five kilos and only available in 25-bag packets, teabags soon became the number-one cause of hernias during the Regency.
Today, tea is consumed the world over. Tea refineries can be found in many countries, but the massive stripmines of India and China still dominate the industry. The importation of Tea to the west is strictly controlled by cartels headed up by the controversial ‘tea barons’. These callous profiteers carefully control the supply of tea, always ensuring that demand is slightly greater than supply. While the UN has called for greater freedom in the distribution of tea, it is rumoured that the Tea Barons are contolling supply to shield the world from the reality of a dwindling supply. A British company, TeaCo, has recently set up the world’s first undersea tea dredging operation in the North Sea. While returns are small at present, this advance may see a return to the cheap and plentiful tea of the British Empire.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
An Apology
Those of you who read the comments upon this enblogment may notice that since my last post regarding 'Nuking the Fridge' it has been visited by none other than the creator of the phrase himself, a man named Jason.
Jason informed me that he was not 'an overgrown child' and I am inclined to agree. Where I blogged the phrase "overgrown child pining for a film to take him back to when he was 5 years old", I should have said "a callous entrepreneur willing to sacrifice an entire film crew's hard work to make a quick buck".
Ever made a film, Jason? Tried writing scripts, have you? Or would you just prefer to make fun of films in order to, as you say, "laugh all the way to the bank"?
Enjoy your fifteen minutes, Jason. It's all you'll ever get.
Jason informed me that he was not 'an overgrown child' and I am inclined to agree. Where I blogged the phrase "overgrown child pining for a film to take him back to when he was 5 years old", I should have said "a callous entrepreneur willing to sacrifice an entire film crew's hard work to make a quick buck".
Ever made a film, Jason? Tried writing scripts, have you? Or would you just prefer to make fun of films in order to, as you say, "laugh all the way to the bank"?
Enjoy your fifteen minutes, Jason. It's all you'll ever get.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Another Open Letter
Nuking The Fridge: The point at which a movie franchise becomes tired and unbelievable.
An Open Letter To The Genius That Thought Up The Phrase 'Nuking The Fridge'.
Dear Sir,
In your opinion, was the scene in Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull in which the fridge gets nuked more believable or less believable than:
Indiana getting his father's book about the holy grail autographed by Hitler.
Sean Connery making a BF-109 crash using an umbrella.
The Nazis faces melting off when they opened the Ark of the Covenant.
The entire existance of both the Ark of the Covenant and the Holy Grail in the first place.
Club Obi-Wan.
The wierd flying wing that the Luftwaffe had in Egypt.
The Luftwaffe even BEING in Egypt when it was a British protectorate in the 1930s.
I could go on, but I won't. You are clearly some sort of overgrown child pining for some movie to take him back to when he was 5 years old watching Raiders of the Lost Ark for the first time. Get with reality: it's not going to happen! And the same goes for everyone who didn't like The Clone Wars. Grr.
An Open Letter To The Genius That Thought Up The Phrase 'Nuking The Fridge'.
Dear Sir,
In your opinion, was the scene in Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull in which the fridge gets nuked more believable or less believable than:
Indiana getting his father's book about the holy grail autographed by Hitler.
Sean Connery making a BF-109 crash using an umbrella.
The Nazis faces melting off when they opened the Ark of the Covenant.
The entire existance of both the Ark of the Covenant and the Holy Grail in the first place.
Club Obi-Wan.
The wierd flying wing that the Luftwaffe had in Egypt.
The Luftwaffe even BEING in Egypt when it was a British protectorate in the 1930s.
I could go on, but I won't. You are clearly some sort of overgrown child pining for some movie to take him back to when he was 5 years old watching Raiders of the Lost Ark for the first time. Get with reality: it's not going to happen! And the same goes for everyone who didn't like The Clone Wars. Grr.
Wednesday, January 07, 2009
An Open Letter
An Open Letter to the Keepers Of Public-Houses In the Fair City of Adelaide.
Stout Yeomen,
There has been a great deal of unhappy talk recently regarding the rise of glass-related crimes within licensed venues. I humbly venture within the confines of this enblogment a solution.
A casual perusal of the crime statistics for the entire Viking era (650-980AD) shows no 'glassings' at all. This is because the Vikings, though reknowned for their drinking prowess, did not use glass at all. What did they use, I hear you ask? Something far more manly: cow horns.
As most vegetarians are wont to rabbit on about ad nauseam, cows bugger up the environment and give everyone herpes*. Thus, two birds may be killed with one stone. Lightly slay a few thousand head of prime beef, lop their horns off and use them instead of schooners. You could even use little baby horns for the poofter drinks.
*or something.
Stout Yeomen,
There has been a great deal of unhappy talk recently regarding the rise of glass-related crimes within licensed venues. I humbly venture within the confines of this enblogment a solution.
A casual perusal of the crime statistics for the entire Viking era (650-980AD) shows no 'glassings' at all. This is because the Vikings, though reknowned for their drinking prowess, did not use glass at all. What did they use, I hear you ask? Something far more manly: cow horns.
As most vegetarians are wont to rabbit on about ad nauseam, cows bugger up the environment and give everyone herpes*. Thus, two birds may be killed with one stone. Lightly slay a few thousand head of prime beef, lop their horns off and use them instead of schooners. You could even use little baby horns for the poofter drinks.
*or something.
Monday, January 05, 2009
Fun fun fun with piratical puns!
Q. Why are there never any aspirins on pirate ships?
A. Because the parrots-eat-'em-all.
Arr.
A. Because the parrots-eat-'em-all.
Arr.
Saturday, January 03, 2009
Random Doobings
"Right!" cried Captain Doobie, leaping forward, "we'll soon get to the bottom of this!"
While Goodtime Slim pinned the old man's hands securely to his side, Captain Doobie peeled off the latex mask to reveal none other than...
"Adolf Hitler!" both men cried in unison.
"Correct!" roared the Fuhrer, "I'm back!"
"Crikey," commented Captain Doobie, "it must have been a long road back, what with the Russians and escaping to South America and getting punched in the cock and all."
"What?" queried the nasty little man with the stupid moustache, "I conquered all of Europe, but I never got punched in the cock."
"Oh, sorry," replied Captain Doobie, punching him in the cock, "forgot."
The small figure writhed on the floor. "And that," Captain Doobie told him, "was for the Jews, and World War Two, and...and...and well, just bloody everything!"
While Goodtime Slim pinned the old man's hands securely to his side, Captain Doobie peeled off the latex mask to reveal none other than...
"Adolf Hitler!" both men cried in unison.
"Correct!" roared the Fuhrer, "I'm back!"
"Crikey," commented Captain Doobie, "it must have been a long road back, what with the Russians and escaping to South America and getting punched in the cock and all."
"What?" queried the nasty little man with the stupid moustache, "I conquered all of Europe, but I never got punched in the cock."
"Oh, sorry," replied Captain Doobie, punching him in the cock, "forgot."
The small figure writhed on the floor. "And that," Captain Doobie told him, "was for the Jews, and World War Two, and...and...and well, just bloody everything!"
Thursday, January 01, 2009
Year Of The Zeppelin
Its has been brought to my attention that this new, current year (2009) is not actually the year of anything. Usually every new year we're treated to a slew of tweely well meaning 'things' that the year can be, for example:
1997: The Year of the Volunteer
2002: The Year of the Environment
2003: The Year of Not Blowing Up Orphanages
2010: The Year We Make Contact
You get the idea. This year however (notwithstanding my not bothering to check in the slightest) this year appears to be the year of nothing. So i'd like to proclaim this year to be the Year of the Zeppelin. Let's face it, dirigibles have had a pretty bad run in the last century, what with the bombing raids over London and the Hindenberg Disaster and all, so I thought it might be a nice gesture if we all got together and let the old gasbags know we're still thinking of them. Lighter than air travel: it's the way of the future (and Nazi Germany).
1997: The Year of the Volunteer
2002: The Year of the Environment
2003: The Year of Not Blowing Up Orphanages
2010: The Year We Make Contact
You get the idea. This year however (notwithstanding my not bothering to check in the slightest) this year appears to be the year of nothing. So i'd like to proclaim this year to be the Year of the Zeppelin. Let's face it, dirigibles have had a pretty bad run in the last century, what with the bombing raids over London and the Hindenberg Disaster and all, so I thought it might be a nice gesture if we all got together and let the old gasbags know we're still thinking of them. Lighter than air travel: it's the way of the future (and Nazi Germany).
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Random Doobings
"So let me get this straight," Goodtime Slim told Captain Doobie, "it turns out that your grandmother was incredibly rich?"
"That's right."
"But she was also certifiably insane."
"Yup."
Goodtime Slim pondered this. "You know, technically that makes her a supervillain," he said.
This time it was Captain Doobie's turn to think and eager to show that he was up to the task, he ploughed right in. "Wow," he said, "I suppose she was. Who knows, she might have gone around wearing a stupid costume and trying to kill Jesus."
Goodtime Slim sighed. "We've had this conversation before," he said wearily, "Jesus was not a superhero."
"Pig's arse he wasn't! He could fly and everything!"
"That's right."
"But she was also certifiably insane."
"Yup."
Goodtime Slim pondered this. "You know, technically that makes her a supervillain," he said.
This time it was Captain Doobie's turn to think and eager to show that he was up to the task, he ploughed right in. "Wow," he said, "I suppose she was. Who knows, she might have gone around wearing a stupid costume and trying to kill Jesus."
Goodtime Slim sighed. "We've had this conversation before," he said wearily, "Jesus was not a superhero."
"Pig's arse he wasn't! He could fly and everything!"
Thursday, December 25, 2008
Merry Christmas To All My Readers
‘Twas the night before Christmas,
and after the movie,
not a creature was stirring,
except Captain Doobie.
Goodtime Slim had long gone to bed,
With visions of sugarplums lodged in his head,
Or something otherwise suitably twee,
That kept him asleep at a quarter to three.
But the good Captain stood in anticipation,
Waiting for Santa to stop at the station,
Marked ‘Doobie and Slim’, that he’d put up on the roof,
Whilst spreading the araldite to trap every hoof.
But after a while Santa didn’t appear,
Captain Doobie doubted he’d ever get here,
Then just as his head it started to nod,
There came from the roof, “You stupid old sod!”
With a gasp Captain Doobie rushed out to the rope,
(that had led to the roof since their brush with the Pope),
straight up to the roof he struggled to climb,
and when he got there, what should he find?
There was Dasher and Dancer, Donner and Blitzen,
And Santa himself, who got quite the shits when,
He spied Captain Doobie climbing over the gutter,
So he started shouting and yelling and being a nutter,
“I should have bloody well known it was you!”
he cried, “when the reindeers landed in all of this glue!
Then one of the reindeers started to yell,
“Don’t tear strips off of him, it’s your fault as well!”
“Who’s the smart bastard who decided to stay,
For an hour and a half at that beachhouse in L.A.?
Don’t stand there and blame it all on some slacker,
When you’ve been off chasing little miss Christmas Cracker!”
Well old Santa blushed crimson right down to his beard,
Then sighing he mumbled, “it’s just as I feared,
I suppose it’s my own fault for planting the seed,
But you’re well out of order, this is mutiny, Queeg!”
But then Captain Doobie excused his involvement,
And pulled out a tin of industrial solvent,
And got down to work to unstick the hoofs,
Hearing several muttered “Wanker”s and a couple of “Poof”s.
When he was done he went over to Santa,
And said, “Well, they’re free, now they can gallop and canter.”
But the merry old fellow just shook his grey head,
“It’s no bloody good now, we’ve lost it,” he said.
Naturally Captain Doobie asked him why,
And when he told him there came a gleam in his eye,
And he dashed off downstairs to look in the cupboard,
While Santa and Co stood and recovered.
When he returned Santa looked a bit glum,
But the Captain smiled and whispered, “Don’t worry, chum,
I’ve got something here that will do just the trick,
You’ll finish the job off particularly quick.”
And with that he walked behind every reindeer,
Who nervously shouted and whinneyed in fear,
Then Santa jumped on his sleigh and flew off like a rocket,
And Captain Doobie slipped something back into his pocket.
The very next morning, ‘midst Coco-pops and Milo,
As Goodtime Slim was admiring his new Christmas biro,
They saw on The Advertiser the heartwarming sight,
Of Santa (with reindeer) photographed in full flight.
“It says here that Santa was very late on his round,”
read Goodtime Slim as he shovelled his cereal down,
“And they say he might even have not made it through,
except for the last hour when he really flew.”
Goodtime Slim wondered aloud, “but how could it be,
When reindeers already fly magically,
How could anything possibly hurry them up?”
But Captain Doobie simply kept his mouth shut.
For it was a secret known only to him, you see,
(and some in the greyhound racing industry),
but as he looks across the room we know what he sees,
the jar on the mantle, half full of chillis.
and after the movie,
not a creature was stirring,
except Captain Doobie.
Goodtime Slim had long gone to bed,
With visions of sugarplums lodged in his head,
Or something otherwise suitably twee,
That kept him asleep at a quarter to three.
But the good Captain stood in anticipation,
Waiting for Santa to stop at the station,
Marked ‘Doobie and Slim’, that he’d put up on the roof,
Whilst spreading the araldite to trap every hoof.
But after a while Santa didn’t appear,
Captain Doobie doubted he’d ever get here,
Then just as his head it started to nod,
There came from the roof, “You stupid old sod!”
With a gasp Captain Doobie rushed out to the rope,
(that had led to the roof since their brush with the Pope),
straight up to the roof he struggled to climb,
and when he got there, what should he find?
There was Dasher and Dancer, Donner and Blitzen,
And Santa himself, who got quite the shits when,
He spied Captain Doobie climbing over the gutter,
So he started shouting and yelling and being a nutter,
“I should have bloody well known it was you!”
he cried, “when the reindeers landed in all of this glue!
Then one of the reindeers started to yell,
“Don’t tear strips off of him, it’s your fault as well!”
“Who’s the smart bastard who decided to stay,
For an hour and a half at that beachhouse in L.A.?
Don’t stand there and blame it all on some slacker,
When you’ve been off chasing little miss Christmas Cracker!”
Well old Santa blushed crimson right down to his beard,
Then sighing he mumbled, “it’s just as I feared,
I suppose it’s my own fault for planting the seed,
But you’re well out of order, this is mutiny, Queeg!”
But then Captain Doobie excused his involvement,
And pulled out a tin of industrial solvent,
And got down to work to unstick the hoofs,
Hearing several muttered “Wanker”s and a couple of “Poof”s.
When he was done he went over to Santa,
And said, “Well, they’re free, now they can gallop and canter.”
But the merry old fellow just shook his grey head,
“It’s no bloody good now, we’ve lost it,” he said.
Naturally Captain Doobie asked him why,
And when he told him there came a gleam in his eye,
And he dashed off downstairs to look in the cupboard,
While Santa and Co stood and recovered.
When he returned Santa looked a bit glum,
But the Captain smiled and whispered, “Don’t worry, chum,
I’ve got something here that will do just the trick,
You’ll finish the job off particularly quick.”
And with that he walked behind every reindeer,
Who nervously shouted and whinneyed in fear,
Then Santa jumped on his sleigh and flew off like a rocket,
And Captain Doobie slipped something back into his pocket.
The very next morning, ‘midst Coco-pops and Milo,
As Goodtime Slim was admiring his new Christmas biro,
They saw on The Advertiser the heartwarming sight,
Of Santa (with reindeer) photographed in full flight.
“It says here that Santa was very late on his round,”
read Goodtime Slim as he shovelled his cereal down,
“And they say he might even have not made it through,
except for the last hour when he really flew.”
Goodtime Slim wondered aloud, “but how could it be,
When reindeers already fly magically,
How could anything possibly hurry them up?”
But Captain Doobie simply kept his mouth shut.
For it was a secret known only to him, you see,
(and some in the greyhound racing industry),
but as he looks across the room we know what he sees,
the jar on the mantle, half full of chillis.
Monday, December 22, 2008
Things Willis May Have Been Talkin' 'Bout.
1. The time Mr Drummond tore off his false moustache in front of the slapper he'd picked up in a bar.
2. The time Arnold shaved his head to look like Mr T.
3. The kickass Cleopatra Jones-style bodyguard that Mr Drummond once hired.
4. The time that he and Arnold pimped it up and their friends from Harlem got the shits.
5. Pearl.
6. Adelaide.
7. Mrs Garrett.
8. The frankly rather tiresome crossover episodes with Mclean Stevenson's stupid sitcom family.
9. The time that Dudley almost got rooted by the guy who owned the bike shop.
10. Kimberley in a bikini.
2. The time Arnold shaved his head to look like Mr T.
3. The kickass Cleopatra Jones-style bodyguard that Mr Drummond once hired.
4. The time that he and Arnold pimped it up and their friends from Harlem got the shits.
5. Pearl.
6. Adelaide.
7. Mrs Garrett.
8. The frankly rather tiresome crossover episodes with Mclean Stevenson's stupid sitcom family.
9. The time that Dudley almost got rooted by the guy who owned the bike shop.
10. Kimberley in a bikini.
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Trouserial Mysogyny.
It's not often that i'm given to bouts of introspection these days, but one such bout recently overtook me.
I'm a fairly well-adjusted sort of a chap who, it must be said, has worn frocks on stage. On stage only, mind you. There was a valid artistic reason, and that was as far as it went. As Laurence Olivier once said, "it's a fine line between good natured horseplay and homosexuality. It's rarely crossed and when it is, it's only ever in the dressing room."
But I digress. Having established my red-blooded, beer-drinking credentials, I found myself wondering the other day what it would be like to wear a dress. Not so much the actual wearing as such, but what would it be like to wake up every morning to have the option of what to wear on the lower half of one's body?
It's a choice that I really can't concieve of. When I arise in the morning and Scrotum, my butler, has laid out my walking-suit, I never stop to consider the possibility that there may be other options out there. I am a man, and therefore I wear trousers. It's as simple as that. Imagine trying to make the choice every morning? You'd go potty in short order. Perhaps that explains the general behaviour of the female population.
Mysogyny is a great thing.
I'm a fairly well-adjusted sort of a chap who, it must be said, has worn frocks on stage. On stage only, mind you. There was a valid artistic reason, and that was as far as it went. As Laurence Olivier once said, "it's a fine line between good natured horseplay and homosexuality. It's rarely crossed and when it is, it's only ever in the dressing room."
But I digress. Having established my red-blooded, beer-drinking credentials, I found myself wondering the other day what it would be like to wear a dress. Not so much the actual wearing as such, but what would it be like to wake up every morning to have the option of what to wear on the lower half of one's body?
It's a choice that I really can't concieve of. When I arise in the morning and Scrotum, my butler, has laid out my walking-suit, I never stop to consider the possibility that there may be other options out there. I am a man, and therefore I wear trousers. It's as simple as that. Imagine trying to make the choice every morning? You'd go potty in short order. Perhaps that explains the general behaviour of the female population.
Mysogyny is a great thing.
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