Saturday, February 27, 2010

A post II: The Power of Chuck

Gasp! A fortnight without a post. Okay, not dire, but cyber-cobwebs form fast.

So, to keep this blog a rockin', here are two Chuck Norris toons that I'm sure many have seen, but they bring a smile to my face. So enjoy.


Also, happy to report a 33.3% increase in the The Followship. Jolly good effort. The campaign is well on track: "Experiencing Technical Difficulties Followship to be acknowledged as a religion by the 2020 Australian census".

Saturday, February 13, 2010

A Fallsy Fable

The mental energy exuded by people in devising the most surefire ways to smuggle booze into a music festival (or, if you are an Australian and 16-19 years old, into anything) must be enough to, if put together, create, I dunno, some really cool laser-y thing.

It would sure be enough brain power that, if put in the hands of the Empire, would allow them to come up with some better Storm Trooper armor (why lug all that white junk around if you are going to go down after one laser hit from a Rebel's blaster?)

Now, I say fable. But this is actually true and was told to me by a Falls Festival veteran. But it didn't actually happen to me, so I can't say it happened for sure. But I'm sticking with it (A Fallsy Non-Fiction, and A Fallsy Fa-shizzle were admittedly close runners-up.)

But hey, before I do something annoying like getting bogged down, here's the "fable".

For those unfamiliar with Marion Bay, the place at which the Tasmanian Falls Festival is held, it is not exactly a suburb. In fact, come to think of it, it's not exactly anything. I believe one refers to places like these as localities- akin to some of those annoying "towns" in Mid-western N.S.W that, whilst on a long leg of a "seemed like a good idea at the time" road trip to Queensland, pouring over a map to find the next urinal/gumtree, you think 'awesome, a town, we'll stop for a McFlurry'. Then, on arrival, you realize it's nothing but an electric fence, cows, and very relaxed looking Kangaroos on the side of the road that mummy assures you 'are just sleeping, dear'.

So basically, Marion Bay is in Farmville, only with real farmers and fertilizer, not sad sods taking a break from masturbating and Warcraft.

The organizers have a deal with some of these farmers, primarily the one's on the only road into the property at which Falls occurs, to narc out suspicious activity. You see, remarkably, the pillpoppers, pushers, and pissheads (a.k.a all festival patrons) tend to leave the "Where we gonna stash the stash, man" debate until five minutes before the first checkpoint. I guess, as the old saying goes, they eat pressure. (That said, on any given day, you'll find these people in a state where they'll eat just about anything.)

On the first morning of the festival a couple of years back, a car full of Falls-ers pulled up into a driveway where suspicious actions transpired. However, it was all rather inconspicuous. Absent were last minute attempts to find a better hiding place for those little plastic bags of white joy. Also not to be seen was the 11th hour transference of Smirnoff into Pantene bottles (Trust me, after rinsing out a shampoo bottle to the point where you lose count, you'll still get one weird tasting vodka).

But still, the fact that they pulled over and did... something, for 5 minutes or so prompted Farmer Joe, perhaps partially due to his need for human interaction (see above description of the Marion Bay township), to phone the alcohol checkpoint folks with the number plate and make of the car.

The Falls-ers arrived at the checkpoint. Finally, after toasting in the mean Tassie sun, the officials had something to write home about. To digress ever so slightly, this really does not fit the bill of the checkpoint folks at Falls. Maybe my views are distorted as I was a volunteer- my Taswegian colleagues who were lucky enough to have a motor vehicle at their disposal were rocking up with their wagons laden with 3 eskies filled to the brim with good times. Due to their being part of the "Falls Family" no checks were made. But overall everyone is chilled, even when its non-staff entering.

The car is stopped. The driver gets the Spanish inquisition. The minions commence their search of the vehicle for the holy water/happy pills. They are far more thorough compared to other searches undertaken that day. Who can blame them? After all, there is incentive to confiscate the hidden treats- how else is the staff party at the festival's conclusion so well stocked?

However, no discovery is made. The car was so dry, the only way it could be lamer is if it was electric. The glove box has gloves! The boot has bags! The bags are full of clothes. Clothes! The shampoo smells like... Shampoo! (Though so does Vodka in an emptied shampoo bottle sadly, as already discussed).

The driver is putting on a good show as well- up on his high horse, expounding his good virtues, speaking of how he and his peeps (do the kids still say that?) are all about the music and just having fun ('fun without booze? 'May I see your birth certificate, sir?')

The gatekeepers are crestfallen. The minions are recalled. But as Harvey Dent says, 'the night is darkest just before the dawn'. The driver, still wiping his brow after frothing up to the point of impersonating an epileptic, hops back into the car and lands hard on the seat...


After a fair but firm execution of the old would-you-mind-stepping-out-of-the-vehicle routine, it was revealed that this particular band of Falls-ers had opened up the innards of each car seat and stuffed them with cans of their favorite party juice. Obviously, for the whole day the driver and passengers had been quite meticulous in the way they planted their backsides on the seats, and presumably the 11th hour stop off at Farmer Joe's was to check there was no sign of a Boags Draught rearing its ugly, yet so alluring, head.

Alas, so close to the finish line, on the precipice of hatching their scheme, the driver, still caught up in a fit of self-generated, overcompensating rage, blew their cover.

The seat cover that is (dohoho, see what I did there?)

Friday, February 12, 2010

The Canberry Juice

In aboriginal, Canberra means "meeting place". Obviously, those participating in this meeting had their GPS go SkyNet on their ass halfway there, because this rendezvous point lacked a certain element.

A human element to be exact.

On arrival, it was quieter than a monastery. An amigo said 'gee, this place has a country-town-vibe'. I said 'yes, if that country town's doomsday siren had just blared'.

Being harsh? Well, yes.

You see this was merely Sunday evening and by the end of my week's stay, our fair capital, the vacuum to the dust on the carpet that is our hard earned income, had picked itself up off the mat, proceeded to roll up it's sleeves and reveal itself to be tattooed with several night spots I'd be happy to have airlifted back to Melbourne.

What's that? Do I have a preferred drop-zone for the nominated night-spots? But of-course....

Brunswick Street. On top of vegetarian places that consider Tofu to be something more than glorified rubber.

Given Brunswick Street is Melbourne's hub for the black skivvy/hemp dress/bike-riding-because-it-saves-Penguins/I-have-a-reusable-green-bag-so-I-am-morally-superior-to-all-others brigade, I may need reinforcements for my bombing plans.

Onto things slightly less militant, I went to the High Court. Some crazy foos had sued me because they alleged the rights to my idea for carbonating soda, adding poop-coloured food dye, then marketing it as a refreshing soft-drink, and novels about a bunch of young, shimmering and clearly gay vampires and werewolves, were already owned by some randoms.

At least my novels ended better:

Interestingly, the brochure (the one from the tour I went on in case you hadn't taken a stab at one of the more likely reasons I was at the High Court) had written down that former Chief Justice Anthony F. Mason served from 1792 to 1987. I am told it was Tony "the mace" Mason's 195 years on the bench that triggered the ultimately successful movement to have judges retire at 70 in Australia.

They knew changes needed to be made when the Pre-Hearing Thaw (PHT) became a standard operating procedure.

I'd like to tell more, but the rest was all suit, tie and work.

Well, I say tie. I sure did pack one at least. Can't argue with that.

Saturday, February 6, 2010

I shall return...

I Figured I'd make it official that I'm Canberra-ing it up until Friday night. Subsequently I will be hamstrung with low computer access to the extent I will not be able to do you, (insert name here), justice

But before you go hop into your favourite crawl space, assume the foetal position, and cry your eyes red longing for the good ol' days, I have a good yarn ready to spin as soon as I get back.

Remember this amigos: 'It's not a lie if you believe it'- G.L. Costanza

Thursday, February 4, 2010

Putting it in perspective

In we trust.

Wednesday, February 3, 2010

My doppelganger

Doppelganger Week. It's the latest craze to hit the attention-deficit beleaguered, abbreviation-obsessed, "Like, you know, whatever" brigade on facebook...

And it feels so good!

Yes, even Doppel-rama/Ganger-mania has swept me off my feet and into the realm of Google Images. Yes, yes, theres that contraption, but I'm a traditionalist. In the words of David Brent: 'Sue me!'

At the Day Out of Large Proportions a couple of weeks ago, Cousinman and Lord Millward made mention of my likeness to American comedian Rich Hall.

That's all well and good. Others have agreed. But I can't help but feel this is more a reflection of my lacklustre attitude to things, as opposed to my looks.

But then, just before I pulled myself out of the sticky nightclub floor that is Google Images, I found this:

So, by the law of transitivity, my doppelganger is... oh no, oh god no!

Wait! Hope still remains:

As much as a step up from a loner liquor proprietor to a cloth merchant with his own infomercial actually is, Doppelganger Week reminds me of the wisdom put forward by Sir (well, he should be) Samuel L. Jackson in Pulp Fiction: 'If my answers frighten you, then you should cease asking scary questions'.


Ein großes Dankeschön an Rutherford Jones für die folgenden:

Tuesday, February 2, 2010

'Er... Possums. Yes, yes, that'll do.'

You know when you are standing on a train platform and as the train approaches you are suddenly filled with a burning desire to push the person next to you onto the tracks?...

What is up with that?

Oh... Just me huh? Hmmm...

Anyway, now that I've got your attention, I want to tell a little story. I suppose this one goes out to anyone who is in the middle of trying to hold together a lie (be it of the white, or perhaps more serious variety). Perhaps this will engender/embiggen some confidence in you- that even when your opponent discovers what they may consider a silver-bullet, exposing your wrongdoing, if you think on your feet, THE JIG IS NOT UP!

I used to work at a car rental company. After monotonously detailing 21 seat party buses during my Sunday shift (the floor stickier than a shoddy Hawthorn nightclub, the air contaminated by the aroma of the "giving back" by uni first years of what they took from the open bar) you tended to experience a feeling of euphoria when the boss called time.

As I walked back to my car, with a feeling of "if I can get a melted Chuppa-Chup stain out of the front passenger seat head-rest, I can do anything", I decided to let my feeling of greatness manifest itself.

The only prop I needed was my car.

I slowly built my walk into a jog, then a sprint. I have seen folk do this on the TV all the time, so how hard could it be? As I approached the front left of my car, I jumped forward, planting my rear on the bonnet and proceeding to slide majestically across to the right front of the car. Then swinging my legs from left to right, I dismounted just in front of the driver's door.

Oh man, what brilliance, what grace!

But then the demon angel of Karma reared her head. I looked back from whence I came. My very hip and with-it black cargo shorts had left an almighty black stain, about 3cm in width and 30cm in length over what is, for the most part, a Cherry-Ripe red Corolla.

Oh, and in the interests of full disclosure, it was not strictly speaking my car but my Dad's car. Oh dear.

He may not notice for a while, but he'll expose me for my doings eventually. You see, like the setting of the sun, like the annual paying of tax to the government to spend on shiny plaques, junkets and Art History course funding, like the inevitable playing of Green Day's Time of Your Life at a year 12 break up, it was going to happen.

But then, using my world renowned ("world" meaning my bedroom) thinking-on-my-feet-ness, I hatched a plan. All it required was the parking of my car about 5m further down the driveway, under a large tree.

When father discovered the mark and took me out to the car to look at it, all it required was a puzzled look, mixed with the stroke of the chin, a look up from the car to the tree...

I do feel some remorse for making free-falling Possums the scapegoat for my poorly executed, euphoria-fueled attempt at being a 1970's TV cop. But at least I have learned from my mistake..

Next time, lubricate the bonnet and don your old wetsuit.

Slide on, folks!... Slide on.