Somebody help me - I can't stop hoho!
Saturday, October 27, 2007
ANSWERS ON A POSTCARD...
Righto, I found this...article while walkin the boys some time ago and it's lain on my ute floor for ages. I've eventually found the time to post it.
At first I thought it was a novelty handle for a golf club - there's a driving range nearby - but then decided it was too small. It is meant to slide over something I think as it's hollow and has a hole at the top. (So no head eh? the perfect woman hoho!)
I'll tell ye one thing though - she's stacked! Hoho (As the ladies object - "they're not real". LOL)
So, any suggestions?
Mutley and his brother pissed off at 930 this morning; they hadn't returned by 11 so I left too. I returned to the spot several times over the day - still not there. Last time I checked, I just stayed and cleaned the ute and viola, they just wandered over to me out of nowhere.
Seven hours they were tearin around the bush so they got a bit mucky. And it would seem, a bit worn out too!
This is Mutley within 5 minutes of his return:
A closer shot...
Awww - bless im! Ma wee man!
Seven hours they were tearin around the bush so they got a bit mucky. And it would seem, a bit worn out too!
This is Mutley within 5 minutes of his return:
A closer shot...
Awww - bless im! Ma wee man!
EXPERIMENT
Okey dokey, I'm goin to try this; The following is the prologue of a book I've written (nearly - 260 down, bout 140 to go).
Have a look - tell me what you think.
Thank you for your time.
High above the ocean, the lone albatross made its way to the North, as it did every year.
Directly beneath it, deep beneath the smooth, lazy ocean, 450 miles east of Sri Lanka, at the mouth of the Bay of Bengal, a change was afoot. The bedrock had lain quietly for centuries not advertising its presence. Now, like an old arthritic man shifting in bed, the rock did some shifting of its own. The energy of the shift started an almost unnoticeable swell, witnessed only by the albatross soaring above the waves, which squawked in a vocalization of warning and fright. Deep inside, she new what this meant. At the same moment, hundreds of miles away in every direction, on land, animals of all shapes and sizes, with the kind of sixth sense humans would pay handsomely for, registered the shift and deep in their minds knew to start moving from the danger.
With silky-smooth progress, the wall of water travelled unseen towards its destination.
On the bridge of a cruise liner, as the holiday makers frolicked in swimming pools and lounged on deck chairs, the instruments registered a bigger than normal swell which the officer on duty dismissed as an anomaly. Several other ships of varying sizes also had the same reaction.
Silently, the monster beneath the waves rolled on, gathering momentum and power, the devastation to be wrought, hidden. Tourists on the beach at Banda Aceh, unaware of the impending doom, frolicked in the surf, in much the same fashion as the carefree cruisers. As the swell approached land, the water on the beach was sucked towards it, adding to its power, leaving people standing in ankle deep water where previously they had been up to their necks. Confusion seemed to reign with most of the bathers simply gawking at this freak of nature–not connecting the dots.
The behemoth began to rise, drawing up out of the ocean, until it was an unstoppable 15 metre tsunami travelling at 100mph.
Trevor Keys wasn’t a religious man; what he was, however, was a global climate expert, on holiday with his wife and son. He worked for a government department, studying the effect of global warming on weather patterns. He had to liaise with other departments, one of which was Kevin Peters’ department. Kevin was an expert in all things tsunami; causes and results, and had told Trevor that if ever he was on a beach, and witnessed the tide drawing away from him, he was to drop everything and run for his life.
As the ocean retreated, like Moses’ parting of the sea, Trevor did just that. He swept Daniel up in his arms and shouted, ‘Jenny, follow me, right now–hurry’! He reached for her to pull her with him and as he did he saw it. Fear almost paralysed him, ‘oh sweet Jesus’, he muttered, then shouted, ‘Jenny, LET’S GO! And nearly pulled her off her feet as he wrenched her towards him. He started sprinting away towards the beach in the hope of making it to some sort of protection, if not high ground, pulling his wife with him. He ran harder than he’d ever ran in his life; if he could get them to the tree-line, maybe they would have a chance–another hundred yards. He re-doubled his efforts, his heart bursting. His extra effort was more than Jenny could handle and her hand slipped out of his as she stumbled and fell. He pulled up and turned to help her. The monster wave was virtually upon them. They had lost; he hugged his wife and child to him and gritted his teeth, silently praying it would be quick.
The other tourists on the beach didn’t stand a chance either; the wave sped across the shore, sweeping all before it. One second they were there–the next, gone–forever, never to be found. It slammed into the beach development with as much force, completely destroying everything in its path. Boats, furniture, trees and plants, cars, and bodies, thousands of bodies, alive and dead were caught in its deadly grasp.
It was all the more awesome because the entire world saw it moments after it happened, the pictures broadcast almost immediately.
The kind of devastation suffered on Banda Aceh was felt throughout the beaches that surrounded the Bay of Bengal. Hundreds of thousands of people died, the same amount injured, at least. Total villages were swept out of existence. An immediate relief program was launched from multiple nations.
One of the many results of the disaster was the increase in orphans. Human nature (in fact, nature full stop) being what it is, meant that in the process of trying to save the lives of their young ones, many adults perished. The flip side of such sacrifice was that, with so many orphans, came as many predators.
=======================
Acacia avenue could have been any street in a thousand cities. A quiet street in the ‘burbs’, lined with gum trees, with the landscaping round the bottom, the pavement cracked and ruptured by the roots. Several of the neighbours were out in their gardens, tending their lawns, pottering about. Others were indulging in that great Aussie pastime–drinking beer. A group of kids were playing a game of cricket using a makeshift set of stumps, made, rather ingeniously, from the inner rolls of kitchen roll, joined together with sticky tape and filled with paper. A young boy bowls toward his competitor, who swings at the oncoming ball but misses, the ball hitting the stumps.
‘YOU’RE OUT,’ yells the boy, to the chorus of ‘yay’s’ from his team-mates.
The crestfallen batter walks away from the ‘crease’ with his head down and hands the bat, reluctantly, to the next boy.
Inside number 22 lives an old man with his small Jack Russel terrier (he had never married). At this very moment he was just finishing cleaning and preparing himself for his shortly to arrive guest. Freshly ironed trousers and shirt, and clean underwear. He enters the living room and sits in his favourite armchair. On a small coffee table in front of him there is a newspaper, opened at the crossword – it half done, and an envelope. In the envelope was money and on the front was written a name in the typically scrawled and shaky writing of an old, arthritic hand. The clock ticks monotonously, counting down the minutes.
‘It’s almost time, Bessy’, he says to his little dog, who reacts with a frantic wag of her tail. Percy reaches down and gives his long time companion a scratch on the head and behind the ears.
Despite having washed and cleaned himself, Percy has the white saliva collecting at the corners of his mouth. He licks his dry, cracked lips with a moist tongue, the slight wheeze of his elderly lungs audible in the silence of the room. The little dog, finally realising she had got all the attention she was going to get, pro tem, laid her head on her paws with a sigh.
All in the house is quiet, and the old man whispers, almost imperceptibly, ‘she’ll be here soon… she’ll be here soon’. Unlike a lot of men his age, he has never had a problem with impotence and can feel his erection straining against his underwear.
In another city, far on the other side of this wide, brown land, a young girl walks home to the apartment she shares with 3 other girls. Her shoulders are slumped, and her head is bowed. Her body aches, from every orifice having been penetrated, brutally at times, by four ‘clients’. Although she’d had a shower afterwards she could still feel the semen leaking out of her, making her underwear damp. She also felt slightly ill from having performed fellatio on all four as well. When is this going to stop? How do I get out of this? she asked herself.
Oh Lord, help me, she silently wailed.
This is not what she had come here for. She had been promised work as a secretary, in a plush office and had been looking forward to living in this beautiful, free country, carving out a good life for herself, maybe bringing over her family, later. She remembered how excited she had felt at this chance to make something of her life, even when ‘performing’ for the skipper of the boat that brought her here; closing her eyes and thinking ‘this won’t last forever, once I get there, I can forget it ever happened’. Horrified at her current predicament, she despaired.
Reaching her apartment, she hoped there was one of her friends there; she felt the need of some sympathy. Many a night the girls would comfort each other, being as they were, in the same position, often physically. She hoped she would have a few days respite before having to repeat last night’s ordeal.
Have a look - tell me what you think.
Thank you for your time.
High above the ocean, the lone albatross made its way to the North, as it did every year.
Directly beneath it, deep beneath the smooth, lazy ocean, 450 miles east of Sri Lanka, at the mouth of the Bay of Bengal, a change was afoot. The bedrock had lain quietly for centuries not advertising its presence. Now, like an old arthritic man shifting in bed, the rock did some shifting of its own. The energy of the shift started an almost unnoticeable swell, witnessed only by the albatross soaring above the waves, which squawked in a vocalization of warning and fright. Deep inside, she new what this meant. At the same moment, hundreds of miles away in every direction, on land, animals of all shapes and sizes, with the kind of sixth sense humans would pay handsomely for, registered the shift and deep in their minds knew to start moving from the danger.
With silky-smooth progress, the wall of water travelled unseen towards its destination.
On the bridge of a cruise liner, as the holiday makers frolicked in swimming pools and lounged on deck chairs, the instruments registered a bigger than normal swell which the officer on duty dismissed as an anomaly. Several other ships of varying sizes also had the same reaction.
Silently, the monster beneath the waves rolled on, gathering momentum and power, the devastation to be wrought, hidden. Tourists on the beach at Banda Aceh, unaware of the impending doom, frolicked in the surf, in much the same fashion as the carefree cruisers. As the swell approached land, the water on the beach was sucked towards it, adding to its power, leaving people standing in ankle deep water where previously they had been up to their necks. Confusion seemed to reign with most of the bathers simply gawking at this freak of nature–not connecting the dots.
The behemoth began to rise, drawing up out of the ocean, until it was an unstoppable 15 metre tsunami travelling at 100mph.
Trevor Keys wasn’t a religious man; what he was, however, was a global climate expert, on holiday with his wife and son. He worked for a government department, studying the effect of global warming on weather patterns. He had to liaise with other departments, one of which was Kevin Peters’ department. Kevin was an expert in all things tsunami; causes and results, and had told Trevor that if ever he was on a beach, and witnessed the tide drawing away from him, he was to drop everything and run for his life.
As the ocean retreated, like Moses’ parting of the sea, Trevor did just that. He swept Daniel up in his arms and shouted, ‘Jenny, follow me, right now–hurry’! He reached for her to pull her with him and as he did he saw it. Fear almost paralysed him, ‘oh sweet Jesus’, he muttered, then shouted, ‘Jenny, LET’S GO! And nearly pulled her off her feet as he wrenched her towards him. He started sprinting away towards the beach in the hope of making it to some sort of protection, if not high ground, pulling his wife with him. He ran harder than he’d ever ran in his life; if he could get them to the tree-line, maybe they would have a chance–another hundred yards. He re-doubled his efforts, his heart bursting. His extra effort was more than Jenny could handle and her hand slipped out of his as she stumbled and fell. He pulled up and turned to help her. The monster wave was virtually upon them. They had lost; he hugged his wife and child to him and gritted his teeth, silently praying it would be quick.
The other tourists on the beach didn’t stand a chance either; the wave sped across the shore, sweeping all before it. One second they were there–the next, gone–forever, never to be found. It slammed into the beach development with as much force, completely destroying everything in its path. Boats, furniture, trees and plants, cars, and bodies, thousands of bodies, alive and dead were caught in its deadly grasp.
It was all the more awesome because the entire world saw it moments after it happened, the pictures broadcast almost immediately.
The kind of devastation suffered on Banda Aceh was felt throughout the beaches that surrounded the Bay of Bengal. Hundreds of thousands of people died, the same amount injured, at least. Total villages were swept out of existence. An immediate relief program was launched from multiple nations.
One of the many results of the disaster was the increase in orphans. Human nature (in fact, nature full stop) being what it is, meant that in the process of trying to save the lives of their young ones, many adults perished. The flip side of such sacrifice was that, with so many orphans, came as many predators.
=======================
Acacia avenue could have been any street in a thousand cities. A quiet street in the ‘burbs’, lined with gum trees, with the landscaping round the bottom, the pavement cracked and ruptured by the roots. Several of the neighbours were out in their gardens, tending their lawns, pottering about. Others were indulging in that great Aussie pastime–drinking beer. A group of kids were playing a game of cricket using a makeshift set of stumps, made, rather ingeniously, from the inner rolls of kitchen roll, joined together with sticky tape and filled with paper. A young boy bowls toward his competitor, who swings at the oncoming ball but misses, the ball hitting the stumps.
‘YOU’RE OUT,’ yells the boy, to the chorus of ‘yay’s’ from his team-mates.
The crestfallen batter walks away from the ‘crease’ with his head down and hands the bat, reluctantly, to the next boy.
Inside number 22 lives an old man with his small Jack Russel terrier (he had never married). At this very moment he was just finishing cleaning and preparing himself for his shortly to arrive guest. Freshly ironed trousers and shirt, and clean underwear. He enters the living room and sits in his favourite armchair. On a small coffee table in front of him there is a newspaper, opened at the crossword – it half done, and an envelope. In the envelope was money and on the front was written a name in the typically scrawled and shaky writing of an old, arthritic hand. The clock ticks monotonously, counting down the minutes.
‘It’s almost time, Bessy’, he says to his little dog, who reacts with a frantic wag of her tail. Percy reaches down and gives his long time companion a scratch on the head and behind the ears.
Despite having washed and cleaned himself, Percy has the white saliva collecting at the corners of his mouth. He licks his dry, cracked lips with a moist tongue, the slight wheeze of his elderly lungs audible in the silence of the room. The little dog, finally realising she had got all the attention she was going to get, pro tem, laid her head on her paws with a sigh.
All in the house is quiet, and the old man whispers, almost imperceptibly, ‘she’ll be here soon… she’ll be here soon’. Unlike a lot of men his age, he has never had a problem with impotence and can feel his erection straining against his underwear.
In another city, far on the other side of this wide, brown land, a young girl walks home to the apartment she shares with 3 other girls. Her shoulders are slumped, and her head is bowed. Her body aches, from every orifice having been penetrated, brutally at times, by four ‘clients’. Although she’d had a shower afterwards she could still feel the semen leaking out of her, making her underwear damp. She also felt slightly ill from having performed fellatio on all four as well. When is this going to stop? How do I get out of this? she asked herself.
Oh Lord, help me, she silently wailed.
This is not what she had come here for. She had been promised work as a secretary, in a plush office and had been looking forward to living in this beautiful, free country, carving out a good life for herself, maybe bringing over her family, later. She remembered how excited she had felt at this chance to make something of her life, even when ‘performing’ for the skipper of the boat that brought her here; closing her eyes and thinking ‘this won’t last forever, once I get there, I can forget it ever happened’. Horrified at her current predicament, she despaired.
Reaching her apartment, she hoped there was one of her friends there; she felt the need of some sympathy. Many a night the girls would comfort each other, being as they were, in the same position, often physically. She hoped she would have a few days respite before having to repeat last night’s ordeal.
Righto, I'm back.
It's 3:35 - in the AM, to quote "The Wolf" from Pulp Fiction. I'm sitting having just finished my day which began at 9 AM yesterday. I have tea, chocolate and smokes. Woohoo!
And I'm wondering what pearls of wisdom I can relay to the world...
Nope - I got nothing! I WAS going to make a video entitled, "How to roll the perfect rollie", complete with commentary but it's too late - and dark actually. It's not that I can't roll in the dark (roll by feel as it were), but I just can't be arsed just quietly.
There is one thing - just a wee bit. There was a stinker in work tonight; an individual who hasn't yet seemed to embrace the benefits of anti-perspirant. Good God he stank, and much like the "BO" episode of Seinfeld, after he left the vicinity, the odour remained.
Not good. Not good at all. There is absolutely no excuse for body odour - none whatsoever so y'know what I did? I told him. "Hey man, you stink. Seriously, like a dog; can you move?"
Hoho. Too much? Too bad! Smell like that all you want but if you get in my face with your fetid stench then beware.
Enough of this gibberish - time for bed.
It's 3:35 - in the AM, to quote "The Wolf" from Pulp Fiction. I'm sitting having just finished my day which began at 9 AM yesterday. I have tea, chocolate and smokes. Woohoo!
And I'm wondering what pearls of wisdom I can relay to the world...
Nope - I got nothing! I WAS going to make a video entitled, "How to roll the perfect rollie", complete with commentary but it's too late - and dark actually. It's not that I can't roll in the dark (roll by feel as it were), but I just can't be arsed just quietly.
There is one thing - just a wee bit. There was a stinker in work tonight; an individual who hasn't yet seemed to embrace the benefits of anti-perspirant. Good God he stank, and much like the "BO" episode of Seinfeld, after he left the vicinity, the odour remained.
Not good. Not good at all. There is absolutely no excuse for body odour - none whatsoever so y'know what I did? I told him. "Hey man, you stink. Seriously, like a dog; can you move?"
Hoho. Too much? Too bad! Smell like that all you want but if you get in my face with your fetid stench then beware.
Enough of this gibberish - time for bed.
Friday, October 26, 2007
SCREAMER MONKEY V'S KID
"Screamer" is a very apt name for this type of monkey for when excited it does indeed scream - and screech and generally go off.
A friend of mine (we'll call him Matt) was walking with his kids one day not long ago and came across a circus. It was situated on a piece of open ground within the town he lived. So Matt, ever the opportunist, decided to take a wander around the back of it where the animals were kept in cages awaiting their 'performance' to sate the previously mentioned desires.
He passed elephants, lions, horses and various other animals found in circuses, having a look at the menagerie until eventually he came to a cage that held a number of the screamer monkeys; he obviously knew not to get too close for although they presently were still, he could see in their eyes that they were just firecrackers waiting to go off. Wild animals usually are - it's where the 'wild' part comes from!
So, he told his kids to stay back from the bars of cage and just watch from afar. His youngest boy, Peter (not real name), at 9 years old is, and always has been, a bit of a tearaway and although good at heart, often doesn't do what he's told - as in this case.
So Peter, decided that the monkeys didn't look that dangerous and approached them, while his father was distracted.
The animals watched him approach, still silent but wary of this little thing at the cage that smelled different, their eyes never still, senses keen.
Peter as he approached was still unaware of the reason for the name and eyes bright with wonder walked right up to the bars. Still quiet, they're not doing anything really, he thought - and decided to stir things up a bit.
Wee shit that he can be, he rattled the bars with a small stick he had obtained in an effort to elicit a response of some kind...
Well, response he wanted - response he got.
The screamers went off! Completely bananas, screaming and screeching and tearing round the enclosure like the lit firecrackers.
Peter near soiled himself and fell on his arse! Hoho. Oh man, such a picture his face must have been.
His father quickly looked around to see if anyone had been attracted by the mayhem and took off before someone came, hefting a significant whallop to the wee pest that is his youngest son!
A friend of mine (we'll call him Matt) was walking with his kids one day not long ago and came across a circus. It was situated on a piece of open ground within the town he lived. So Matt, ever the opportunist, decided to take a wander around the back of it where the animals were kept in cages awaiting their 'performance' to sate the previously mentioned desires.
He passed elephants, lions, horses and various other animals found in circuses, having a look at the menagerie until eventually he came to a cage that held a number of the screamer monkeys; he obviously knew not to get too close for although they presently were still, he could see in their eyes that they were just firecrackers waiting to go off. Wild animals usually are - it's where the 'wild' part comes from!
So, he told his kids to stay back from the bars of cage and just watch from afar. His youngest boy, Peter (not real name), at 9 years old is, and always has been, a bit of a tearaway and although good at heart, often doesn't do what he's told - as in this case.
So Peter, decided that the monkeys didn't look that dangerous and approached them, while his father was distracted.
The animals watched him approach, still silent but wary of this little thing at the cage that smelled different, their eyes never still, senses keen.
Peter as he approached was still unaware of the reason for the name and eyes bright with wonder walked right up to the bars. Still quiet, they're not doing anything really, he thought - and decided to stir things up a bit.
Wee shit that he can be, he rattled the bars with a small stick he had obtained in an effort to elicit a response of some kind...
Well, response he wanted - response he got.
The screamers went off! Completely bananas, screaming and screeching and tearing round the enclosure like the lit firecrackers.
Peter near soiled himself and fell on his arse! Hoho. Oh man, such a picture his face must have been.
His father quickly looked around to see if anyone had been attracted by the mayhem and took off before someone came, hefting a significant whallop to the wee pest that is his youngest son!
I'm in a rambling mood all of a sudden; don't know why...
There has been talk of late regarding pet shops and the proposed banning thereof. (Good poll question there actually).
For my tuppenceworth, I've never liked pet shops; never liked zoos either for that matter. I don't agree with putting any animal in a cage and the citation that it's to protect and educate just doesn't cut it. In this age of television and the internet, these amazing creatures can easily be viewed in their natural habitat - which, it has to be said, is shrinking by the day and the fact that zoo operators espouse in defence of their cages.
I've never seen a live crocodile. I have, however, seen one on TV - the sort of TV that makes one think one's looking through a window so amazing is the definition.
That's good enough for me and if keeping animals from cages means I never get to view them live then so be it. I am not the issue here. And I won't demand a creature's freedom just to satisfy my selfish urge to ohh and ahh at nature.
Pet shops...well, they're in it for just the money - period. And the sight of the innocent wee puppies, oblivious to whatever fate awaits always has filled me with a certain regret. So much so that I consciously avoid all pet shops. There has always been rumours of 'puppy farms' where, I assume, dogs are spawned and passed on for money without any of the protectative (not sure that's a word but it should be!) measures available. Just a commodity - nothing more.
Steve Price, that poisonous wee dwarf who, hosts an afternoon radio show's first words when learning of the proposed ban, were - "you're goin to ruin a small business just because you don't like pet shops?" (or something similar) How sad that a/ it comes down to money and b/ that some peoples opinions of the matter are belittled by a national voice who should damn well know better, the wee shit.
Have I to remind you that these animals virtually live to please their masters? That they offer their lives in defence of same master? That they become the eyes of him/her?
They work in peace and in war; in sun and shine as they search for the lost and injured.
And all they ask in return is contact with their master; a pat on the head, scratch behind the ears as they pant, pant, pant with an almost smile, their tails wagging like buggery. It makes me smile.
And as for our feathered friends in cages, do NOT get me started!
There has been talk of late regarding pet shops and the proposed banning thereof. (Good poll question there actually).
For my tuppenceworth, I've never liked pet shops; never liked zoos either for that matter. I don't agree with putting any animal in a cage and the citation that it's to protect and educate just doesn't cut it. In this age of television and the internet, these amazing creatures can easily be viewed in their natural habitat - which, it has to be said, is shrinking by the day and the fact that zoo operators espouse in defence of their cages.
I've never seen a live crocodile. I have, however, seen one on TV - the sort of TV that makes one think one's looking through a window so amazing is the definition.
That's good enough for me and if keeping animals from cages means I never get to view them live then so be it. I am not the issue here. And I won't demand a creature's freedom just to satisfy my selfish urge to ohh and ahh at nature.
Pet shops...well, they're in it for just the money - period. And the sight of the innocent wee puppies, oblivious to whatever fate awaits always has filled me with a certain regret. So much so that I consciously avoid all pet shops. There has always been rumours of 'puppy farms' where, I assume, dogs are spawned and passed on for money without any of the protectative (not sure that's a word but it should be!) measures available. Just a commodity - nothing more.
Steve Price, that poisonous wee dwarf who, hosts an afternoon radio show's first words when learning of the proposed ban, were - "you're goin to ruin a small business just because you don't like pet shops?" (or something similar) How sad that a/ it comes down to money and b/ that some peoples opinions of the matter are belittled by a national voice who should damn well know better, the wee shit.
Have I to remind you that these animals virtually live to please their masters? That they offer their lives in defence of same master? That they become the eyes of him/her?
They work in peace and in war; in sun and shine as they search for the lost and injured.
And all they ask in return is contact with their master; a pat on the head, scratch behind the ears as they pant, pant, pant with an almost smile, their tails wagging like buggery. It makes me smile.
And as for our feathered friends in cages, do NOT get me started!
NEW HOME FOR MUTTARS...?
This is my old home; note the colour difference in the roof tiles? I built everything under the 'cleaner' tiles. From the ground up - with my very own hands (with hand tools thank you very much!) Cathedral ceiling with exposed oregon timbers; sunken floor, spiral staircase, bay windows with stained glass in the form of a possum, kangaroo and kookaburra (that's a bird).
Nearly broke my heart!
Can't locate the pic of the potential new one. This is my current one. My boys, although they look like they're dozy and unaware, are guarding it with their lives.
MUTTARS DAY
Well, if it's good enough for the gays and minorities then it's good enough for Muttars.
Therefore I now declare a day of my choosing to be Muttars day. On this day, one must tell the truth - no matter how hard that may be. The truth damnit, the truth.
I'll start ye with a few questions:
1. Have you ever cheated on someone?
2. Have you ever stolen anything?
3. If you drop a piece of food on the floor, do you wipe it off and eat it regardless?
My answers:
1. No
2. Yes
3. Tch, of course - I'm not made of money!
Righto, I shall announce the day soon.
Therefore I now declare a day of my choosing to be Muttars day. On this day, one must tell the truth - no matter how hard that may be. The truth damnit, the truth.
I'll start ye with a few questions:
1. Have you ever cheated on someone?
2. Have you ever stolen anything?
3. If you drop a piece of food on the floor, do you wipe it off and eat it regardless?
My answers:
1. No
2. Yes
3. Tch, of course - I'm not made of money!
Righto, I shall announce the day soon.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
FURTHER TO BELOW'S POST...
November the 18th has been declared the inaugural acceptance day. Inspired by the story (brave apparently) of burns victim Sophie Delezio. Sophie was hit by a car not once, but twice in a short space of time and suffered quite extensive burns resulting in amputation and skin grafts as the medicos attempted to save her life - successfully.
Anyway, a sad story indeed and the catalyst for this new day of acceptance.
The day is an event to celebrate community diversity and foster acceptance of the disabled, elderly, homosexuals (how the f**k did they sneak onto this list...?) and ethnics. Any one, in fact who is treated differently.
Fantastic! Sounds great. Does that then mean I can turn up with my smokes and freely partake without some no mark whinin on about how bad they are for me, or asking that I move, or shielding the little ones from the nasty man and his filthy habit?
Ya - right! Acceptance day my dick!
November the 18th has been declared the inaugural acceptance day. Inspired by the story (brave apparently) of burns victim Sophie Delezio. Sophie was hit by a car not once, but twice in a short space of time and suffered quite extensive burns resulting in amputation and skin grafts as the medicos attempted to save her life - successfully.
Anyway, a sad story indeed and the catalyst for this new day of acceptance.
The day is an event to celebrate community diversity and foster acceptance of the disabled, elderly, homosexuals (how the f**k did they sneak onto this list...?) and ethnics. Any one, in fact who is treated differently.
Fantastic! Sounds great. Does that then mean I can turn up with my smokes and freely partake without some no mark whinin on about how bad they are for me, or asking that I move, or shielding the little ones from the nasty man and his filthy habit?
Ya - right! Acceptance day my dick!
Friday, October 19, 2007
I was flicking through the daily rag yesterday and came across another piece claiming that obesity is killing more people than tobacco products.
So, I'll ask again - when are we going to see the same kind of disgusting images we get on tobacco packets on fast food wrappers.
Pictures of fat-clogged arteries; of behemoth-sized people too wrapped in obesity to move?
Fair's fair - if we smokers are forced to view such images of rotten teeth, amputation etc. Then why should a group now apparently responsible for costing health systems billions the world over, not be faced with the same.
Talk about a witch hunt! Smokers unite! Here at my blog you're welcome (and you can freely smoke without being treated like a leper.
So, I'll ask again - when are we going to see the same kind of disgusting images we get on tobacco packets on fast food wrappers.
Pictures of fat-clogged arteries; of behemoth-sized people too wrapped in obesity to move?
Fair's fair - if we smokers are forced to view such images of rotten teeth, amputation etc. Then why should a group now apparently responsible for costing health systems billions the world over, not be faced with the same.
Talk about a witch hunt! Smokers unite! Here at my blog you're welcome (and you can freely smoke without being treated like a leper.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
ENDGAME
Well, it's nearly over - the rugby world cup that is. And believe it or not, those under achievers, the English (who got hammered in the six nations and who have played poorly throughout the season) are in the final, to play the South African Springboks.
The traditional 'superteams' of world rugby have been eliminated in the quarter finals (New Zealand and Australia). NZ beaten by France, Australia by England (how sore are THEY feeling - Australia that is - they hate England). NZ must be feeling pretty disappointed as well actually.
So it all comes down to Sunday morning in France. Can the Poms be the first team to defend the cup? Or will the Boks ruin the party? The smart money's on the Boks apparently. There has been a lot of talk concerning the different styles of play between the Northern and Southern hemispheres. I don't pretend to understand it fully but it has something to do with the Poms slowing down the play at the breakdown. The Wallabies were crying about it after their defeat.
Fact is, my antipodean cry babies, it's the world cup, and as long as the rules are followed however they're interpreted, you can cry all you want. You were beaten fair and square. Suck it up buddy!
The traditional 'superteams' of world rugby have been eliminated in the quarter finals (New Zealand and Australia). NZ beaten by France, Australia by England (how sore are THEY feeling - Australia that is - they hate England). NZ must be feeling pretty disappointed as well actually.
So it all comes down to Sunday morning in France. Can the Poms be the first team to defend the cup? Or will the Boks ruin the party? The smart money's on the Boks apparently. There has been a lot of talk concerning the different styles of play between the Northern and Southern hemispheres. I don't pretend to understand it fully but it has something to do with the Poms slowing down the play at the breakdown. The Wallabies were crying about it after their defeat.
Fact is, my antipodean cry babies, it's the world cup, and as long as the rules are followed however they're interpreted, you can cry all you want. You were beaten fair and square. Suck it up buddy!
A writer for the Daily Rag by the name of Anita Quigley has written a piece where she speaks of smokers in the typical patronizing way. Anita recently gave it to all and sundry in a diatribe covering everything from politicians to rugby players.
Sounds to me like there's a deeper problem for Ms Quigley (one that a good seein to would sort right out).
Anyway, in her piece, she refers to a report out of Bristol University in England that claims that 90% of mothers who lost a baby to cot death were smokers. Ms Quigley goes on to ask why the fathers weren't considered also. Fair enough I suppose - if you're going to make an outlandish statement like that, you may as well include all comers. We need to be careful here. 90% of women who who experience cot death, smoke ISN'T the same as smoking causes cot death - it's a ridiculous suggestion.
Does that then mean that if those same 90% eat chocolate, that chocolate causes cot death? Course it doesn't. Well this is the same and the big danger with statistics. Statistics don't take coincidence our plain bad luck into consideration.
It's like - 10 people have a certain disease. The boffins search for a pasttime that these 10 people all do and then claim it makes them ill. For example: ten people have Parkinson's disease; these ten people also eat cheese sandwiches regularly. Does this then mean that cheese sandwiches cause Parkinson's disease? Of course not!
Lies, damn lies, and statistics, someone once said.
Sounds to me like there's a deeper problem for Ms Quigley (one that a good seein to would sort right out).
Anyway, in her piece, she refers to a report out of Bristol University in England that claims that 90% of mothers who lost a baby to cot death were smokers. Ms Quigley goes on to ask why the fathers weren't considered also. Fair enough I suppose - if you're going to make an outlandish statement like that, you may as well include all comers. We need to be careful here. 90% of women who who experience cot death, smoke ISN'T the same as smoking causes cot death - it's a ridiculous suggestion.
Does that then mean that if those same 90% eat chocolate, that chocolate causes cot death? Course it doesn't. Well this is the same and the big danger with statistics. Statistics don't take coincidence our plain bad luck into consideration.
It's like - 10 people have a certain disease. The boffins search for a pasttime that these 10 people all do and then claim it makes them ill. For example: ten people have Parkinson's disease; these ten people also eat cheese sandwiches regularly. Does this then mean that cheese sandwiches cause Parkinson's disease? Of course not!
Lies, damn lies, and statistics, someone once said.
MOTOR SHOW
Written in a report on the Australian motor show:
"For everyone who has found themselves red-faced when trying to parallel park, here is the solution.
A car that can park itself".
It seems Lexus, that symbol of wealth, has designed a vehicle that "uses a rear camera and ultrasonic sensors to identify parking spaces and then calculates the correct steering angle to guide you into the chosen spot".
Funny, I thought eyes were the old-fashioned way and I'm almost certain I had to park in such a way in my driving test many moons ago before I was passed.
I've spoken of this before; that being that modern vehicles are built with a plethora of safety features (air bags and the like) almost like it's a given they're going to be crashed.
No-one has yet considered teaching morons to drive right. Sure just make the vehicle resemble a tank and crash away. Doesn't matter about the other driver whose car (and at time life) is completely destroyed by your tank. And it's similar to the reversing sensors that already some forward thinker has capitalized on. This was because some dickhead ran over herf bloody kid while trying to reverse her four-wheel drive car in her driveway. So the boffins said, "I know, we'll make a reversing camera so the morons can see what's behind them. Wonder what's wrong with saying "hey kiddie, I'm reversing here - stay away from the vehicle". But no - the dopey Joe (joesephine in this case needs to be taken by the hand and all responsibility for their actions removed.
And now,we have a car that parks itself. So what happens (as often does) if the sensor, or other superduper latest technology packs in? What then? Does the driver just drive around all day looking for another parking spot? Call their butler? (coz only those who could afford a butler could afford this vehicle at a cool $250,000).
I'm all for inventive technology but when it starts to impose on activities that should be handled manually, things will just deteriorate. Just wait and see. Drivers (loosely speaking of course) are going to get much worse God help me with all this equipment to do their job for them.
Get them all of the bloody road!
"For everyone who has found themselves red-faced when trying to parallel park, here is the solution.
A car that can park itself".
It seems Lexus, that symbol of wealth, has designed a vehicle that "uses a rear camera and ultrasonic sensors to identify parking spaces and then calculates the correct steering angle to guide you into the chosen spot".
Funny, I thought eyes were the old-fashioned way and I'm almost certain I had to park in such a way in my driving test many moons ago before I was passed.
I've spoken of this before; that being that modern vehicles are built with a plethora of safety features (air bags and the like) almost like it's a given they're going to be crashed.
No-one has yet considered teaching morons to drive right. Sure just make the vehicle resemble a tank and crash away. Doesn't matter about the other driver whose car (and at time life) is completely destroyed by your tank. And it's similar to the reversing sensors that already some forward thinker has capitalized on. This was because some dickhead ran over herf bloody kid while trying to reverse her four-wheel drive car in her driveway. So the boffins said, "I know, we'll make a reversing camera so the morons can see what's behind them. Wonder what's wrong with saying "hey kiddie, I'm reversing here - stay away from the vehicle". But no - the dopey Joe (joesephine in this case needs to be taken by the hand and all responsibility for their actions removed.
And now,we have a car that parks itself. So what happens (as often does) if the sensor, or other superduper latest technology packs in? What then? Does the driver just drive around all day looking for another parking spot? Call their butler? (coz only those who could afford a butler could afford this vehicle at a cool $250,000).
I'm all for inventive technology but when it starts to impose on activities that should be handled manually, things will just deteriorate. Just wait and see. Drivers (loosely speaking of course) are going to get much worse God help me with all this equipment to do their job for them.
Get them all of the bloody road!
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Saturday, October 13, 2007
NOBEL OUTRAGE
Alfred must be turning in his grave.
One of his esteemed awards has been given to that shyster Al Gore. That charlatan, liar, manipulator of the dull and ignorant has been awarded the peace prize.
Recently, In the UK, a high court judge has ruled that Gore's "masterpiece" for which he won an award (there's the Academy's credibility shot along with Alfred Nobel's) can only be shown in schools and colleges with an accompanying side note pointing out the 9 (there's actually 11) disputable claims within.
See, he focuses on the families with the young children. And the parents are all, "oh no, we have to save the planet for our kiddies". And Gore exploits it to the nth degree (while being driven in a "gas-guzzler" by his butler to the bank no doubt).
Inflammation and scare tactics is what drives this film. And finally, someone has stood up and declared it what it is - a one-sided opinion of a power hungry failed would be president. Rumour has it, however, that he will try again on the back of such a prize.
I can just imagine dinner in the Gore house (that McMansion which uses more energy in ONE month as the average American's does in ONE YEAR).
Gore: "Hoho, Betty (we'll call her Betty in place of her real name - which I don't know), I can't believe they're swallowing this!"
Betty: "I know dear - you're a genius. More caviar? Where are we flying the Lear jet to THIS weekend?"
Nobel prize indeed! Tch! Such a sham.
One of his esteemed awards has been given to that shyster Al Gore. That charlatan, liar, manipulator of the dull and ignorant has been awarded the peace prize.
Recently, In the UK, a high court judge has ruled that Gore's "masterpiece" for which he won an award (there's the Academy's credibility shot along with Alfred Nobel's) can only be shown in schools and colleges with an accompanying side note pointing out the 9 (there's actually 11) disputable claims within.
See, he focuses on the families with the young children. And the parents are all, "oh no, we have to save the planet for our kiddies". And Gore exploits it to the nth degree (while being driven in a "gas-guzzler" by his butler to the bank no doubt).
Inflammation and scare tactics is what drives this film. And finally, someone has stood up and declared it what it is - a one-sided opinion of a power hungry failed would be president. Rumour has it, however, that he will try again on the back of such a prize.
I can just imagine dinner in the Gore house (that McMansion which uses more energy in ONE month as the average American's does in ONE YEAR).
Gore: "Hoho, Betty (we'll call her Betty in place of her real name - which I don't know), I can't believe they're swallowing this!"
Betty: "I know dear - you're a genius. More caviar? Where are we flying the Lear jet to THIS weekend?"
Nobel prize indeed! Tch! Such a sham.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
