Mechanically Separated Chicken.

Sunday, April 28, 2002


The smoking gun has an impressive list of entertaining backstage riders requested by various performers, from Moby to Prince to Kenny G. There are some gems to be found, ranging from the reasonable (like Sting and Beck) to Cher's wig room and the ten different salad dressings David Copperfield wants on hand at all times.

And hey, here's a tip: if Brian Wilson or indeed anyone from the Beach Boys approaches you with a cigarette and asks you for a light, whatever you do, make sure your lighter's "NOT GREEN!"

In other news, a new eatery called 'A Clockwork Cafe' has just opened up a few doors down from where I work, and considering that the artwork for their sign is totally ripped off from the 'Clockwork Orange' movie poster, I'm greatly disappointed by the lack of nadsat menu items. No moloko. No milk plus. No mounch-plates or eggyweg sandwiches. No 'red red vino'. Not even a fucking "chicken focaccia with rocket, sundried tomatoes and lashings of the old ultra-violence."

Never mind. I shall distract myself with these unusual fortune cookies. Apparently they're all real. Even this one. And this one.

Monday, April 22, 2002

Manties. Again.

In response to the high number of queries our service desk has been receiving regarding men wearing panties, our team has collected a number of testimonials from satisfied Manties customers:

"So silky and soft, yet roomy enough to accommodate my entire ball sac. I love them!"
Ethan Hawke, janitor.

"I've got a stiffy just thinking about it."
Harold Bishop, jewel thief.

"Disgraceful. I'm appalled by this smutty innuendo."
Sidney James, gymnast.

"Every minute of every day, I feel my testicles caressed by a powerful yet erotic satin glove. I never want it to end."
Sarah Jessica Parker, pharaoh.

"My sales figures are up 400% and I owe it all to wearing Manties!"
Noam Chomsky, real estate agent.

"Tsk. Isn't this all just a tad undergraduate?"
Bert Newton, transient hobo.

"Tying up all the little bows each morning before work is a real bitch, but well worth it when I see the admiring glances I'm getting from my colleagues!"
Phillip Ruddock, part-time sandwich-hand.

"My wife loves them too! Now she can carry a 300g salad onion down the front of her underpants all day, just the way she's always wanted to! Thank you, Manties!"
Darth Vader, antique dealer.

Saturday, April 20, 2002

Welcome, perverts!

I'd like to take this opportunity to greet the surprising number of visitors from all over the globe who have arrived at this blog as a result of searching for "men in panties" on Google:

Welcome. Take a load off. Make yourself at home.

The cigars are over there, the chesterfield sofas are over there, and the trestle tables piled high with fresh, silky, aromatic 'manties' are over there by the water cooler. Help yourself, buddy.

Wednesday, April 17, 2002


Off. On. The light blinked at him through his closed eyelids.

Off. It took a few minutes for him to open his eyes and even then he couldn't be sure if they were really open. They felt sticky, as though smeared with jam, and it was dark everywhere; the same colour outside his head as in. Pitch black.

Well, except for that fucking green LCD blinking overhead. At least it looked like an LCD, from what he remembered of them. Bellow supposed it could have been a retrofit of some kind like those old coldcan trectors sometimes had, but it looked pretty 2D. It was too far away to read, but he thought he saw numbers.

And goddamn, his head hurt.

An electrical cord brushed against his face and, panicked, he swatted it out of the way with a drunken, uncoordinated kung-fu move that even in his half-conscious state he felt vaguely ashamed of. He tried to get up and succeeded only in filling his body with a sickening white-hot pain that originated at his elbows; after gritting his teeth in silence for a few seconds he checked them with his hands and found them wet. Gingerly, he ran his palms over the rest of himself. Arms, face, chest, stomach.

And it was at this point that he realised that he had no legs.

No. Fucking. Legs.

A sound went off inside his head like a siren or a chorus of shrieking slaughterhouse pigs and he began to hyperventilate. His neck went rigid and a series of images of shredded meat flashed though his mind; almost involuntarily, he began thumping his fists against the floor.

Gradually he became aware that he was moving. Although his sense of direction was shot and it felt like he was lost in zero-grav, he could feel his head grating slowly against the broken concrete or whatever it was he was lying on. In increments, he was being dragged in the direction his feet should have been in.

Bellow began to cry. He tried to turn on his side and struck out impotently, hoping to hit something; a snout maybe, or a face. But the struggling did him no good, and whatever was pulling him started to pull faster. He tried to grab onto the cord but it slid away from him, or he from it, faster than his fingers could react.

And all of a sudden he lost his grip on everything, as in a single quick, slippery movement he slid downwards through a hole in the floor, into an entirely different room.

He had legs after all -- a trickle of moonlight from a broken window above his head showed him that -- but he couldn't feel them, much less move them. That didn't matter though; just the fact that he was whole and could see his surroundings was enough for now. Looking up, he saw the hole in the ceiling he must have been stuck in at the waist before gravity brought him crashing down. There was an upturned table to his left and an old fashioned plasmaboard smooshed against the far doorway with its screen half-melted. It was covered in black dust and there seemed to be something drawn on it. A gylph, or a child's picture.

He squinted and spent the next four hours trying to work it out. Eventually, morning arrived and the dull early sunlight puddled through the window and allowed him to read it clearly:


The words looked like they'd been etched in the soot with a finger, and underneath them ran two columns of numbers and a diagram that looked a bit like a jumble of triangles but more like a badly-drawn tortoise. The light also revealed that although the plasmaboard was jammed in the doorway pretty tight, there was a good two feet left clear between it and the ground.

"Great," said Bellow aloud, "Really, really great," and wincing, began to drag himself across the floor towards it with his crippled arms.

My name is Frank. Yes, I am a robot. Don't mail me and make fun of me because I am a robot.

To the best of my knowledge, Robot Frank is the only robot currently maintaining his own website. He has adventures. He also has a lion-head hat, a george foreman grill and a cold, black heart. When asked if the glass is half-full or half-empty, Frank replies, "My glass is half-full. Yours is half-empty."

Frank would like nothing better than to crush your bones with the awesome might of his mechanical robot fist but he does, however, have a soft spot for Gary Coleman and would like you to send Gary some toy trains.

Frank is a fearsome robot, and I'd like to see some kind of deathmatch between him and Chengwin. Chengwin is a kind, graceful and gentlemanly half-chicken/half-penguin whose foes include the evil Chunk (half-chicken, half-skunk), and Chixon (half-chicken, half Richard Nixon).

They seem suitable sparring partners, and I, for one, would pay good money to see steel and feathers locked in mortal combat.

Friday, April 12, 2002

Don't put a lobster on a plate; he'll use his magnet to escape.

If you are as yet uninitiated into the arcane ways of the lobster magnet, I urge you to go now to this exquisite flash video clip. Now. You'll need to turn on your speakers.

And incidentally, Corey Felman's new album is getting spectacular reviews. Freaking genius.