Mechanically Separated Chicken.

Saturday, May 18, 2002

Awkward Retail Conversations.

Customer: What's this shiraz like? Easy to drink?
Me: Absolutely. As opposed to this one here [indicates different wine], which is extremely difficult to drink.
Customer: Really?
Me: Yes. Because, you see, it's a solid.
Me: Solid wine.
Me: Kinda like a salt-lick.

Customer: ... So yeah, the council's totally irresponsible when it comes to building permits. The new block of units they're building next to our house is going to overlook our back yard. With balconies. I'm worried about lack of privacy most of all.
Me: Yeah, we've got the same deal where I live too.
Customer: I mean, it's not that we wander around the garden naked or anything, but still...
Customer's nine-year-old-daughter: Yes we do! We do all the time!
Me: We do too. Or, we did, until we realised people could see us.
Customer: [looks at nine-year-old daughter, then at me] Hrm.

Customer: [points at wine] What's this wine like? Is it terrible?
Me: Yes.
Customer: What?
Me: Yes, it's terrible.
Me: Also, it's poisonous.

Customer: Is this vodka?
Me: No, actually it's wine.
Customer: Aaaah. Is it made from vodka?
Me: No, wine's made from grapes, whereas vodka's made from grain or something, I think. Vodka's a spirit.
Customer: Aaaah. Is this vodka?
Me: No, that's wine too. In fact, we only sell wine. The pub on the corner has a bottle shop though, if you're looking for spirits.
Customer: Aaaaah. Is this vodka?
Me: No, that's wine as well.
Customer: This? Is this vodka?
Me: No, that's wine. It's all wine. We only sell wine.
Customer: Vodka?
Me: No.
Customer: This?
Me: No.
Customer: Vod...
Me: No.
Customer: Hm.
Me: Hm.
Customer: ...
Me: ...
Customer: Is it brandy?
Me: No, it's not brandy.
Customer: Is it made from brandy?

Wednesday, May 15, 2002

A Day In The Life Of A Writer.

Young creative writing students, eager to emulate my successes, often write me letters asking about my daily routine. I am more than happy to describe it, though I doubt it will do any of you much good since each man must find his own path up the mountain, so to speak. All I can say is that for me, life is an unremitting struggle with nature, to the death. Or at least until tea-time.

Each day I arise early, and splash my face with water to the sound of the Upfield train thundering into Jewell station. I wrap myself in an old, threadbare woollen blanket and a tartan cap worn at a jaunty angle. I wear no other clothes at that time, since I find that my body is at its optimum and most masculine when cold and slightly itchy.

I sit on my front porch with my morning pipe and a full continental breakfast (including yoghurt, nectarines, yesterday's hard croissants and a pot of strong Turkish coffee) and nod a gruff Good Morning to the Greek family tending their tomato plants in the garden across from my own.

At around noon, I compose several letters to the editor, addressing the following topics:

1. The Pot-Holes On Grantham Street, And Why They Are a Menace To The Suspension Of My 1994 Nissan Patrol.
2. The Benefits of Poetry; More Particularly, My Poetry.
3. Why I Should Be Permitted To Walk About The Town Wearing Only My Tartan Cap, Woollen Scarf And Knee-High Football Socks.
4. Bull Fighting: Its Beauty And Why It Should Not Be Illegal.
5. My Neighbour Mister Barney Langham, And His Dog That Won't Stop Barking Even When I Poison It.
6. Eight Things Everyone Should Know About Pantoums.
7. The Corruption of Arts Funding Bodies By Economic Rationalism And Youth Culture.
8. My Books, And Why They Should Be Taught In Schools.
9. Osso Bucco, And How To Prepare It.
10. The Erotic Potential Of Librarians.

After posting these missives, I prepare myself for the hours of vigorous lovemaking which may be required of me at a moment's notice, depending upon the schedule of the nearby Young Ladies Writer's College. If it is Modern Poetry Day, I can expect several visits throughout the afternoon.

My preparation consists primarily of rubbing down my powerful body with a handful of coarse sea-salt or sand, followed by a quick shower beneath my fibreglass waterfall, a garden feature in my back yard roughly eight feet in height which I had a friend construct for me last summer. After bathing and perhaps a few push-ups, I coat myself liberally in a lotion of castor oil and lemon juice, a recipe I invented myself and find invigorating, and then dress quickly in a manly shirt of some kind and a pair of moleskins.

Then I eat a sandwich.

While I am waiting for any Young Ladies who may arrive, there are a number of writing activities I might pursue, including working on my column about trout fly fishing for the Moreland City Neighbourhood Watch Newsletter or perhaps jotting down some haiku or tanka. I may also continue my ongoing and extremely vitriolic correspondence with the poetry editor of Cordite magazine, who is an ass.

I then write ten thousand words towards my latest novel, which is about a young man with pleurisy working in a video rental store, and snack on trail mix I keep in a Groucho Marx biscuit tin beside my desk.

It's worth mentioning that any and all writing is executed via either a battered Underwood typewriter or my grandmother's badly leaking fountain pen. In fact, I have rendered many pairs of pants unwearable with smudges of indelible navy blue ink or the stream of hot urine I find myself unable to repress whenever I produce yet another Perfect Sentence.

The remainder of the day is spent smoking cigars, cracking walnuts open with my bare hands, and watching documentaries about the ancient pyramids on SBS. Eventually I fall asleep on the banana lounge beneath my hills-hoist, with a copy of 'Rex Hunt's Guide to Big Game Fishing' on my chest, dreaming of robust women.

Young writers, take heed: it's a rigorous life, full of socratic dialogue and firm erections and stamped, self-addressed manila envelopes; none but the brave of heart should attempt it.

Dress Your Penis In a Tiny Outfit Day!

Lack motivation? Confused and insecure? Considering joining the army just for the personal guidance? Then fret no more -- visit Girls Are Pretty every day and be told what to do. Recently we've had "Sit In Abject Terror Day," "Masturbating While Lying Naked On A Full-Length Mirror Used To Get You Off In No Time But Lately It's Just Gotten Really Belabored Day" and "Heatedly Debate Whether The Strokes Or The White Stripes Is The Better Band Until You Do Us All A Favor And Put A Fucking Bullet In Your Head Day."

Some people, however, deal with their boredom quite differently -- by dressing up their genitals in cute little outfits, for example.

Very nice. I'll have one dressed like Corey Feldman circa License to Drive, thanks.

Thursday, May 09, 2002

Bert Newton Google Poem.

ROCK ANIMALS These really ridiculous animals are easily made ... Milky Way, using black paper and glitter (or sand)... easy-to-make Spring hat. BALANCING BUTTERFLY A ... them from profiting immediately. The paper was guilty of some sloppiness ... when they meant Red Hat. But hats off to ... thing wasn't necessarily ridiculous. French, attired in ridiculous costume with red wig and dilapidated top ... Throws hat, plate, small ball of paper. Catches hat on head and paper ball under Willy Smith locked the door. Closed at last, he thought as he took off his ridiculous paper hat and stuffed it into his back pocket. All he had to do now ... To call the hats ridiculous would be an understatement ... The picture appeared in the paper, a very large picture ... the question, "Where's your hat?" Now I not only ... x1, dark glasses x1, old man's hat x1, mobile phones (trigger happy ring tone) x2, phone shaped box with paper aerial (ridiculous size) x1, lecture notes to ... or a rectangular piece of paper into a cone, hold down ... suspenders, a jacket, a hat, and the biggest pairs of ... is an exercise in the ridiculous. On the floor or ... blues By Andrew Johnston Flat Hat Staff Writer. ... The interplay of the ridiculous reality of how individuals ... can also bore the listener. "Paper and Ink," one of ... the spectacular seven-foot hat so loathed by Carlyle ... the numbers are not ridiculous, all the names will ... the program. People submitting paper proposals may also ... corner for ten minutes, wearing a pointy hat with a big 'D' on it. ... a moral uplift for nurses the ridiculous paper mountain they have to wade through on ... except a crumbled ball of paper!) Submit your worst rendition ... mom didn't have ridiculous weekend ponytails sticking out ... not liking the purple hat I put on him ... car. It came for Christmas with a ridiculous doll wearing a dwarf’s hat, Noddy ... around her and put on a black paper hat) and built a gingerbread house with ... 2001) Have students explain the ... poem on large chart paper. Leave out the rhyming ... mug came with a removable hat. Manufacturer: F & F. ... books. Description: In pack paper folders with six different ... Milton's Ridiculous Riddles: Product: Danish Go ... A poster is a piece of paper. That T-shirt or hat ... person wearing that shirt or hat is not effective. Twelve people ... This may seem ridiculous, but several of the ... A to Z/Doggies/Blue Hat, ... that makes the Phantom look ridiculous! ... a lone horseman in a derby hat, astride a horse called Spark ... is funny. This makes Funny Paper smile. 38k - Cached - Similar pages

[Now, go visit Davey Dreamnation, founder of the Search Poem Movement and international superstar pop-icon. Go on, scoot, or I'll set fire to your toupee.]

Wednesday, May 08, 2002


In this extract from his autobiography, Bert Newton reflects upon the experimental LSD therapy he was subjected to during the 'sixties as treatment for a nervous breakdown. He was also encouraged by the nursing staff to wear a paper hat...

"Therefore... I was on a travel of the LSD! Do not believe to me, for it has formed the vacation for all. In no case I punish medical people, but it was a lot (the journey) that it is much defective one for me.

"It is not according to the drunk thing being. Nothing.

"Under LSD in me in the zone which disowned was turned totally the pieces. The startings of the light, that one had played flied sights they of my window, become the sun of the blaze. The nerves of the doctor of words of an illicit voice that effectively with me one echo zone. All the colour, the rainbow flickered with me like lightning bolt. They had been frightened here and the terror.

"More subsequently, one of the nurses has asked me if I would want to be based with the sun. I have received that one favorably, but because I have made the life of the inside to lead a life it the excited saying nurse that I would have to transport a hat in the strong sun. When I have said to it, I have not had within, it I have shown it, like one the fixed paper, which from a newspaper, right as the use of the marks of the paper a point of the children of the nails head eliminates to the parts.

"Therefore here, resplendently be firm, on the balcony of the heart crowned, in clean dressing of the elevation, pyjamas and the this hat of paper ridiculous to transport perched on my head."

(nb. Bert's original text has been run through the Multibabel translator, for extra Bert!-ness)

(extra-special nb. for non-Australians: Bert Newton is an avant-garde morning television presenter. If you ask him nicely, he will allow you to polish his round, moon-like head with a soft rag; a genie will appear.)

Thursday, May 02, 2002

A Question for Scientists.

For an incisive critique of our fast-paced and ever-changing modern world, I direct you to this fellow,
Mr Big Dumb Bag of Meat, and his wistful essay on job dissatisfaction, yeast and the lamentable state of public signage, "A Question for Scientists."

To quote:

PLUS, it is over one fucktillion degrees today, and some fucker tries to race me, plus they have this sign that says "Trucks Trucks Trucks" or something, plus when I go to work, it says on this one bridge "PREACH," and on the way home, it says "SLUTS."

I forgot what I was going to say. Oh, yeah. So then, also, today I am next to a WATER RENTAL TRUCK. WATER RENTAL TRUCK. FUCK YOU, WATER RENTAL TRUCK!!! FUCK!!! YOU!!!

End quote.

(via oblivio)