bitch, cheese me up

a story I put together thanks to an insurance claim from someone called "Hoogdenboom"

Hoogenboom Wandershnat sat wistfully at the front of his blue windmill. Methodical and moist as he always found himself on a Wednesday, he cleaned his gun. Clouds in the sky had taken the shape of Palm Trees who had turned to violent communism. He contemplated his life and wondered merrily upon the simple thought of suicide. His life had been full and interesting. He had married the girl of his dreams, Esmeralda Kakadon Rambledown. He had sired many a bouncy bundle of babyhood, and he’d watched these squishy flesh wanderers consume the food he put on the table, rip the clothes he placed upon their back (two backs in the case of Hickmanstool, the 3rd child, and the disturbing result of Esmeralda’s duck sucking phase whilst pregnant), and destroy any toy his nimble hands had made them. Yet still he loved them. They had now grown old and found personal conquests. Jaggledoone had found a wife. Manatash looked after llamas. Rapplebottom-Dodokins was now mayor of a nearby town (though currently involved in a terrible scandal in relation to his extreme admiration for yogurt). Even Huickmanstool was famous in local circus routes. His life was truly a success. And he wondered what else there was to experience. Maybe it would be best to finish the game now. On his terms. In his favourite seat. With a lovely meal in his belly. With his wife inside by deaf as a table and forgetful as the letter G. This would be a good way to go. But then he saw in the distance, Yoyomontague, his youngest, running full pelt up the road. Pursed to his lips was the trumpet of impending attack. The Moose were back

Seven things that would make my life awesome

A jet pack
Kind of self explanatory really. With a jet pack I could go lots of places really quickly. As far as I know, you don’t need a drivers licence for a jet pack, so it would be pretty much instantly available to me. Plus- who would not want to hang out with a jet packed fellow? I would,. I’d totally buy you a banana milkshake if you had one. And not just a fake banana one. One that had REAL Banana’s in it
A Banana Milkshake
I really want one now
A Windmill
I want to live somewhere really awesome and funky. A windmill sounds like the right kind of fit. Methinks it will have to be black and red, cause that just looks bad arse. I’ll probably have a big back garden and employ local grandad’s do keep in maintained for me. I don’t like gardening, and old people need to do something with their time other than stand in doorways. Everybody wins.
A nuclear heating facility in my chest
It’s getting cold. Waking up cold sucks donkey bollocks. Having a small nuclear powered heater in my chest that could regulate my body temperature to a cosy degree, it would just be cool, and i think others would also enjoy this, i would be alike a walking talking heater. If I went to Canada on my jet pack, Canucks would be all up in that shit.
A stroke
Okay, while there are many down sides to a stroke, I realised the plus side- Currently I have facial hair, and it itches. Not constantly like chicken pox or those weird little flowers they always plant near schools that the class bully always discovers first and uses it as itching powder on all the people wearing glasses, but just...weirdly uncomfortable. If I had a stroke, my face would be numb, and I could happily wear my facial hair without the issue. Having a stroke does numb your face right? Hope it does, otherwise I’ll be doubly fucked.
The Moon.
No one would mess with you if you had the moon. No one. Cause if you did, you’d be their only chance to get to the moon. And everyone, no matter how good, clean, and pure, everyone needs a place to hide out. And if you want to hide out, the Moon would probably be the best place. My moon would be kind of like the Red Cross. You can go there and you have immunity. And pogo sticks. Yeah, it’s like the Red Cross on pogo sticks. And they’d be jelly, because I believe jelly is vitally important to the well being of hidden criminals. Non criminals could also come. It’d be kind of like a theme park. With people dressed as anime characters. Just because I think people look awesome when they’re pretending to be animated. I once knew a girl who wore the same style black polo neck and beige trousers every single day. That was the only thing in her wardrobe. It was freaky yet awesome.
Bunny Ears
Those who have seen pictures will agree, God made a mistake when he didn’t give me bunny ears. Simple as.

dream...

I had a dream last night that I never wore trousers to work. Never. My office had complained and I refused to see the problem, and blamed them for stopping my creative flow.

Phone Names

Some time ago I met a girl who changed many things in my life. And she started something wonderful and amusing in my mind that continues to this day. Each time it still amuses me, and brings grins of exasperation from my friends. But still, I adore.
Her name was Lani. I was sitting watching football one day when she sat down next to me, and we began a conversation. Instantly we clicked and joked, started abusing each other (all good friendships actually revolve around abuse, and not comfort). The next day during our first non drunk conversation, I somehow renamed her ‘Lani the Racist Bowling Champion’, the next time we talked; I was called ‘George the Funky Rapist’. I changed her name on my phone to reflect this amusing nickname, and thus it began.
Nowadays, hardly any person on my phone is under their real name. If something funny is said, by them, or by myself about them, I change their name. This proves quite entertaining. Especially when (as Lani found out later) I am so drunk I need assistance getting home, and one of my friends needs to find someone on my phone to help me.
Nowadays, my girlfriend is the one who gets the most of this little trait. I will happily say I think she is the most amusing person I know, and has not only a wonderful grasp of the English language, but also a very surreal train of thought also. So here are a few examples of the names my girl has been called on my phone.
Pocket O Nuts
I write my name in cancer on your penis
Semi Permanent State of Quiver
Kiddie pool of Whale Cum
Bedaggered Dong
Blue Ukulele
Crotchular Topographer
My Magic is erection dependant
Tapping the tail
Toning the Boom Boom
Markesian Jelybride
Hoo Ha Splat
Weasel on Learning Drugs
Claustrophobic Wang
Fuck My Door
And my personal favourite- Harbinger of Ornithological Demise

felines

Recently our household acquired a kitten. My housemate got it, but as she is rarely in the house, it’s basically our cat now. But it’s quite strange having it around. My maternal instincts have kinda of kicked in. I know it’s only a kitten, but its a little life. A little ball of life. A little fluffy ball of moth chasing life. And I’m realising how important I am to him. I want to show him that he is loved and cared for, yet I want to set boundaries, and let him find his own way. It’s such a confusing time. You play with him, because, you know, he’s a kitten and it’s so much fun to play with a kitten. At first he was pawing and clawing and biting a little, all was fine ‘ooooh cutielittlebabykitten. Whosawooshamushawoo’ etc. I didn’t want to reprimand him for biting or anything, because no cat of mine is gonna grow up to be a pussy. He’s gonna need to learn to hunt and kill and bite and start wars. But last night during a rather entertaining game of ‘what’s that on the end of my arm?’, he bites my finger, then my knuckle, then totally sinks his little teeth into my hand. Hurt like beggary (well, not literally, I hear beggary hurts a lot more). But I’m not about to say ‘bad Yosarian’ (that’s his name by the way), and rap him on the head, or do that thing where you pick them up by the neck and they go all stiff and chinesey. It was my fault he bit me. And I’m kind of glad. I felt a tang of pride parents must feel when their daughter rides her first bike, or their son learns the joys of masturbation. He can bite. He can bite well. Some damn fine teeth going on in my little guy. One day some stupid arse bird or mouse is gonna totally feel the wrath of Yosarian. And I helped him towards that. I sat back on the bed, and watch him with a feeling of completion. Parenthood isn’t so tough after all.

the hills are alive

Once upon a time, an email landed in my inbox from my fantastically Irish friend Fi. A quick perusal of the message told me about an upcoming festival deep the heart of the Victorian countryside. For a mere $50 I could partake in this whimsical event. So I agreed upon it, booked my ticket, and awaited the wonderful days.
A few weeks later the day arrived. I taxied to a friend of Fi’s, and awaited the crew to arrive. Much to my amused horror, almost all the collection going with us were of Irish decent. I have nothing against Irish in general, they are lively, funny, crazy, well meaning people with the taste for alcohol and singing into the night. Exactly the type you want at a festival. But they are also known for the dreaded Fianna Buama. The Irish Ninja Bomb. Ninja Bomb, as you well know, is a wonderful drinking rule to add to any eve. If a person is to say something that stops any conversation dead, you shout ‘Ninja Bomb!’ at them, and they drink. The Fianna Buama, is a variation of this, where an Irish person will begin to talk exclusively about Ireland, Irish things, or Irish places. Meaning, anyone who isn’t from Ireland, is basically excluded from the conversation, and unable to say anything at all.
But I continued my smile; this weekend was about music, drinking and fun. And I’d be darned if ‘The Craig’ was gonna get in the way.
We travelled down by car to South Gippsland to the wafting tunes of The Kooks and Wolfmother. A simple drive, broken twice by cigarette and McDonalds breaks. At one point we were informed that one of the cars had blown up. But eventually it was discovered that this was an incredibly dramatic interpretation of ‘the bonnet it open’. We arrived after a few hours of motoroways, farmland, and rolling hills. Amazingly, through the simple application of a blue wristband, I was allowed to enter this wonderland.
The car park had been set up and hand painted signs showed us the way. A farmer drove a tractor around for everyone to throw their gear on, and make the trek over the hill to the campsite. A pleasing site arrived at the camp where all festival goers were helping unload and sort out the bags. We were all working together. Like hippies should. Fi, Kev and I collected out tent, set ourselves up, and looked at the surrounded area. Beautiful rolling hills on each side, lush forests, and many a cow.
The camp was a short walk from the stage and performance area. A small crowd sat and watched the first few bands. A few of the more early drinkers had started to dance. We found ourselves a spot, plotted, and started our drinking adventure.
The bands were all local and relatively unknown bands. They sounded good, they seemed to have some fans, and I merrily watched them wail away. Briefly I explored the local area, finding a ping pong hut, where Kev and I battled some amusingly podgy women. A few games of tetherball, and a quite wonderful chill out tent.
When I first walked in there, I found a big circular room with cushions lining the floor, and instruments resting, awaiting a skilled person to pick them up and pluck them. At this early stage, only a few high school girls sat around, playing small tunes with my pauses and inquiries as what to do next. While I may adore this kind of thing, I felt it rather seedy to sit and watch High School girls. So I wandered away.
The bands continued to play, the rain also came. In true Hippie spirit we refused to stop us, and simply donned our ponchos and garbage bags made into ponchos, and kept on dancing.
Between one of the bands I made my way back to the Chill Out tent, and I wasn’t the only one. The room was packed with many a festival goer, seated and smiling, all eyes focused on the one standing giant. He was calling out a tune, to which everyone repeated back. The chorus (if one could call it such) was ‘Calamine, Calamine, Calamine LOTION!’. Smiles were thick in the air and you couldn’t help but mingle. I met some wonderful people and shared a laugh with them. They invited me to join a rather amusing drinking game, that mainly involved making funny noises and drinking a lot. My kind of game. Suddenly, a head poked through the door and shouted ‘They’re on!’ and most instantly left. They turned out to be Direct Influence.
They were a reggae hip hop funky soul band. Playing rather chilled and funky danceable tunes, to which we rather chilled and funkily danced to. After Direct Influence came ‘Cockfight Shootout’ who I personally thought were band of the night. Hard rock, laced in Black Sabbath like riffs and bounded drums. I hit the pit instantly and was very pleased to get bruised up. They done what they done really well, and I was impressed.
Once they had finished their wares, lack Market Rhythm Co. Entered the fray. The next morning I wondered upon a question- Where they really good? Or was I just so drunk by then , that anything would have been amazing? What I remember was dancing a lot, screaming along, jumping up and down, and smiling all the way through. But I believe more investigations should be made before I make such a wonderful statement.
Around this time I retreated back to the Chill out tent, where a few stragglers sat around, playing the instruments and talking wondrous drunk bullshit. I joined in with them and had many a deep conversation about racism, and the rights of women. At least I think I did. By this time, the room had started to get a little funky. And not ‘James Brown in sparkles’ kinda funky. As one person quite brilliantly put it- ‘it smelt like Horse and Incense’. So Sadly I had to soon leave
I wandered back to the tent with the intension of ‘Just chilling for a moment’, but secretly wanting to lay my head down, and not have it up again till morning’, but Soon after I attempted this, Fi burst in through the door screaming ‘marku marku, come dance, come dance’ and who was I to refuse an enthusiastic Irish girl?
Back to the dance floor I arrived where ‘polo club’ played away. White people can rarely rap that well, and my issues with apple are that thanks to their hardware, anyone with a Mac now thinks they’re a DJ. What they played was fine, I didn’t hate it, I danced, but it was by no means spectacular. After them, two old guys came to the stage dressed...well...kind of like Hitler. One stood behind the decks, the other to his side. They played obvious ‘get everyone dancing’ songs, and proceeded to run around the stage like silent movie characters being chased by the police. The music was good, songs I would listen to and happily dance along to on any given night. However, they simply played each song to the end, then played the next. A CD played could have done the same thing, and would have got rid of the kind of ludicrous sideshow they put on. It was at this point I called it a night for real and collapsed into my tent.
Awaking the next day to the sound of vomit from another patron of the festival was not the best alarm clock ever witnessed, I must say. But once the gent had finished his business, the relaxing early morning calm began. I laid in the tent and daydreamed upon life and love. Eventually waking, packing my things, and stepping outside. I walked to the stage to see the other early morning raisers walking around, picking up rubbish left from the night of frivolity. Smile. Hippies are awesome. While they do nothing. They’re awesome.
I stood in a long line for a coffee, the sun was slowly climbing through the sky, and the mornings first performer entered the fray. ‘Uncle Tim from Around the Way’ jumped on stage, and began yodelling. Epic.
As the morning progressed, we collected our things, reminisced over the night. Commented on hangovers, and by midday had decided it was bet to leave, and sleep of the rest of the day. We travelled home in mostly silence, happy silence, but silence just the same. I arrived home to my jelly bride, and the weekend was over. A beautiful time, and a great old festival.