When making preparations to land an airborne plane, a pilot goes through a series of routine steps designed to ensure the plane, the passengers and the precious cargo of smuggled cocaine arrives to the destination in tact.
The pilot must lower altitude, reduce speed, inform the crew, align the plane with the runway, deploy the landing gear, take instructions from the control tower and in some cases – employ reverse jet thrusters to minimize the risk of skidding off the runway.
Such is an accurate depiction of having a shit at my present address.
Sunday, June 25, 2006
Thursday, June 22, 2006
Very shared household
It’s painfully obvious when my flat mate has been banging his girlfriend. Though where is another question.
For starters, she arrives to the house all smiles and conversation, discussing such no brainers as the weather, university, the World Cup and the best way to skin a cat; when suddenly BANG! She disappears without a word, and his bedroom door slams shut in a lust-driven fury.
Roughly half an hour later, the door springs open, and they both come bounding out, matching each other’s stride in a reenactment of the Boston Marathon toward the bathroom, towels slung carelessly around naked arses, dog collars still semi-fastened, anal beeds still in place.
For peace of mind, I will presume the shower makes for scheduled after-play. The place where they each get lathered up – in a different sense – to cleanse away any physical miscellany of their devotion.
However, imagine my anxiety I suffered last week when I crossed the threshold to the bathroom after this special ritual to discover a large murky puddle on the floor, the origins of which I shudder to think of. Speculations are running rampant if it was dirt, or if somebody will be receiving an enema for their birthday.
For starters, she arrives to the house all smiles and conversation, discussing such no brainers as the weather, university, the World Cup and the best way to skin a cat; when suddenly BANG! She disappears without a word, and his bedroom door slams shut in a lust-driven fury.
Roughly half an hour later, the door springs open, and they both come bounding out, matching each other’s stride in a reenactment of the Boston Marathon toward the bathroom, towels slung carelessly around naked arses, dog collars still semi-fastened, anal beeds still in place.
For peace of mind, I will presume the shower makes for scheduled after-play. The place where they each get lathered up – in a different sense – to cleanse away any physical miscellany of their devotion.
However, imagine my anxiety I suffered last week when I crossed the threshold to the bathroom after this special ritual to discover a large murky puddle on the floor, the origins of which I shudder to think of. Speculations are running rampant if it was dirt, or if somebody will be receiving an enema for their birthday.
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
Need a clitlift?
I’ve sometimes been branded a chauvinist by various tards who were clearly objectionable toward my character. I like to call a spade a god dam spade; and as I’ve often thought, why fuck a girl in a skirt, when you can fuck a girl in a skirt in the arse.
Having carried this encumbrance for many years, I’ve decided it’s high time I give back something to the community. While The Reverend Tim Costello – brother of rightwing Liberal Party Treasurer who has been discussed at length in an earlier post – fills the cockles of the heart with good will toward young African children, child sponsorship is a little sinister for me in a Michael Jackson-like way.
Therefore I have decided to adopt a clitorus.
In the landlocked nation of Burkina Faso in western Africa, towels are quite proudly warn uponst the heads’ of at least half the population. As such, women are subjected to various atrocities such as cooking, cleaning, and female circumcision.
But singer songwriter, car racing enthusiast and all round show pony Claude Vorilhon - better known as Rael - has thrown his “spiritual” movement into overdrive to open up the Pleasure Hospital, and restore the clitoris - and therefore sexual freedom – of ladies with genital deformities.
The Raelian movement, whose fundamental belief systems about humans having been genetically engineered by extra terrestrials - were brought into existence after Vorilhon’s other business ventures had failed in the 70s. Rael, whose website proudly promotes “intelligent design for atheists” – further prophesises that the Elohim – Hebrew for the word “God” – will come to pay us a visit only when the Earth is peaceful, which at this rate should be some time next week, and when we all have a sense of sexual determination, which I for one have had since the tender years of my teens.
Taking all of this onboard, the Raelian doctors behind the venture ask for $500US to restore a clitoris, which is money well spent for when ET comes down to fuck all of our brains out.
Having carried this encumbrance for many years, I’ve decided it’s high time I give back something to the community. While The Reverend Tim Costello – brother of rightwing Liberal Party Treasurer who has been discussed at length in an earlier post – fills the cockles of the heart with good will toward young African children, child sponsorship is a little sinister for me in a Michael Jackson-like way.
Therefore I have decided to adopt a clitorus.
In the landlocked nation of Burkina Faso in western Africa, towels are quite proudly warn uponst the heads’ of at least half the population. As such, women are subjected to various atrocities such as cooking, cleaning, and female circumcision.
But singer songwriter, car racing enthusiast and all round show pony Claude Vorilhon - better known as Rael - has thrown his “spiritual” movement into overdrive to open up the Pleasure Hospital, and restore the clitoris - and therefore sexual freedom – of ladies with genital deformities.
The Raelian movement, whose fundamental belief systems about humans having been genetically engineered by extra terrestrials - were brought into existence after Vorilhon’s other business ventures had failed in the 70s. Rael, whose website proudly promotes “intelligent design for atheists” – further prophesises that the Elohim – Hebrew for the word “God” – will come to pay us a visit only when the Earth is peaceful, which at this rate should be some time next week, and when we all have a sense of sexual determination, which I for one have had since the tender years of my teens.
Taking all of this onboard, the Raelian doctors behind the venture ask for $500US to restore a clitoris, which is money well spent for when ET comes down to fuck all of our brains out.
Saturday, June 17, 2006
Hooker Language
As is the nature of my job, people often ask me, Whitz, how do I get a prostitute, and how should I go about talking to him or her?
This makes me wonder; what the fuck do you want to talk about with a hooker? However the caring, facilitating English teacher that I am, I set to work explaining the delicate subject of money for sex.
For those at least here in Spain, the nature of the Spanish language leaves its speakers’ in turmoil. While in Latin American countries, the language is very formal and straight down the line, this is not so here. Even the smack head who lives in a cardboard box on the corner is your long lost amigo, and the gypsie conspicuously rifling through your pockets while offering you directions is your comrade in a time of need.
However, at what point do reservation and informality trade places? Can one really refer to the woman with her laughing gear wrapped around one’s member as usted? Can the money shot– as intimate as it is - really go ahead if sir is picking up the bill? Is madam ready for madam’s pearl necklace?
Thankfully English doesn’t exhibit such complexities.
This makes me wonder; what the fuck do you want to talk about with a hooker? However the caring, facilitating English teacher that I am, I set to work explaining the delicate subject of money for sex.
For those at least here in Spain, the nature of the Spanish language leaves its speakers’ in turmoil. While in Latin American countries, the language is very formal and straight down the line, this is not so here. Even the smack head who lives in a cardboard box on the corner is your long lost amigo, and the gypsie conspicuously rifling through your pockets while offering you directions is your comrade in a time of need.
However, at what point do reservation and informality trade places? Can one really refer to the woman with her laughing gear wrapped around one’s member as usted? Can the money shot– as intimate as it is - really go ahead if sir is picking up the bill? Is madam ready for madam’s pearl necklace?
Thankfully English doesn’t exhibit such complexities.
Thursday, June 15, 2006
Subliminal Pronunciation
Audiotapes. The lazy English teacher’s best friend that not only allows for some moments of peaceful relaxation, but also can be used to instill subliminal messages into the minds’ of students. I transcribe here – for your reading pleasure – my newfound weapon of choice for English pronunciation.
Man: Practice
Woman: Duty
Man: Oral
Woman: Plenty
Man: Swallow
Woman: Frequent
Man: Quickly
Woman: Tasty
Man: Dreadful
Woman: Sorry
I applaud the producers of English 1 2 3 (2nd Ed)
Man: Practice
Woman: Duty
Man: Oral
Woman: Plenty
Man: Swallow
Woman: Frequent
Man: Quickly
Woman: Tasty
Man: Dreadful
Woman: Sorry
I applaud the producers of English 1 2 3 (2nd Ed)
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
Road to Glory
Its high time I revealed my role – as crucial as it was – in getting the Socceroos to the finals of the World Cup in Germany.
On this auspicious day when Aussies around the world are extending the forks to the Japanese for being gracious losers - just like they did roughly 60 years ago – we can be forgiven for strutting around like pubertal adolescents who just got our first roots’. Allegorically we did, though it took thirty-two long years to lose our collective virginity, and for the passed several attempts at football flagellation, the pesky Ururuguayans deflowered us.
Close on a year ago, I was drunk in a bar.
A two-bit scank from my language school saunters in closely followed by a man who I can only presume was her pimp for the night. I should mention she was of the United States, though which state I cannot say. He – as it would turn out – suffered the affliction of being Uruguayan, though his Spanish was far more agreeable to the ear than that of the Madrileño twats who surrounded me, and his English was superlative.
From memory, the skirmish went much like this.
Whitz: Uruguay eh?
Mr. Uru: Yes – the most beautiful country in Latin America.
Whitz: Get ya hand off it mate – and listen while we’re at it – we’ve had a fucking boot full of your on-field antics.
Mr. Uru: ¿Qué?
Whitz: Listen carefully - I’ll say this only once. World Cup mate. No fuckin more are yous cunts gonna stand in our way. Next year its yous who will be the pants down fools. Ya hear?
Need I say more.
On this auspicious day when Aussies around the world are extending the forks to the Japanese for being gracious losers - just like they did roughly 60 years ago – we can be forgiven for strutting around like pubertal adolescents who just got our first roots’. Allegorically we did, though it took thirty-two long years to lose our collective virginity, and for the passed several attempts at football flagellation, the pesky Ururuguayans deflowered us.
Close on a year ago, I was drunk in a bar.
A two-bit scank from my language school saunters in closely followed by a man who I can only presume was her pimp for the night. I should mention she was of the United States, though which state I cannot say. He – as it would turn out – suffered the affliction of being Uruguayan, though his Spanish was far more agreeable to the ear than that of the Madrileño twats who surrounded me, and his English was superlative.
From memory, the skirmish went much like this.
Whitz: Uruguay eh?
Mr. Uru: Yes – the most beautiful country in Latin America.
Whitz: Get ya hand off it mate – and listen while we’re at it – we’ve had a fucking boot full of your on-field antics.
Mr. Uru: ¿Qué?
Whitz: Listen carefully - I’ll say this only once. World Cup mate. No fuckin more are yous cunts gonna stand in our way. Next year its yous who will be the pants down fools. Ya hear?
Need I say more.
Monday, June 12, 2006
Grant Mac Bridge
After Grant McLennan of 80s band The Go-Betweens fame unexpectedly kicked the bucket in May, a group of warmhearted souls are pushing for a new bridge which will span the Brisbane River to be named in his honour.
Peter Walsh - the main man behind the presumably defunct Livid Festival – heads the group, whose agender is mostly based on the fact that the Go-Betweens were one of Brisbane’s biggest exports, and that the bridge itself will only be open to buses and pedestrians, which Grant Mac will dig because he “…never had a license to drive…”
While this alone causes Brisbane residents to shed a sympathetic tear for the man who was forced to rely on public transport throughout his forty-eight years, do the streets of this town really want to be associated with a muso who used to get off on surfing magazines? Does the alleged town of battered wives require a street, nay a major thoroughfare, to celebrate his contribution to music? Do we really want a bridge which goes-between UQ and Dutton Park anyway?
Cliché jokes exhausted and my thoughts turn to more pressing matters - the heavily publicized involvement of Mr. Walsh in the race to name the bridge campaign.
For 15 years, Brisbane played host to the Livid Festival – an institution which pulled big international names from all genres to this fair city such as The Cure, Rage Against the Machine, Devo, Oasis, Jurrasic Five, The Roots, Lamb and The Prodigy.
Come 2003, Walsh and Company took the festival Mexico-ward to Sydney and Melbourne, hoping to make a pretty penny.
In 2004, they fed us – the Livid-mad public - bite-sized pieces of bullshit by way of their website which claimed a 1-year hiatus was inevitable due to the lack of quality talent touring within the vicinity of Brisbane at that time, and the reassurance that the festival would return bigger and better in 2005.
While other festivals continued to thrive over this period, and with naut a word even broaching Livid since, Walshy continues to drop the ball.
Fuck you Peter Walsh and your bright ideas on Brisbane’s river crossings. Get off your indolent posterior and bring back Livid. Assume some fucking control of South East Queensland’s music industry and breathe life into what is fast becoming a beaurocratically engineered entertainment black hole.
I think old Walshy requires somebody's foot to Go-Between his arsecheeks.
Peter Walsh - the main man behind the presumably defunct Livid Festival – heads the group, whose agender is mostly based on the fact that the Go-Betweens were one of Brisbane’s biggest exports, and that the bridge itself will only be open to buses and pedestrians, which Grant Mac will dig because he “…never had a license to drive…”
While this alone causes Brisbane residents to shed a sympathetic tear for the man who was forced to rely on public transport throughout his forty-eight years, do the streets of this town really want to be associated with a muso who used to get off on surfing magazines? Does the alleged town of battered wives require a street, nay a major thoroughfare, to celebrate his contribution to music? Do we really want a bridge which goes-between UQ and Dutton Park anyway?
Cliché jokes exhausted and my thoughts turn to more pressing matters - the heavily publicized involvement of Mr. Walsh in the race to name the bridge campaign.
For 15 years, Brisbane played host to the Livid Festival – an institution which pulled big international names from all genres to this fair city such as The Cure, Rage Against the Machine, Devo, Oasis, Jurrasic Five, The Roots, Lamb and The Prodigy.
Come 2003, Walsh and Company took the festival Mexico-ward to Sydney and Melbourne, hoping to make a pretty penny.
In 2004, they fed us – the Livid-mad public - bite-sized pieces of bullshit by way of their website which claimed a 1-year hiatus was inevitable due to the lack of quality talent touring within the vicinity of Brisbane at that time, and the reassurance that the festival would return bigger and better in 2005.
While other festivals continued to thrive over this period, and with naut a word even broaching Livid since, Walshy continues to drop the ball.
Fuck you Peter Walsh and your bright ideas on Brisbane’s river crossings. Get off your indolent posterior and bring back Livid. Assume some fucking control of South East Queensland’s music industry and breathe life into what is fast becoming a beaurocratically engineered entertainment black hole.
I think old Walshy requires somebody's foot to Go-Between his arsecheeks.
Friday, June 09, 2006
A heads up
A Sydney man with a history of teenaged prankster-like behaviour – i.e. egging cars, flaming dogshit on the doorstep and the like – has gone one up by rocking his parent’s garage roof with his father’s own head.
His mother made the grisly discovery of her husband’s headless body inside their house on a chilly June day in 2004, while the head – which was hacked off with a common kitchen knife - was found in a bag a short time later on the roof.
The man, 27, was under the misapprehension that his family were conspiring to kill him and offer his organs to medical science as a gift.
Evidently, this fellow ain’t got much time for science.
Meanwhile, right wing, gun enthusiast philosopher/blogger John Ray of Brisbane has grabbed the bull by the horns and has used this case to illustrate the need to ban kitchen knives, because they’re just plane dangerous.
I totally agree. In addition, it’s about time we limited the distribution of plastic bags as far too many people are using them to dispense with unwanted body parts, as exemplified by this Sweedish lady killer.
His mother made the grisly discovery of her husband’s headless body inside their house on a chilly June day in 2004, while the head – which was hacked off with a common kitchen knife - was found in a bag a short time later on the roof.
The man, 27, was under the misapprehension that his family were conspiring to kill him and offer his organs to medical science as a gift.
Evidently, this fellow ain’t got much time for science.
Meanwhile, right wing, gun enthusiast philosopher/blogger John Ray of Brisbane has grabbed the bull by the horns and has used this case to illustrate the need to ban kitchen knives, because they’re just plane dangerous.
I totally agree. In addition, it’s about time we limited the distribution of plastic bags as far too many people are using them to dispense with unwanted body parts, as exemplified by this Sweedish lady killer.
Thursday, June 08, 2006
ESL pain
The everyday hilarity encountered by an English teacher while acting professor de inglés via telephone with a beginner student in Madrid:
Whitz: Today I want to talk about animals.
Pablo: Animales? How you say… uh… Me encantan the… los Animales?
Whitz: You love animals?
Pablo: Yes, Yes, I love the animals.
Whitz: Right… Have you got any pets?
Pablo: No…No… its not possible. My friend has a caballo.
Whitz: A horse?
Pablo: Yes… A orse… beautiful orse.
Whitz: Ok! And…
Pablo: I like to … how you say… montar… the orse?
Whitz: to ride the horse?
Pablo: si si…. I like to ride orse all weekend.
Whitz: Today I want to talk about animals.
Pablo: Animales? How you say… uh… Me encantan the… los Animales?
Whitz: You love animals?
Pablo: Yes, Yes, I love the animals.
Whitz: Right… Have you got any pets?
Pablo: No…No… its not possible. My friend has a caballo.
Whitz: A horse?
Pablo: Yes… A orse… beautiful orse.
Whitz: Ok! And…
Pablo: I like to … how you say… montar… the orse?
Whitz: to ride the horse?
Pablo: si si…. I like to ride orse all weekend.
The lord works in mysterious ways
After sitting beside the hospital bed of their supposed daughter for over a month, this devoted clan of intelligent evangelists in Indianapolis have been shocked by the realization that the girl in the bed was in fact not their daughter.
The Vanryn Family – who set up a weblog praising the lord, and posting occasional snippets of information documenting the progress of their daughter’s recovery progress – reported that the penny dropped when the girl in the bed – the imposter – started speaking of things unfamiliar to them.
“…she'll say things that don't make much sense,” they report, like ‘who the fuck are you’ and ‘you’re not my child molesting, god fearing father’.
“Our God is so good. He is our healer and our protector - no matter our circumstance,” They assure us, and who am I to argue with a family who can’t even recognize their own children.
The Vanryn Family – who set up a weblog praising the lord, and posting occasional snippets of information documenting the progress of their daughter’s recovery progress – reported that the penny dropped when the girl in the bed – the imposter – started speaking of things unfamiliar to them.
“…she'll say things that don't make much sense,” they report, like ‘who the fuck are you’ and ‘you’re not my child molesting, god fearing father’.
“Our God is so good. He is our healer and our protector - no matter our circumstance,” They assure us, and who am I to argue with a family who can’t even recognize their own children.
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