Hello Fans,
Ahhh Winter.
I'm currently snotting about the side alleys, coughing up gouts of organic blu tack and blowing out (in a free to air concert of freaky nose jazz), what looks like the filling for Satan own country style Vanilla slice.
But I digress...
Is there anything actually happening in this town at the moment?
Sure.....the Discount King is still pumping out bilk cheap flatscreens, Duke Hootch is selling a garbage bag of Jimathon Beam for 20 bucks and the Pregnancy seems to be thriving.
But if you're reconciled to the fact that tele is crap (may I implore you to dial up Rahsaan Roland Kirk blowing a coke solo at Montroux and compare it to a bunch of terrier brained gooseberries shitting us to death in Big Bother 65 and tell then try to tell me it's not all over for free to fuckin' air . C'maaaaaaaaaan.........).
Or if your not interested in drinking your bladder to bursting point and grinding off those odd angles of your brain with the Big Brown Bag Of Bland.......
Or aren't quite ready to join the Alien Club and watch your self (or a another) burst apart at the spaceman seams with new, mewling puking life (to quote the Bard)....
Then, pray-forth, what do you do to fill in the long lonely hours between finishing your crap job and getting up for your crap job?
Case in point.
Myself and a lassie (whom we'll call Honeypants Jones. You can hum the 007 theme if you like), decided to kick up our tam o shanters the other night and go out on the tear.
After a few heart starters at Pad Dog (a little joint i dig that makes Jazz noodles), we jiffied off into the wild black yonder in search of moonlight, good times and boogie.
Our first point of call was at the funky Quinn the Eskimo bar.
We scampered in from the cold and stood in it's nuevo Igloo stylee barn with a throbbing throng of four other people.
A D.J spun his platters, but in all honesty, he looked like he was down at the 12 grooves or less isle at Colesway.
We pushed our way through the teeming, hotpants masses (not) to sink a few brews.
After a learned discussion (choosing which one of the 20 empties was quite the drama) we then plonked (figuratively and fluidly) and sat chatting about this and that.
Hoopla! Frugalicious! What a happening thang!
So......
It was then suggested we sneak down to the Combover Bar to check out what the young saucy types are doing with their fuzz-boxes in this libertine age.
A quick stroll down the Poof St. precinct and there we were, standing solo in the joint, the bouncers outnumbering the band, punters and bar staff.
Five minutes of groovy awkward later and it was back to Quinn's for a night cap.
Highlights included some pissed chick trying to dry hump my leg while Honeypants was having a wizz and the magnificent Agwa (Spirit of Shambolic Kings).
Honeypants and I exchanged glances, had an executive and it was decided that we could probably go home and have more fun watching the tea towels dry.
And, if this wasn't rubbing salt into and already inflamed and crusty dude of a night, we foolishly stopped in at the ol' Bottom of the Ballow Hotel to see we couldn't get one last desperate drink and giggle.
We could and we did (sorta).
However the young goon yowling his Pearl Jam cover over his tinny arse guitar (aurally imagine a cheese-grater in amongst broken glass and coat-hangers) was enough to make me tip my glass of cheap sauce on the pot-plants and suggest to Honeypants we catch the next flight to somewhere where a night out still correlates with Steppin' Out! rather that a night out being equal to puttin' the bins out .
Shame Ballarat. Shame.
I'm old enough to remember when party meant kit off craziness.
When bands were keen to blart out one more bit of snazzy caper and when you danced, you fruged until your could steam a dimmie with your eyebrows. No sweat!
Where you would run (yes you heard) to the next event because you didn't want to miss any of the life affirming shenanigans taking place on Fri and Sat (usually Sun and always Monday).
But now..........
I'm had more of a randy toot watching Question time. I've been more razzed reading soup instructions.
I've had more jive from a jar of pickles and more hep from a typhoid immunisation.
Piss poor, Goldtown city.
You have been warned.
Mick 'I remember Coles cafeteria" Dog
Friday, June 27, 2008
The ugly truth revealed
This is what it looks like from inside the Dim Sim Research Production facility...
Apologies for the three people who've been watching our stuff online. Youtube production has dropped markedly since I forgot to pay my interweb fees and got cut off....
At the moment I'm blogging by throwing five cent coins through a partially opened window onto a keyboad at the Snake Valley Primary School. It's tricky.
We shall return as soon as possible - until then, think about this for a red-hot rumour:
Premier Brumby Stallion comes to Ballarat to open the special Water Pipe to save the town. Only problem is, it wasn't finished. But people were starting to panic. So, a tankerload of water is purchased, one pump is turned on up the road a bit, and the awaiting hawk-eyed journos taking pics of themselves near Brumby Stallion get to see some water coming out.
'Strue. I heard from this bloke who knows this bloke.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Culture belongs in yogurt
Hello Fans,
Well you can't say that we here at The Show With No Name blog-a-ma-doodle
don't bust out the freshest jive since Will Smiff left Bel Air.
I, (and by that I mean me), can break it to you (etc.) that our beloved B-Town is due to get a new Arts Precinct within the near future (geologically speaking).
The juicy prune goss is that the Old Railway building (down in the old Railway Yard, on Old Railway St, in Railwaystopol) has been ear marked, (like a wandering Beagle), to be turned into some sort of magic playground of imagination, so the residents of our town can git along and look at some purdy pictures of gum trees on a widescreen digital format.
Sources close to the Proj. can reveal that it's some sort of State initiative and (in the infinite wisdom of the bureaucrat) it's been decided it's best if the whole thing is keep a secret from everybody.
As you read, development/funding/consultation etc. is being undertaken by industry profs who wouldn't have a clue as to where the Albert St bogs were even if they were having a shit in Albert St. at the bogs.
Which is tremendous stuff. Just what we need!
Another Arts Precinct designed by people who know about nothing but Art! Yay!
Who know nothing about Ballarat and it's curly inhabitants! Whoopee!
And probably find the fact they don't have hot cold and cold running wank in their rooms (like they have in yon big cities) a thrilling brush with colonial life! Gasp!
I suppose it will follow on from the fabulous success of the Camp St Arts precinct.
My heavens...hasn't that changed out cultural landscape?
Indeed there's nothing like heading down to Camp St, gliding along the glitteringly lit paths, watching the beautiful displays of local sculpture and endeavouring screevers, sitting down to be tempted with the fine and luxurious foods from our district and then being swamped for choice as to whether or not to enjoy the world of film at the University's Independent Cinema or to head off to the Ol' Helen McPherson McSmith McBuggeryTheatre for some excellent type of wonder music or challenging new theatre, then shaking one's rumpa to some imported boogaloo from interstate at the heated outdoor Venue-ma-tron and truly feeling the life of this funky town pump through the floorboards till the sun comes up, so we can all troop happily along, hand in hand, to the French Breakfast restaurant where it's always Croissant o'clock.
Why, we're spoiled for choice here that to that Sparkling Beacon of Wonder!
When someone says "What's going on Dude?" those two bounteous words "Camp St" are all you need.
It's the happening place Daddy-O!
Why the millions of dollars thrown at the re-vamp have paid off in spades!
I can't think of a more happening joint, right through the week, but especially on the weekend.
The variety! The inventiveness! The ever changing surprisery! The Goodwill! The sheer magnificence of it all!
Berlin can go to buggery. Tokyo's for tossers. New York is Old Hat.
Camp St!
It's got the buzz, friend.
Up there with Beale St, Soho and Carnival!
So yah-boo sucks to those nay sayers who said "The the entire joint was a poorly designer three legged white elephant that nobody would ever go to and would primarily be used as a walk through and spew stop for late night alcho monkeys"
.
A big bite yer bum to those negative types who said "The University is run by a bunch of nepotistic fossils, who's tenure means they can be a bunch of incompetent hacks, grimly ignoring the 21st century and not giving a shit about their work reaching any further than payday, who've never ever been interested in a wider community (what would those philistines know anyway)...and run a third rate bag of guff Uni"
Go to buggery for those who said "Helen McPherson McDonalds Theatre? What? Where? Who?"
Up ya clack to those who skyted "With so many musicians and theatre types supposedly hanging around, why is it we never see any thing good? Why are there no independent companies producing modern work? Why are the same old hacks producing shit that was crap in the 40's?"
Go to steaming Hell those never satisfied types who said "Another bloody Arts precinct? What in the fuzzy muffin would we need one of those for, when our current Arts Precinct, which was touted to be a fuckin Mecca of Western culture's greatest achievements, is nothing more that a huge albino mammoth, squatting like a bored cane toad, inhabited by nitwit kids and senile staff, ignored by the locals, laughed at by visitors, a place that begrudgingly squeezes out a small shiny nugget of dancy poop (to be watched by the people who are studying Dancy Poop Squeeze 101 and associated relatives) twice a year and is nothing less than a complete and utter fucking debacle that has successfully alienated anyone who could have breathed some life into it and whose only redeeming feature is it's ability to relax while the icy cock of corporate culture jams another inch in?"
Ha! You were wrong. All of you.
Camp St!
Wow!
And on a personal note, I'd also like to point out the fabulous success of the Music Festival held at Sovereign Hill last year.
A triumph of planning!
Why putting a festival in a rickety old joint where you can't touch anything was genius! Charging people their superannuation to see the cream of 80's folk really made me feel like I'd sacrificed for culture.
Getting the kids up to run around in the land of rusty spikes was a touch of brilliance!
And placing that roped off area for councillors, developers and associated cronies in the middle of the festival made me thankful that people (superior in all ways to myself and most others) were generous enough to let me wistfully gaze upon their grace and allowed me to furtively photograph them enjoying their trays of delicious sandwiches.
Indeed, there's nothing that says "Eureka Spirit" to me than spending a mortgage payment to gaze at the musical past and give silent and respectful regard to my betters who can proudly say "The Birthplace of democracy means I'm free to say get the fuck away from me you filthy fucking urchin. I bet you can't even name Max's merits!".
So....New Arts precinct....
I've said it once and I'll say it again......
When it comes to building Arts and Culture that reach out to plain old dumb bunnies like myself, that subtly and amazingly make me proud to live here, then Ballarat is number one.
The Big Cheese so to speak.
With the Wonder of Camp St and the Folks responsible for incredible Events at Sovvy Hill (for which the financial figures speak for themselves!) at the Helm, how could this new Art Precinct Endeavour be anything but the envy of the World?
Face it.
All past achievements have been met with resounding success and the next time you pass a group of carolling singers who warm your heart with generous song, while strolling your way to The Camp St Art precinct in the Christmas like hope of being thrilled to bits again by Art (or the twinkly Elves of creation), you can squeeze your honey tight and give thanks that you don't live in a place where our poor ignorant forebears had to eat a crap Italian sandwich, sink a jug of cheap hooch and try to con onto something with a pulse at a crowded, pestilent nightspot run by a belligerent Mafia in order to have fun.
We should all thank our lucky stars.........
All for now
Mick "Does anyone have the Events calendar for the Pre-mix King?" Dog
Well you can't say that we here at The Show With No Name blog-a-ma-doodle
don't bust out the freshest jive since Will Smiff left Bel Air.
I, (and by that I mean me), can break it to you (etc.) that our beloved B-Town is due to get a new Arts Precinct within the near future (geologically speaking).
The juicy prune goss is that the Old Railway building (down in the old Railway Yard, on Old Railway St, in Railwaystopol) has been ear marked, (like a wandering Beagle), to be turned into some sort of magic playground of imagination, so the residents of our town can git along and look at some purdy pictures of gum trees on a widescreen digital format.
Sources close to the Proj. can reveal that it's some sort of State initiative and (in the infinite wisdom of the bureaucrat) it's been decided it's best if the whole thing is keep a secret from everybody.
As you read, development/funding/consultation etc. is being undertaken by industry profs who wouldn't have a clue as to where the Albert St bogs were even if they were having a shit in Albert St. at the bogs.
Which is tremendous stuff. Just what we need!
Another Arts Precinct designed by people who know about nothing but Art! Yay!
Who know nothing about Ballarat and it's curly inhabitants! Whoopee!
And probably find the fact they don't have hot cold and cold running wank in their rooms (like they have in yon big cities) a thrilling brush with colonial life! Gasp!
I suppose it will follow on from the fabulous success of the Camp St Arts precinct.
My heavens...hasn't that changed out cultural landscape?
Indeed there's nothing like heading down to Camp St, gliding along the glitteringly lit paths, watching the beautiful displays of local sculpture and endeavouring screevers, sitting down to be tempted with the fine and luxurious foods from our district and then being swamped for choice as to whether or not to enjoy the world of film at the University's Independent Cinema or to head off to the Ol' Helen McPherson McSmith McBuggeryTheatre for some excellent type of wonder music or challenging new theatre, then shaking one's rumpa to some imported boogaloo from interstate at the heated outdoor Venue-ma-tron and truly feeling the life of this funky town pump through the floorboards till the sun comes up, so we can all troop happily along, hand in hand, to the French Breakfast restaurant where it's always Croissant o'clock.
Why, we're spoiled for choice here that to that Sparkling Beacon of Wonder!
When someone says "What's going on Dude?" those two bounteous words "Camp St" are all you need.
It's the happening place Daddy-O!
Why the millions of dollars thrown at the re-vamp have paid off in spades!
I can't think of a more happening joint, right through the week, but especially on the weekend.
The variety! The inventiveness! The ever changing surprisery! The Goodwill! The sheer magnificence of it all!
Berlin can go to buggery. Tokyo's for tossers. New York is Old Hat.
Camp St!
It's got the buzz, friend.
Up there with Beale St, Soho and Carnival!
So yah-boo sucks to those nay sayers who said "The the entire joint was a poorly designer three legged white elephant that nobody would ever go to and would primarily be used as a walk through and spew stop for late night alcho monkeys"
.
A big bite yer bum to those negative types who said "The University is run by a bunch of nepotistic fossils, who's tenure means they can be a bunch of incompetent hacks, grimly ignoring the 21st century and not giving a shit about their work reaching any further than payday, who've never ever been interested in a wider community (what would those philistines know anyway)...and run a third rate bag of guff Uni"
Go to buggery for those who said "Helen McPherson McDonalds Theatre? What? Where? Who?"
Up ya clack to those who skyted "With so many musicians and theatre types supposedly hanging around, why is it we never see any thing good? Why are there no independent companies producing modern work? Why are the same old hacks producing shit that was crap in the 40's?"
Go to steaming Hell those never satisfied types who said "Another bloody Arts precinct? What in the fuzzy muffin would we need one of those for, when our current Arts Precinct, which was touted to be a fuckin Mecca of Western culture's greatest achievements, is nothing more that a huge albino mammoth, squatting like a bored cane toad, inhabited by nitwit kids and senile staff, ignored by the locals, laughed at by visitors, a place that begrudgingly squeezes out a small shiny nugget of dancy poop (to be watched by the people who are studying Dancy Poop Squeeze 101 and associated relatives) twice a year and is nothing less than a complete and utter fucking debacle that has successfully alienated anyone who could have breathed some life into it and whose only redeeming feature is it's ability to relax while the icy cock of corporate culture jams another inch in?"
Ha! You were wrong. All of you.
Camp St!
Wow!
And on a personal note, I'd also like to point out the fabulous success of the Music Festival held at Sovereign Hill last year.
A triumph of planning!
Why putting a festival in a rickety old joint where you can't touch anything was genius! Charging people their superannuation to see the cream of 80's folk really made me feel like I'd sacrificed for culture.
Getting the kids up to run around in the land of rusty spikes was a touch of brilliance!
And placing that roped off area for councillors, developers and associated cronies in the middle of the festival made me thankful that people (superior in all ways to myself and most others) were generous enough to let me wistfully gaze upon their grace and allowed me to furtively photograph them enjoying their trays of delicious sandwiches.
Indeed, there's nothing that says "Eureka Spirit" to me than spending a mortgage payment to gaze at the musical past and give silent and respectful regard to my betters who can proudly say "The Birthplace of democracy means I'm free to say get the fuck away from me you filthy fucking urchin. I bet you can't even name Max's merits!".
So....New Arts precinct....
I've said it once and I'll say it again......
When it comes to building Arts and Culture that reach out to plain old dumb bunnies like myself, that subtly and amazingly make me proud to live here, then Ballarat is number one.
The Big Cheese so to speak.
With the Wonder of Camp St and the Folks responsible for incredible Events at Sovvy Hill (for which the financial figures speak for themselves!) at the Helm, how could this new Art Precinct Endeavour be anything but the envy of the World?
Face it.
All past achievements have been met with resounding success and the next time you pass a group of carolling singers who warm your heart with generous song, while strolling your way to The Camp St Art precinct in the Christmas like hope of being thrilled to bits again by Art (or the twinkly Elves of creation), you can squeeze your honey tight and give thanks that you don't live in a place where our poor ignorant forebears had to eat a crap Italian sandwich, sink a jug of cheap hooch and try to con onto something with a pulse at a crowded, pestilent nightspot run by a belligerent Mafia in order to have fun.
We should all thank our lucky stars.........
All for now
Mick "Does anyone have the Events calendar for the Pre-mix King?" Dog
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Crazy town needs town crazy
Hello Fans,
A bit of sad news this week.
Our beloved town oddball, Mr Bill Morrell, finally shuffled off to the great big brightly colored hat in the sky.
For those of you who may not be in the know, Bill was the guy who walked around town, usually smoking a pipe, sometimes holding a fuzzy bear of some sort, sometimes wearing a giant novelty hat and most of time with a open gladstone bag that contained God knows what.
I had a squiz one day and it looked like a show-bag you might be given at the Dementia Show.
Just bits and pieces of things and stuff.
I'd known Bill for nearly 20 years and met him when I was a wee pup serving glutinous pancakes at one of our beloved franchises.
He'd come in and order a cup of black coffee, every day, at about 1 o'clock.
Without fail.
This went on for months and one day, when I was so presumptuous as to take down the usual order before he'd actually ordered it, He looked at me and said "Actually, Mick.... I'll have a Swiss Shake!" (a monstrous milkshake thing with about a litre of ice cream and enough chokky topping to get a Primary school off chops).
I bought it down to him and he sucked the pint glass dry and then never ordered anything else but coffee after that.
Zen humour? Low blood sugar? Birthday celebrations? I'll never know.
But, it must be said, that even then you could see the crack in the glaze of his eyes.
Other, more free wheeling dudes (who cooked the pancakes) would goad him into singing Opera (which he loved) and we would stand around in the faux wooden acoustics listening to the tremulous warblings of an Old, sad man having a crack at Puccini and the nasty cooks would piss themselves laughing.
Bastards we all were.
Still, every town has its colorful residents and without wanting to hang shit (which is odd for me) and with due respect, it is sad when a town loses its Town Crazy.
Before Mr. Morrell there was Radio Dave, a bloke whose life story was nothing but shite and tragedy, but still cruised about, blagging tapes and having the dubious distinction of being the guy everybody knew but no one wanted to know (this awkward attempt at sincerity makes me sound like Anna Coren. Forgive me, Zombie Jesus....).
Dave was one of those guys who was never really going to fit in anywhere, but none the less, I've heard crazier shit come out of less damaged people and at the heart of it all, Dave was an o.k guy (once again I'll admit that about 20mins was my limit. After that one of us left)
A champion bot and an enterprising dude who sold music from various bags from corner to corner, He always carried a large Boom Box (as it was known before these accursed MP3 toys turned us all into selfish shits).
Indeed, if Dave wanted to flog some merch, he'd whack it in the tape player, give it a crank and we'd all enjoy the goodness (conditions apply. See Ramones for details).
Cash would change hands. The Taxation department could go fuck itself as I don't think Dave had any sort of ABN or even a last name that I knew of.
Big Guy. Too loud. Too awkward.
Shuffled off to the big street in the sky a few years back.
Before him there was a guy called Herman The German, who was another trench coated guy who just hobo'ed around, not really doing anything but smelling odd.
A fixture of my childhood Ballarat, I don't really know what he did.
Rumours abounded that he had everything from Nazi Gold to Phyllis Diller sewn into the mattress and that he chose to live in odd shambling poverty.
Of course, there wasn't and he didn't, but when he died the whole town turned out. Why? I dunno.
Guilt? A sort of weird pre-B-Brother celebrity reality before television?
Beats me. But He's gone too.
And now Bill Morrel.
I can't lie and say I didn't cross the street when I saw him coming up the road in the last year of his life.
Previously, I'd often stop and have a chat to the old bloke, but then one day he just gave up washing and eventually started exuding a uric odour that was like a Hyena trying to hump your face.
I couldn't hack it. I'm shit with smells. They just make me chuck.
But he's gone too. Poor bugger. (He looked awful before he died. Really bad.)
So.
Here's the ad you won't see down at Centrelink but none the less is hanging somewhere in the continuum, (or maybe on the City of Ballarat website) and is yet to be answered by the next strange candidate
Wanted.
Town Crazy.
Must be largely benign but obviously completely off chops.
Ability to politely/emphatically ramble to anyone who listens a plus.
Must have own clothe (pref. one set) and distinctive prop or icon (music player, large hat, trenchcoat etc.)
Duties include walking endless loops of Sturt St and staring into space.
Benefits include polite cafe owners, passing interest from humanitarian types and first name basis with staff at Base Hospital.
Experience with young yelling pricks helpful, but can be learnt on the job.
Chance of promotion non existent, but successful applicants will be provided with ample sun if it's a nice day.
Salary- Nuttin'
Apply - Sturt St C/o Any Lamppost.
Successful applicant will start immediately. We suppose. (Sort it out amongst yourselves).
All for now
Mick "Today Tonight is my Bitch" Dog
A bit of sad news this week.
Our beloved town oddball, Mr Bill Morrell, finally shuffled off to the great big brightly colored hat in the sky.
For those of you who may not be in the know, Bill was the guy who walked around town, usually smoking a pipe, sometimes holding a fuzzy bear of some sort, sometimes wearing a giant novelty hat and most of time with a open gladstone bag that contained God knows what.
I had a squiz one day and it looked like a show-bag you might be given at the Dementia Show.
Just bits and pieces of things and stuff.
I'd known Bill for nearly 20 years and met him when I was a wee pup serving glutinous pancakes at one of our beloved franchises.
He'd come in and order a cup of black coffee, every day, at about 1 o'clock.
Without fail.
This went on for months and one day, when I was so presumptuous as to take down the usual order before he'd actually ordered it, He looked at me and said "Actually, Mick.... I'll have a Swiss Shake!" (a monstrous milkshake thing with about a litre of ice cream and enough chokky topping to get a Primary school off chops).
I bought it down to him and he sucked the pint glass dry and then never ordered anything else but coffee after that.
Zen humour? Low blood sugar? Birthday celebrations? I'll never know.
But, it must be said, that even then you could see the crack in the glaze of his eyes.
Other, more free wheeling dudes (who cooked the pancakes) would goad him into singing Opera (which he loved) and we would stand around in the faux wooden acoustics listening to the tremulous warblings of an Old, sad man having a crack at Puccini and the nasty cooks would piss themselves laughing.
Bastards we all were.
Still, every town has its colorful residents and without wanting to hang shit (which is odd for me) and with due respect, it is sad when a town loses its Town Crazy.
Before Mr. Morrell there was Radio Dave, a bloke whose life story was nothing but shite and tragedy, but still cruised about, blagging tapes and having the dubious distinction of being the guy everybody knew but no one wanted to know (this awkward attempt at sincerity makes me sound like Anna Coren. Forgive me, Zombie Jesus....).
Dave was one of those guys who was never really going to fit in anywhere, but none the less, I've heard crazier shit come out of less damaged people and at the heart of it all, Dave was an o.k guy (once again I'll admit that about 20mins was my limit. After that one of us left)
A champion bot and an enterprising dude who sold music from various bags from corner to corner, He always carried a large Boom Box (as it was known before these accursed MP3 toys turned us all into selfish shits).
Indeed, if Dave wanted to flog some merch, he'd whack it in the tape player, give it a crank and we'd all enjoy the goodness (conditions apply. See Ramones for details).
Cash would change hands. The Taxation department could go fuck itself as I don't think Dave had any sort of ABN or even a last name that I knew of.
Big Guy. Too loud. Too awkward.
Shuffled off to the big street in the sky a few years back.
Before him there was a guy called Herman The German, who was another trench coated guy who just hobo'ed around, not really doing anything but smelling odd.
A fixture of my childhood Ballarat, I don't really know what he did.
Rumours abounded that he had everything from Nazi Gold to Phyllis Diller sewn into the mattress and that he chose to live in odd shambling poverty.
Of course, there wasn't and he didn't, but when he died the whole town turned out. Why? I dunno.
Guilt? A sort of weird pre-B-Brother celebrity reality before television?
Beats me. But He's gone too.
And now Bill Morrel.
I can't lie and say I didn't cross the street when I saw him coming up the road in the last year of his life.
Previously, I'd often stop and have a chat to the old bloke, but then one day he just gave up washing and eventually started exuding a uric odour that was like a Hyena trying to hump your face.
I couldn't hack it. I'm shit with smells. They just make me chuck.
But he's gone too. Poor bugger. (He looked awful before he died. Really bad.)
So.
Here's the ad you won't see down at Centrelink but none the less is hanging somewhere in the continuum, (or maybe on the City of Ballarat website) and is yet to be answered by the next strange candidate
Wanted.
Town Crazy.
Must be largely benign but obviously completely off chops.
Ability to politely/emphatically ramble to anyone who listens a plus.
Must have own clothe (pref. one set) and distinctive prop or icon (music player, large hat, trenchcoat etc.)
Duties include walking endless loops of Sturt St and staring into space.
Benefits include polite cafe owners, passing interest from humanitarian types and first name basis with staff at Base Hospital.
Experience with young yelling pricks helpful, but can be learnt on the job.
Chance of promotion non existent, but successful applicants will be provided with ample sun if it's a nice day.
Salary- Nuttin'
Apply - Sturt St C/o Any Lamppost.
Successful applicant will start immediately. We suppose. (Sort it out amongst yourselves).
All for now
Mick "Today Tonight is my Bitch" Dog
Monday, June 16, 2008
Peakin oil in Ballarat - the extended club mix
It's late. I'm almost out of petrol vouchers. Just time enough to push this downhill:
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Peak oil fever hits Ballarat
It's coming... it's coming.... Len and Mick have been ensconsced in the Viper Room in L.A finishing off the last of the tax that ol' mate wassisname said was left in the locker at the train station... Anyway due to the oil crisis we haven't had a show on air, but this is the first cut from the bowl of congealing dim sims that is my brain right now...
Kick the fuck on!
That's all right now... currently hard at the mincer, making more dimsim meat for the next parts of the feast that is Peakin' Oil in Ballarat. The Show With No Name is back on the air this week, by hook, crook, or petrol price mook - in the meantime, siddown and relax as we consider a future of the world as the Juice Crisis takes hold...
Kick the fuck on!
That's all right now... currently hard at the mincer, making more dimsim meat for the next parts of the feast that is Peakin' Oil in Ballarat. The Show With No Name is back on the air this week, by hook, crook, or petrol price mook - in the meantime, siddown and relax as we consider a future of the world as the Juice Crisis takes hold...
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Comedy my arse
Hello Fans,
What is the attraction of the ineffectual gonk?
Everywhere one looks these day, there's another example of an inept twerp simpering about how "useless" they are for laughs and making other fucking oxygen thieves feel good about their lives.
Case in point.
Reading today in one of the nation's broadsheet arse rags, I quote; "Flight of the Conchords is the funniest show on television". (end bullshit)
Upon reading this I partly rejoiced, for it means that the boob-tube has now become so piss weak, so brickishly dull that people may start doing things like shoe cleaning or gutter de-clagging as a preferable option to being dribbled upon by the electric bukkake of light entertainment.
For those of you spared "The Flight of The Conchords" kiwi infused poop, every episode runs like this
Fool 1- I'm inept
Fool 2- I too am inept, but not as inept as you
(Sight gag proving Fool 2 is, in fact, more inept than Fool 1)
Fool 2 - Curses!
Fool 1- Lets sing a song about how furniture makes us glad.
(Fin)
??????? Huh? Wha????
Sheer buttocky scrape.
And for those who like their shows in a Kervorkian stylee, may I suggest you expose yourself to five futile minutes of "Balls of Steel".
This filthy little pile of steam works on the premise that people shitting people to death is funny.
Now, I don't know about you, (thank Christ), but I'd just like to put my hand up and say I've got enough to shit me in this world without paying money to watch some cunt kick a Nana up the arse for laughs.
Buncha fuckin goons mugging for cheap laughs.
If the aforementioned Balls were made of steel, perhaps they could actually take a risk and present some comedy that would maybe get them in a bit of troub.
Some suggestions include..
A home make over for your Austrian Dungeon? Or maybe getting up the front of a Mosque and mooning the faithful when they do that bendy over thing? Start selling shares in Antarctic oil to investors? Maybe faking adoption papers for that 42-kg tumour they removed from the Indian rickshaw driver today? Driving round the Whitehouse with "Paint it Black" blaring from a tricked out ride? Anything that doesn't involve picking on some poor bastard just trying to get through the day?
But noooooo......just a bunch of lackwits harassing their fellow folk so that people who own television stations can add another rumpus room to the Death Star.
Balls of Steel? Balls of fucking cheese, you lank witted scrot fondlers.
But while I've got my spleen in my hand, lets just pile some more script diddlers onto this bonfire of blag.
Rove McAnus. Australia's answer to Webster. It's a pity our African neighbours don't kill television personalities for bush meat.
Tripod. Puerile nincompoops blarting out the same song again and again about how Galaga is better than a girlfriend and how they wish their Nintendo had a box. Prannies all.
That McDermott thing. Is he poking that talentless blonde blow-up or what? Every time I've glanced at her over wrought monologue, I can feel the lighting guy wanting to drop something on her gibbering head.
As for that McDermott thing...apart from having a head that looks like a shitty Pixie caught in a three accordion pile up, I'm sure I'm not alone in saying "If the sheer realisation that you are a fuggling hack doesn't shut you up, perhaps several very hard blows to the face will. (tip your waitress. Try the veal etc.)"
Who else.......Julia Zemiro! (please.....can you just talk like a person rather than a ring leader in CirqueDuMerde? If we can record the pristine mumbles of Lou Reed then we can safely assume microphone technology doesn't need you to yell like a fishwife selling cushions)
And any "Personality" that does those 20 to 1 abortions with Bert "Still here, ya bastards!" Newton. (Can we please get Amnesty International to give Nick Gianopoulos a job somewhere? That poor bastard...every line he delivers is like watching an old, old man desperately flap his floppy cock up against a bored prostitute.)
Hamish Blake! (Whassamatter? Ran outta funny stuff there, young fella? No more cred cause you can dry and chop up yer snot and snort it again for that 3 o'clock buzz? Used all your funny lines after being pumped every day on radio, Tv and Martian space probe? Falling into the trap of being a desperate compulsive joke belcher? Word got round you're a dud root? May i suggest taking some time off to suck shit, you furtive freckle fondler)
And of course Shaun "had it, lost it, oh no...found it again...no gone..hang on ....no....yup, there it is.....no...no .....bugger it...." Micallef, (word to the wise, Shauny baby, The dream is over. You are getting dangerously close to being offered Larry Emdur's old job. You could have made something really cool. But you didn't. You could have whacked out something as fucking funny and dry and great as "The Games". You could have been the thinking man's Norman Gunston. But you blew it all on cheap gags and fancy light bulbs for your mirror. Bob Dylan is funnier than you. And he ain't funny).
Or Denise Scott. The only thing even vaugly funny about that luddite bag lady is her rsemblance to a pet rock with a wig on. The way some cameraperson has to feel their life ebbing away, while they get a tight shot of her early dementia style routine, screaming about her prolapse and her geographic titties, sounding to my ear like some sort of oral hybrid between a runaway fax and a trickling brook of Werribee's finest, is heartbreaking. And bile inducing. And gun law reconsidering.
Nope. Bugger it. Had a gutful.
Can't see how these frisbee chasing bafflements make a contribution to the World.
Lift your game or get over to London for Panto season the lot of you.
All for now
Mick "Karen Middleton, that politics reporting chick, is hot" Dog
What is the attraction of the ineffectual gonk?
Everywhere one looks these day, there's another example of an inept twerp simpering about how "useless" they are for laughs and making other fucking oxygen thieves feel good about their lives.
Case in point.
Reading today in one of the nation's broadsheet arse rags, I quote; "Flight of the Conchords is the funniest show on television". (end bullshit)
Upon reading this I partly rejoiced, for it means that the boob-tube has now become so piss weak, so brickishly dull that people may start doing things like shoe cleaning or gutter de-clagging as a preferable option to being dribbled upon by the electric bukkake of light entertainment.
For those of you spared "The Flight of The Conchords" kiwi infused poop, every episode runs like this
Fool 1- I'm inept
Fool 2- I too am inept, but not as inept as you
(Sight gag proving Fool 2 is, in fact, more inept than Fool 1)
Fool 2 - Curses!
Fool 1- Lets sing a song about how furniture makes us glad.
(Fin)
??????? Huh? Wha????
Sheer buttocky scrape.
And for those who like their shows in a Kervorkian stylee, may I suggest you expose yourself to five futile minutes of "Balls of Steel".
This filthy little pile of steam works on the premise that people shitting people to death is funny.
Now, I don't know about you, (thank Christ), but I'd just like to put my hand up and say I've got enough to shit me in this world without paying money to watch some cunt kick a Nana up the arse for laughs.
Buncha fuckin goons mugging for cheap laughs.
If the aforementioned Balls were made of steel, perhaps they could actually take a risk and present some comedy that would maybe get them in a bit of troub.
Some suggestions include..
A home make over for your Austrian Dungeon? Or maybe getting up the front of a Mosque and mooning the faithful when they do that bendy over thing? Start selling shares in Antarctic oil to investors? Maybe faking adoption papers for that 42-kg tumour they removed from the Indian rickshaw driver today? Driving round the Whitehouse with "Paint it Black" blaring from a tricked out ride? Anything that doesn't involve picking on some poor bastard just trying to get through the day?
But noooooo......just a bunch of lackwits harassing their fellow folk so that people who own television stations can add another rumpus room to the Death Star.
Balls of Steel? Balls of fucking cheese, you lank witted scrot fondlers.
But while I've got my spleen in my hand, lets just pile some more script diddlers onto this bonfire of blag.
Rove McAnus. Australia's answer to Webster. It's a pity our African neighbours don't kill television personalities for bush meat.
Tripod. Puerile nincompoops blarting out the same song again and again about how Galaga is better than a girlfriend and how they wish their Nintendo had a box. Prannies all.
That McDermott thing. Is he poking that talentless blonde blow-up or what? Every time I've glanced at her over wrought monologue, I can feel the lighting guy wanting to drop something on her gibbering head.
As for that McDermott thing...apart from having a head that looks like a shitty Pixie caught in a three accordion pile up, I'm sure I'm not alone in saying "If the sheer realisation that you are a fuggling hack doesn't shut you up, perhaps several very hard blows to the face will. (tip your waitress. Try the veal etc.)"
Who else.......Julia Zemiro! (please.....can you just talk like a person rather than a ring leader in CirqueDuMerde? If we can record the pristine mumbles of Lou Reed then we can safely assume microphone technology doesn't need you to yell like a fishwife selling cushions)
And any "Personality" that does those 20 to 1 abortions with Bert "Still here, ya bastards!" Newton. (Can we please get Amnesty International to give Nick Gianopoulos a job somewhere? That poor bastard...every line he delivers is like watching an old, old man desperately flap his floppy cock up against a bored prostitute.)
Hamish Blake! (Whassamatter? Ran outta funny stuff there, young fella? No more cred cause you can dry and chop up yer snot and snort it again for that 3 o'clock buzz? Used all your funny lines after being pumped every day on radio, Tv and Martian space probe? Falling into the trap of being a desperate compulsive joke belcher? Word got round you're a dud root? May i suggest taking some time off to suck shit, you furtive freckle fondler)
And of course Shaun "had it, lost it, oh no...found it again...no gone..hang on ....no....yup, there it is.....no...no .....bugger it...." Micallef, (word to the wise, Shauny baby, The dream is over. You are getting dangerously close to being offered Larry Emdur's old job. You could have made something really cool. But you didn't. You could have whacked out something as fucking funny and dry and great as "The Games". You could have been the thinking man's Norman Gunston. But you blew it all on cheap gags and fancy light bulbs for your mirror. Bob Dylan is funnier than you. And he ain't funny).
Or Denise Scott. The only thing even vaugly funny about that luddite bag lady is her rsemblance to a pet rock with a wig on. The way some cameraperson has to feel their life ebbing away, while they get a tight shot of her early dementia style routine, screaming about her prolapse and her geographic titties, sounding to my ear like some sort of oral hybrid between a runaway fax and a trickling brook of Werribee's finest, is heartbreaking. And bile inducing. And gun law reconsidering.
Nope. Bugger it. Had a gutful.
Can't see how these frisbee chasing bafflements make a contribution to the World.
Lift your game or get over to London for Panto season the lot of you.
All for now
Mick "Karen Middleton, that politics reporting chick, is hot" Dog
University of Ballarat goes to Sydney
This just in from our correspondent Matt Heuston-What'sYOURFuckinproblem-Kennedy in Sydney... It seems Ballarat Council is not being consulted on some plans for the expansion of the city's boundaries...
BREAKING NEWS: PHOTO REVEALS EXPANSIONIST PLANS
Gold-rush city expands, abscess-like, into the heartland of Sydney.
M Heuston Kennedy - AAP Rooters.
It's an unusual advance guard, but the Gold City has begun its take over of the Emerald City by establishing a office of its University in Sydney's CBD (currently sharing the space with a Scientology Personality Testing Centre and a D&D gaming club).
"We've some grand plans for NNNB, including the forced repatriation of all shirt-lifters to that nonce-hole Melbourne. We'll be keeping keeping most of the 'vagitarians' though. They might be rough as a dog's clacker, but many lezzers - the 'butch' ones I think they'recalled - are renowned hard workers and will form the vanguard of our new NNNB mining and construction efforts. They're like Malley Bulls some of em, but with twats, which, onreflection, isn't very bull-like is it? Anyway, we'll save millions on work-gear too as they all have their own dungarees and boots already."
Further plans discovered by this correspondent include a plan of rapid national expansionin which the the eventual annexation of Papua New Guinea is seen as a real possibility.
"Bogan-Ville sounds like a great name for a regional Capital in the Ballarat Sovereign (Hills) Empire." Said an utterly non-existent council spokesperson who said he enjoyed beer, golf, beer AND golf, sitting, sitting and beer, and reading - with a beer.
"After NNNB, we'll move north again. Onwards and upwards we say. I mean, you can't have a place called "Queens" Land on the Northern border of the most glorious blokey Empire the world has ever seen can you? Especially after we've sent all the 'queens' to Melbourne where they'll never be seen again - mainly because no-one ever goes there. From there it's onto Bogan-Ville and shortly after, Indonesia which, as there are no Indians - or Esians - hardlymakes any sense as a name, so we'll just call the whole bloody thing China Town. Anyway, I better be off as it's Happy Hour at the Country Club (6 'til 11) and we're sacrificing a hippy to the lake-God tonight - plus there's a choock raffle. First prize is a ham!"
* The proposed new name for Sydney Harbour Bridge which, after being gilded, will beboth an eternal tribute to Ballarat's glorious past and the most ambitious partnership McDonald's has ever undertaken with a city dictatorship.
BREAKING NEWS: PHOTO REVEALS EXPANSIONIST PLANS
Gold-rush city expands, abscess-like, into the heartland of Sydney.
M Heuston Kennedy - AAP Rooters.
It's an unusual advance guard, but the Gold City has begun its take over of the Emerald City by establishing a office of its University in Sydney's CBD (currently sharing the space with a Scientology Personality Testing Centre and a D&D gaming club).
"Believe you me. Soon, Sydney will be renamed 'North North North Ballarat'. This is just the beginning of our plans for the expansion of our golden town" said an un-named and imaginedcity councillor.
"The bloody soap-dodging hippies might finally shut the hell up aboutthe lake having dried up once we show them our boys rowing on North North NorthBallarat Harbour under the *Golden Arch!"
"We've some grand plans for NNNB, including the forced repatriation of all shirt-lifters to that nonce-hole Melbourne. We'll be keeping keeping most of the 'vagitarians' though. They might be rough as a dog's clacker, but many lezzers - the 'butch' ones I think they'recalled - are renowned hard workers and will form the vanguard of our new NNNB mining and construction efforts. They're like Malley Bulls some of em, but with twats, which, onreflection, isn't very bull-like is it? Anyway, we'll save millions on work-gear too as they all have their own dungarees and boots already."
Further plans discovered by this correspondent include a plan of rapid national expansionin which the the eventual annexation of Papua New Guinea is seen as a real possibility.
"Bogan-Ville sounds like a great name for a regional Capital in the Ballarat Sovereign (Hills) Empire." Said an utterly non-existent council spokesperson who said he enjoyed beer, golf, beer AND golf, sitting, sitting and beer, and reading - with a beer.
This correspondent was then treatedto a recital of a few passages from the spokesperson's favourite book called: "Me In Kamp F" a rollicking adventure tale of the Gold Rush which he related in what seemed to be a local twang, which to the unacustomed ears of this city-slicker reporter, sounded oddly Germanic.
"After NNNB, we'll move north again. Onwards and upwards we say. I mean, you can't have a place called "Queens" Land on the Northern border of the most glorious blokey Empire the world has ever seen can you? Especially after we've sent all the 'queens' to Melbourne where they'll never be seen again - mainly because no-one ever goes there. From there it's onto Bogan-Ville and shortly after, Indonesia which, as there are no Indians - or Esians - hardlymakes any sense as a name, so we'll just call the whole bloody thing China Town. Anyway, I better be off as it's Happy Hour at the Country Club (6 'til 11) and we're sacrificing a hippy to the lake-God tonight - plus there's a choock raffle. First prize is a ham!"
* The proposed new name for Sydney Harbour Bridge which, after being gilded, will beboth an eternal tribute to Ballarat's glorious past and the most ambitious partnership McDonald's has ever undertaken with a city dictatorship.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Blog 10/06/08
Hello fans,
Firstly I’d like to thank all those involved in the bid to put The ShowWith No Name up there with such television classics as The Collectors and "The Twiddlebugs go to Indented Head".
We can’t disclose too much at this point, (what with nothing having actually happened and the Pigeon that we tied our hopes and electronic dreams to possibly crashing into some power lines round ACDC lane), but it is good to have actually been part of licking a self stamped and popping stuff off to a bunch of grey headed people, who hate this confounded modern age, but love a good panto with Kevin Rudd dressed up as Luscious Lillypad, a transvestite frog who’s off to see the Emperor! (Cymbal crash!…cue piano.)
Ahhh….the smell of the greasepaint….. Lube me up Charlie! I’m ready to rock. (Cash, cheque or money order)
But I digress…..
How lovely is it to be frozen stiff in the mornings? How wonderful to see the Walrus lolling about on the council steps, their gritty flukes tapping away at water rates and the like?
How delightful is it to see mercurial hump bunnies fused at the frozen dude outside gaily-lit nightspots?
Yes indeedy, Winter in all of its floral shirted goodness is here.
How I love to see the flakes of exhaust fumes settling on the children, their cak handed attempts to make a petroleum snowman being thwarted by motorists scooping the carrot nosed busts into gleaming automobiles and chugging along to work on crap and steam?
How I adore the happy panted choky scrufflers, scooting about with the monthly horde, the Vinnie Barbawino’s emerging all smiles with their crisp bags of new goon, the pleasant singing of pregnant teens, like tender mother buffalos, bellowing to their squat progeny down Central Square, their jammy Longbeach fingers poking into bargains and what not.
Yes…. It’s certainly Poetry in some sort of motion (perhaps Poetry at Bingo nite or stuck in traffic in Mossman), but indeed I truly think (conditions apply) that of all the wonders of God’s green tea bag, that Winter in Ballart puts the gleaming stars to shame and makes the beanies hide their furry heads in awe.
As a pup, growing up in this Alpine light, we would be huddled into a room with the livestock, perhaps a few old blankets and then we would set fire to the unused wings of Doggly Manor, (Central heating still being a pipe dream in 73’).
We’d sing songs into a Cb radio and it was wonderful to hear the truckers fill our cold little chicken roost with odd, dreamy far away sounding names such as Boort and Maldon.
It was cold, colder that the teat of a cryogenic Witch (Moly! Dat’s cold!), but we laughed and died, like soldiers in a drink tray together.
We’d skootch under four metres of doon at night and back in the day we had tame Elves, (except for that one got rabies and took out the dog before Dad clubbed it to beans), who would drive weenie snow ploughs, so you could get to school and be cold there for the day.
Our beloved lake Wendouree would freeze and we’d skate, happy as horny Larks until the Ice Pirates came in July and stabbed you with a swan if youtried to get to the kiosk for a cup of warm mulch.
Ahhhh…Winter. It’s like the frozen things your lover pokes up your bum on one of those night where you are both feeling co-sassy.
Sure, it’s a shock at first and one is almost tempted to pull away, (perhaps to Brisbane), but after a few deep breaths and a little melty patience, soon Winter is as snug as a bug in a bog roll and you just await the comforting melt while your lover tightens your saddle. Yee Har!
In fact I’ll go as far to say you can keep you balmier climbs, what with all the Secession talked about the Colonel Jo.
Sure, it must be bearable to waddle from the waterbed with a “Free pass to SeaWorld with every dressing gown” dressing gown on, make your lackadaisical way to some squid vendor and go the morning chomp while naked young’ns catch the tram to their get fit fondles.
It must be passably to sit at night with nothing but a flimsy chenille on, sipping on some sparkling liquors while some sort of Afro Jazz plays to the freakish skies, the night breeze flunking through the drying washing and the nymphs from next door have a “Nude against Mug!” contest on their frilly trampolines.
It must be o.k. to have endless sunny skies and that “Tie me Campervan down, sport!”, you beaut Ute Aussie dinkum sports drink attitude that seems to come easily to our northern neighbours, but given the choice I’d like nothing more to stand on the top of Sturt street, my dude whipping about in the frigid air singing “Counting the Beat” by the Swingers and then rubbing myself all over with the moist, carbon smelling soil of my lovely freezy burg.
Of course, after certain court orders have now been freed from their envelopes (rather like that scene where NASA smashes the prison prism in Superman III and the bad guys who can kick superman’s ass get out and wreck terrible havoc setting fire to Buicks and the like, but Superman gets better lines and Lois won’t root the beardy henchman and the leather dominatrix chick falls in love with Kurt Cobain’s country cousin, Capt. Kyle Cobain Jr and the really smart guys with the evil eyebrows gets his own show called “Punch in face for a million!” , where ex-wrestlers get punched in the face by a man who excerpts more force than a steam train being dropped from space when they can’t answer questions like “What is the mathematical representation of the code needed to seed other planets with sentient life?”), then the above mentioned nudie duding won’t be appearing at an Arch of Victory near you soon. Pity………..
Still……it nice to be cold. (sorta)
I find it brings out the resilience in a person. An attitude where you have keep your wits sharp and your eyes open lest you blink and they freeze together.
All for now!
Mick ‘Wimmens is better that electamatrical blankets” Dog.
Hello fans,
Firstly I’d like to thank all those involved in the bid to put The ShowWith No Name up there with such television classics as The Collectors and "The Twiddlebugs go to Indented Head".
We can’t disclose too much at this point, (what with nothing having actually happened and the Pigeon that we tied our hopes and electronic dreams to possibly crashing into some power lines round ACDC lane), but it is good to have actually been part of licking a self stamped and popping stuff off to a bunch of grey headed people, who hate this confounded modern age, but love a good panto with Kevin Rudd dressed up as Luscious Lillypad, a transvestite frog who’s off to see the Emperor! (Cymbal crash!…cue piano.)
Ahhh….the smell of the greasepaint….. Lube me up Charlie! I’m ready to rock. (Cash, cheque or money order)
But I digress…..
How lovely is it to be frozen stiff in the mornings? How wonderful to see the Walrus lolling about on the council steps, their gritty flukes tapping away at water rates and the like?
How delightful is it to see mercurial hump bunnies fused at the frozen dude outside gaily-lit nightspots?
Yes indeedy, Winter in all of its floral shirted goodness is here.
How I love to see the flakes of exhaust fumes settling on the children, their cak handed attempts to make a petroleum snowman being thwarted by motorists scooping the carrot nosed busts into gleaming automobiles and chugging along to work on crap and steam?
How I adore the happy panted choky scrufflers, scooting about with the monthly horde, the Vinnie Barbawino’s emerging all smiles with their crisp bags of new goon, the pleasant singing of pregnant teens, like tender mother buffalos, bellowing to their squat progeny down Central Square, their jammy Longbeach fingers poking into bargains and what not.
Yes…. It’s certainly Poetry in some sort of motion (perhaps Poetry at Bingo nite or stuck in traffic in Mossman), but indeed I truly think (conditions apply) that of all the wonders of God’s green tea bag, that Winter in Ballart puts the gleaming stars to shame and makes the beanies hide their furry heads in awe.
As a pup, growing up in this Alpine light, we would be huddled into a room with the livestock, perhaps a few old blankets and then we would set fire to the unused wings of Doggly Manor, (Central heating still being a pipe dream in 73’).
We’d sing songs into a Cb radio and it was wonderful to hear the truckers fill our cold little chicken roost with odd, dreamy far away sounding names such as Boort and Maldon.
It was cold, colder that the teat of a cryogenic Witch (Moly! Dat’s cold!), but we laughed and died, like soldiers in a drink tray together.
We’d skootch under four metres of doon at night and back in the day we had tame Elves, (except for that one got rabies and took out the dog before Dad clubbed it to beans), who would drive weenie snow ploughs, so you could get to school and be cold there for the day.
Our beloved lake Wendouree would freeze and we’d skate, happy as horny Larks until the Ice Pirates came in July and stabbed you with a swan if youtried to get to the kiosk for a cup of warm mulch.
Ahhhh…Winter. It’s like the frozen things your lover pokes up your bum on one of those night where you are both feeling co-sassy.
Sure, it’s a shock at first and one is almost tempted to pull away, (perhaps to Brisbane), but after a few deep breaths and a little melty patience, soon Winter is as snug as a bug in a bog roll and you just await the comforting melt while your lover tightens your saddle. Yee Har!
In fact I’ll go as far to say you can keep you balmier climbs, what with all the Secession talked about the Colonel Jo.
Sure, it must be bearable to waddle from the waterbed with a “Free pass to SeaWorld with every dressing gown” dressing gown on, make your lackadaisical way to some squid vendor and go the morning chomp while naked young’ns catch the tram to their get fit fondles.
It must be passably to sit at night with nothing but a flimsy chenille on, sipping on some sparkling liquors while some sort of Afro Jazz plays to the freakish skies, the night breeze flunking through the drying washing and the nymphs from next door have a “Nude against Mug!” contest on their frilly trampolines.
It must be o.k. to have endless sunny skies and that “Tie me Campervan down, sport!”, you beaut Ute Aussie dinkum sports drink attitude that seems to come easily to our northern neighbours, but given the choice I’d like nothing more to stand on the top of Sturt street, my dude whipping about in the frigid air singing “Counting the Beat” by the Swingers and then rubbing myself all over with the moist, carbon smelling soil of my lovely freezy burg.
Of course, after certain court orders have now been freed from their envelopes (rather like that scene where NASA smashes the prison prism in Superman III and the bad guys who can kick superman’s ass get out and wreck terrible havoc setting fire to Buicks and the like, but Superman gets better lines and Lois won’t root the beardy henchman and the leather dominatrix chick falls in love with Kurt Cobain’s country cousin, Capt. Kyle Cobain Jr and the really smart guys with the evil eyebrows gets his own show called “Punch in face for a million!” , where ex-wrestlers get punched in the face by a man who excerpts more force than a steam train being dropped from space when they can’t answer questions like “What is the mathematical representation of the code needed to seed other planets with sentient life?”), then the above mentioned nudie duding won’t be appearing at an Arch of Victory near you soon. Pity………..
Still……it nice to be cold. (sorta)
I find it brings out the resilience in a person. An attitude where you have keep your wits sharp and your eyes open lest you blink and they freeze together.
All for now!
Mick ‘Wimmens is better that electamatrical blankets” Dog.
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
The Henson photos you can't see
It's all gone bear-shaped now. Until the Rudd paedo-police move in, here's the exclusive inside report on the Henson exhibition as filed by the Show With No Name...
Monday, June 2, 2008
Rock and roll hospitalisation in B-town
It's all gone hospital shaped for our comrade in charms Mr Len this week, folks! Last seen headed off for a public performance of loud guitar abuse, more lately it seems he's gone and landed himself in a small cell with a leg full of plaster and nought but a couple of euro-crit music mags and a small wire connected to a box which pipes the sounds of daytime television, of which a small box hangs from a ceiling some 6 feet above him broadcasting pictures of the same.We gots to bust the man out. It's only a fortnight since our award-binning Rock for the Mok, in which we drove mid-song up to Albury Wodonga to bring you the sounds and commentary of the huge celebration of the return the nation's latest celebrity outlaw to justice... with fond appearances from our very first celebrity
home detention figure, Glenn 'i was caught wiping the tax from my nose' Wheatley.
But I digress. As I said, Lenny's managed to sidestep the usual public medicine predilection for invoking the horrors of Floydesque institutionalised uncomfortably numb drug trips (Just a little pin prick... there'll be no more AAAAAAAAAGH!) and ensuing spiders-crawling up wall. Or, indeed was that a Linda Blair-lookalike from the paedetrics wing-type freakzone? Nup, he's sitting tight.
But we gots to get in there.
The Utility Dim Sim Production Facility (nah... we're waaay not up to researching muffins yet... although a lot of it IS done in the kitchen..) - is hard at work nailing together the finishing sparkles to last week's Nude Henson Gallery Outrage edition of the Show With No Name. It truly was something to behold... nevermind where the hell we're going to find a picture of Gonzo... oh dear.Regardless, send us any suggestions for Len's recovery - there'll be no show for tomorow, they wouldn't let us bring in the special Ratnet Hardware death-ray/multitrack/phonebong broadcasting gear (yeah, I actually DID check..) to let Len loose from the bed on the airwaves of 99.9 from Ballarat to greater western Victoria/earth, but we shall definitely be back on air next week, with latest rumours from the local bookie-fish'nchip/video/newsagent in South Central Ballarat declaring this will mark a return to the classic insane recordings as heard on the Show some months back when Len last found himself with smashed bones and a bruised sense of entitlement from the crime gang known Fate, Gravity, Pure Shit Luck all operating under the brutal doctrine of Murphy...
..and with that, ladies and gennilmen.... the 23rd of Elvis. Watch for Lenny as he plugs in the four-string Doberman and gets it boisterous...
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