Dear displaced Aborigines...

We, the undersigned bleeding hearts, sincerely hope that this plaque (which cost us almost $400 to have manufactured and installed) compensates you for the dispossession of your land and the travails of your people since white settlement. It certainly salves our guilt and makes us feel good about having 'done something' without actually having done anything at all.

Signed,

Whitey.

PS: Please stop hanging around our office, it gives us the creeps.

I love street flyers for crazy shit.

I sent Misty a text message to the effect that while I am not interested in modelling, I would like to buy tickets to watch the shoot if they were available. Misty sent me back a text message asking who I was. Well, Misty, I think that you might not want to put your phone number up everywhere if you're gonna ask questions like that, sweetheart.

Another plan to revive musical theatre

A musical version of BattleStar Galactica. Cylons dancing the Can-Can, soulful musical numbers from Caprica-Six (think I don't know how to love him), a rescue raptor on a hydraulic mount a-la Miss Saigon, and Anthony Warlow as Lee Adama.

Basically, Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, set in space. Seven wombs for seven robots, if you will.

I would call it BATTLESTAR!

Menses: The society for smart people and stuff.

I was reading Dikkii's Diatribe and noticed that his latest entry was a boast or lament about the reading level of his blog, as scored by this website.

Dikkii's blog is full of reasonably long and well thought-out pieces about matters of some import. This one seems to talk about women up-on-blocks a lot.

His blog was rated 'undergraduate'. Ours was rated 'genius'. Dikkii, it's time to increase the amount of airtime you commit to uterine effluvia. Period.

Is this bad?

Every time in my life when a vegan or vegetarian chick has swallowed after taking the act to its logical conclusion, I feel the same way I used to when I would surreptitiously throw small pieces of ham onto the pizzas of attractive vegetarian or vegan women.

Like a god.

I find your argument sophisticated, and will change my opinion forthwith.

I think that nuclear energy is a potential solution to our energy problems, especially when carbon emission are taken into account. 

You think that nukes are bad, mmmkay? My opinion is backed up with a lot of reading and looking into what scientists of many stripes have said on the issue.

Yours is backed up by an inflatable pachyderm, being powered by a pollution-spewing two-stroke generator.

Thanks for your loss-leading contribution to the marketplace of ideas. I'll be sure to look out for your next solution to our problems.

When did we all get together and vote on this 'right'?

I don't know if you can read that little caption there, but according to the organisers of Miss Landmine Angola 2008, everyone has the right to be beautiful. 

Sounds nice, doesn't it? 

Unfortunately it's hogshit. I wish it were true though, because rights infer responsibilities. And if you have the right to be beautiful, then you have a responsibility to be not ugly, and that is something I can get behind.

This is going to be something of a problem though because I am not generally aroused by chicks who have been dismembered (though I would pay good money to see some watersport porn featuring Heather Millcartney). 

So where does that leave me? Am I denying some woman named Eileen the right to be beautiful if I find her repulsive? I am not saying that this will keep me awake at night, but it might give me some strange dreams.

I guess what I am saying is ugly people are ugly people and that is true even if you step on a landmine. Unless that landmine is actually a keg of beer, in which case you might get more attractive.

Ben Cousins: Dead-set Aussie fuckin' legend.

So, I don't much care for football. At best, I think it's a way to keep bogans entertained and off the ski slopes during winter. However, I can admit to a growing interest in it now that the entire Ben Cousins fiasco continues to get better and better. Last we heard from our hero he was dressing like a rock star and text messaging bitches from the dock in court a couple of weeks ago. As my female friends said 'He is so fucking hot'.

As demanded by the increasingly Americanised media, he had to go and do his penance in rehab. In Los Angeles. Yeah.

Rehab.

For cocaine use.

In L.O.S. A.N.G.E.L.E.S.



Ahem.

So he flies to LA LA Land. And is promptly picked up at the airport by two hot bitches, and pisses that rehab nonsense off altogether.


That's the 21st century equivalent of Boonie's massive can intake on the way to Heathrow.

My favourite part of this story is this quote from West Coast Eagles boss Trevor Nisbet: "It seems to us he never had any intentions to return (to rehab). We feel betrayed."

Trevor - you are a tool.

I'm sorry but Taco Bell is closed for the night but you can walk up to our drive-through window.

If you own a Furbie, don't even THINK about flying with Qantas.