Archive for March, 2005

30 things to do before you’re 30

Thursday, March 17th, 2005

Inspired by this article entitled 40 things to do before you’re 40 (which I thought was pretty lame), I’ve decided to compile my own list of things to pass the time. Of course, since I’ve already turned 30, this list is suddenly redundant (at least for me).

  1. launch yourself into outer space
  2. smoke opium
  3. have group sex
  4. go skinny dipping with sharks and electric eels
  5. go do a life drawing class
  6. waste 4 years at university just to quit the job you studied for and change careers
  7. partake in some Sports Eating
  8. acid+spa
  9. mow the back lawn with your puppies out
  10. waste 6 or so years on some ridiculous computer game, giving you a case of life threatening RSI in the process
  11. call in a hoax bomb threat to (extort perhaps) your local Toys R Us
  12. join the navy
  13. eat chicken everyday, grow breasts
  14. yell at the noobs in the lift
  15. see a psychiatrist
  16. join a football team
  17. get plastic surgery
  18. blow something up
  19. stage your own Iron Chef kitchen battle with your friends
  20. get a proper job (maybe in the games industry) and in all probability hate it
  21. hell, get a job at the Immigration Dept and steal children for a living
  22. grow a large moustache
  23. martinis for breakfast, Stagg for tea
  24. dream up another half-dozen silly ideas for your own list of of dumb shit that you will think about but never actually do


Thursday, March 10th, 2005

Today was the first time I’ve had a hangover on a Thursday. I almost enjoy hangovers. 4-6 hours on the couch, rolling around in a weird and intense stew of waking dreams and hallucinations; the terrible daytime TV punctuated with regular vomiting. The only nasty bit really is the headache. Apart from the usual fantasies of large cars, automatic weapons and female friends in black leather corsets , I dreamed my flat was being torn apart by a cyclone. I woke up, and there was a hole in the roof and all my shit was wet. I woke up again to the sound of a low flying 747.

Later I had a real hankering for a cold, sweet, fizzy drink. Down at the IGA there were a bunch of boys from the local high school and I actually thought to myself, I wonder if any of these faggots was the guy who stabbed me death while I drunkenly tried to defuse? Last night I played Counterstrike Sauce from 8pm to 4am, and managed to drink almost 1/2 bottle of vodka and about 1/4 bottle of cheap tequila. Serious fucking downward spiral.

I grabbed an Apple Isle cider (my favourite hangover drink) from the fridge, then waddled into the softdrinks aisle where I packed my basket with 1 Vanilla Coke, 1 Pastitio, a 4 pack of Bundaburg ginger beer, and 2 cans of this glorious shit. Yes, Jesus loves me, and he has given his unfaithful flock a new a soft drink called Frenzy.

At the checkout there was the usual swag of old, drunken, lonely, crazy stanmore men, but they only wanted to buy either beer nuts, fags or tomato sauce. I almost fit right in here.

The cold apple fizz was consumed within 5 minutes of getting home, and I had the good sense to put the Pastitio in the freezer. Pouring the chilled passion fruit lollie-water into a pint glass full of ice just now I have strange flashbacks to 4am last nite, and it actually crosses my mind to chuck in some Vodka to make a hair of a dog. Time for another nap.

Battlefield Recipes

Wednesday, March 9th, 2005

Lunchtime in Chinatown. Been regularly having franchised portuguese chicken 3 days a week for almost a year now; but everything has its limits, and any more chicken than that I’ll start to grow manboobs. My goals for today are to further master floatings divs and look up a new recipe for tonight’s dinner. Stagg and Eggplant Potato Bake was a fucking blast. On battlefield earth, he with the most farts wins, and I’ve been parading around Stanmore in a victorious gastromical parade for near 48 hours now. However all good things must come to an end, even brown ones.

More important shit on SMH: Guy gives Casey some advice. In summary, the king of curly haired idiots tells some fat teenage girl, one depressingly banal Idol to another, that her song titles aren’t gay enough. Oh Oh, Guy’s latest masterpiece, is apparently capturing the spirit mass consumerism (or something) perfectly, well at least enough for a couple of hundred retards to buy it. “People are really liking the energy of it,” he said. Get AIDS already —-;

Two hours to go. Monty and I have decided to polish off the fortune cookies for afternoon tea. Here’s some ancient (yet vacant) wisdom for Guy and Casey that we’ve collected:

  • Man who gets kicked in testicles, left holding the bag.
  • Man who scratches ass should not bite fingernails.
  • Blowing into blonde’s ear is called Data Transfer.

The good old SMH still reports all the Important Shit

Thursday, March 3rd, 2005

“Scud’s love game partner” screams the headline from the Sydney Morning Herald. “This 18-year-old from Miami, Florida, has stolen the heart of Mark Philippousis - and accepted his proposal of marriage. But who is she, exactly?”

The article then proceeds to lash us with 10 bits of vitally trivial information on the Scud’s new tasty bit of crumpet, most of which seemed to be intrepidly sourced from a Google search. The best (for want of a better word) bit is when the article’s author Amalie Finlayson gleefully helps herself to a quote from the most evergreen and trashy lower-middleclass bitch-rag Woman’s Day: “While strolling down Melbourne’s Chapel Street, Mark Philippoussis and girlfriend Alexis Barbara deliberately avoided Delta Goodrem’s favourite ice-cream shop …” POOR DELTA! Earlier, the author notes down how Alexis “appears also to be a budding journalist,” then goes on to quote from a high-school journal that the Scud’s new girlfriend once wrote for. Seriously amazing shit, especially for the SMH. Personally, I think you’re just sour Amalie. Maybe you once hit our Scud, and you got pooped on.

You know, I used to be a budding journalist too. For about 9 months I wrote a lunix column for a newbie computer mag called PC-Active, published by the same company that puts out PC Powerplay. It went tits-up, presumably due to one too many nerdy easter eggs I managed to sneak past the editor. References to Star Wars will never hold water, and comparing some shitty ./configure; make; make install app to Mon Mothma and the Lunix Rebellion would sink the career of any budding tech-journo, if not the entire publication. It’s a good thing Next had it’s floaties on.

For the record, I couldn’t care less about the Scud, or what’s her face, or Our Poor Delta, or even Paris. I think Paris is an ugly fucking whore but that’s about as far as my opinion carries me on the matter of the Hilton sluts. I just wanted to write about something.

The alternative subject was the haircut of some Macdownaldtown-guy who got off the train today; a weekend mo-hawk that had been blended into a bald spot. I’m reasonably sure that when this cat’s hairdresser was giving him his Beckham that they failed in their Care of Duty to inform this poor bastard of his failing follicles, subsequently rendering him and his stupid haircut as a minor laughing stock of the inner west. Someone should take this guy on a date to a hall of mirrors for a joke.

I’m declaring the weekend mohawk is officially dead. If only I could do the same with the fucking Hiltons.