Schoolies week. It’s like Surfers Paradise is a healthy prostate and 22,000 school leavers are cancer. It’s a plague, an epidemic, an unholy, unwarranted and unwelcome invasion of stupid and horny boys and girls who can only muster a backbone if in a group of at least 6. It’s 2008, over 20 years of schoolies week is behind us and the best you can come up with from the back window of an overloaded Camry wagon is “yeaaah! Whoooo!”. I fucking hate you you stupid fucking schoolie and if I could run as fast as that Camry, you’d currently be in the predicament of finding a new way to chew food and sit down since I stuffed your head up your own ass! Just imagine how messy a sneeze would be!
What I find sadistically amusing is one of the poor kids has been struck down by meningococcal disease. Oh sweet terrible justice how I love thee. And the symptoms? I can barely type them out because I need my hands to stop my sides from splitting with evil laughter. They include, headaches and vomiting. Well that’ll sort it out then! The measures of prevention include good hygiene and avoiding sharing drink cups! Oh… my… god! Can you hear that, schoolie? Can you hear it? It’s the sound of your worthy demise.
Schoolies week is supposed to be the Australian version of America’s Spring Break. But the imagery conjured from Spring Break is that of tanned bodies in wet t-shirt competitions while schoolies week imagery better resembles a pimply faced Victorian throwing up at a bus stop. Well you wretched batch of smelly, unwashed upgraded monkeys; one of your own has been sacrificed to a Brisbane hospital and the Grim Reaper might just be lurking in that bush you’re about to dry hump each other in. Headaches and vomiting. Yes, it could be the booze, but it might, it just might be Death and his name is meningococcal.
Take the hint. Go home. Live.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Shane’s Anatomy
Alcohol abuse. It’s a serious problem facing today’s society. Well, perhaps face down. In a puddle of it’s own urine. Outside 7/11 at 4am. However, I feel it’s only a problem if you wake up on the wrong side of the puddle or live too far away from a 7/11 or 24hr servo. In my experience, far more good has come from being completely one eyed and legless than harm. Yes, it’s true I can’t hold a lighter steady enough to avoid setting myself on fire anymore. Yes, it’s true my liver has attempted to escape my body on more than one occasion. Yes it’s true my memory has deteriorated faster than Tatu’s music career yet I still maintain boozing it right up is the shiznit. Yes, I’m far too white and lame to churn out words like shiznit and bidness but I care not. And why? Because the last drop of my fifth beer just now was delicious but also inhibition destroying and confidence building! See? Do you see how this works?
Ok well I can sense a bunch of you shaking your head, rolling your eyes and/or internalising a negative response to what I’m preaching. To this I have two things to say. One: Internalise more, no-one wants your opinion anyway. Stop boring everybody with your incessant, nonsensical and sleep invoking miseratic musings. And Two: You’re my facebook friend. And if you are indeed my facebook friend, we’ve shared a bottle of scotch, wine or a carton at some point anyway. In fact, the booze might have been the thing that brought us together in the first place. If this is not the case for you, it will be or you can just go ahead and “remove friend” right now.
Friendships, love affairs, marriages, families, empires… all these things can be made possible by the mutual love of a nerve numbing cocktail or ten. Hell, I’m a September baby for Christ’s sake! Which means I can think of two people who had a pretty kick ass new years eve party nine months earlier! Now excuse me while I crack open my sixth and finish writing my business proposal to open the first ever Alcoholic Exhibitionists club. Don’t worry, it’ll be walking distance to Hungry Jacks.
Yeah, miseratic isn’t a word. Well done. Now internalise that shit like I told you.
Ok well I can sense a bunch of you shaking your head, rolling your eyes and/or internalising a negative response to what I’m preaching. To this I have two things to say. One: Internalise more, no-one wants your opinion anyway. Stop boring everybody with your incessant, nonsensical and sleep invoking miseratic musings. And Two: You’re my facebook friend. And if you are indeed my facebook friend, we’ve shared a bottle of scotch, wine or a carton at some point anyway. In fact, the booze might have been the thing that brought us together in the first place. If this is not the case for you, it will be or you can just go ahead and “remove friend” right now.
Friendships, love affairs, marriages, families, empires… all these things can be made possible by the mutual love of a nerve numbing cocktail or ten. Hell, I’m a September baby for Christ’s sake! Which means I can think of two people who had a pretty kick ass new years eve party nine months earlier! Now excuse me while I crack open my sixth and finish writing my business proposal to open the first ever Alcoholic Exhibitionists club. Don’t worry, it’ll be walking distance to Hungry Jacks.
Yeah, miseratic isn’t a word. Well done. Now internalise that shit like I told you.
Monday, June 9, 2008
11 minutes at an internet cafe
here we go, 10 minutes 50 seconds left, no time to spell check, no time to refine or revise and there's certainly no reason to call this sweat stained terminal out the front of Woolworths a CAFE! But I guess Internet Cafe sounds marginally more appealing than Internet Station of Communal Crapulence!
On the subject of meatballs, I've discovered I don't know how to walk on escalators that aren't working. And I don't think I'm alone... damn, just took a phone call and wasted 2 minutes of my Crapulence credit... Yeah so I approached the inoperable escalator to this very shopping centre knowing full well the fact that the escalator isn't working simply means it's a set of STAIRS. Well whoever is at the controls of my woefully inept body refused to adhere to the navigators sensible instructions and prepared my person for standard escalator boarding procedure. I approached with caution... put my left hand on the rubber railing which of course wasn't moving... put my right foot on the first step which of course wasn't moving... prepared for the mini-momentum adjustment that you do usually in such scenarios, like KnightRider boarding the back of that moving truck (yeah I know the car is called Kit and not Knightrider but I'm trying to relate to the masses...nerd)... and of course once I had committed to the text book escalator boarding procedure, I tripped over nothing but my own idiocy and fell over... fell over on the stationary staircase. You've done it haven't you. Haven't you? Answer me! Answer me before my time runs ou
On the subject of meatballs, I've discovered I don't know how to walk on escalators that aren't working. And I don't think I'm alone... damn, just took a phone call and wasted 2 minutes of my Crapulence credit... Yeah so I approached the inoperable escalator to this very shopping centre knowing full well the fact that the escalator isn't working simply means it's a set of STAIRS. Well whoever is at the controls of my woefully inept body refused to adhere to the navigators sensible instructions and prepared my person for standard escalator boarding procedure. I approached with caution... put my left hand on the rubber railing which of course wasn't moving... put my right foot on the first step which of course wasn't moving... prepared for the mini-momentum adjustment that you do usually in such scenarios, like KnightRider boarding the back of that moving truck (yeah I know the car is called Kit and not Knightrider but I'm trying to relate to the masses...nerd)... and of course once I had committed to the text book escalator boarding procedure, I tripped over nothing but my own idiocy and fell over... fell over on the stationary staircase. You've done it haven't you. Haven't you? Answer me! Answer me before my time runs ou
Monday, June 2, 2008
Application Complication of the Nation
Another human and I have been looking for a cosy little place to call home for over two weeks now. Because of my fear of spontaneous combustion upon entry of a bank, credit union or any other lender, I find myself flailing in the neglected filthy storm water drain that is the rental market. Oh, the 'human' is a female by the way. No, not a girlfriend so don't worry ladies, your free pass to ride the Shane train is still valid but you'll probably get more thrills folding said free pass into a paper plane. (Ego followed by self pity, I am douche).
ANYWAY, the Brazilian rainforests' worth of paperwork one must labour over ranges from the next to non-existent to the far beyond outrageous. The names of the following real estate agencies (as opposed to pretend estate) have been changed to protect the innocent and in turn, the shamelessly guilty too.
A massive shout-out goes to "We Love Commandment Breakers" Realty. We lodged an application at their office today, although it was less of an application and more of a literary shrug of casual endorsement. I'm not even sure if I had to fill out my name! I'm certain they must have rental properties out there presently occupied by shopping trolleys and abandoned Christmas trees as even those inanimate objects could've successfully negotiated what can only loosely be described as an 'application form'. Love their work, or more accurately, their terrific ability to avoid creating any with their crayons and cardboard paper.
Then we have the agency driving the bulldozer and holding the chainsaw. I've never dealt with such a remorseless bunch of oak-mongerers as the ones at LJ Prostitute. If you had a little trouble breathing today, it's because I asked for an application form and forty-thousand hectares of oxygen producing trees disappeared. Their application form, or High Court Trial if I may, appeared to be in hieroglyphic Latin braille and made the Beijing yellow pages look like a pamphlet. Apparently the current version of the form has already been truncated from it's former horrific glory. LJ Filthy Prostitute management have omitted the following from it's applications:
ANYWAY, the Brazilian rainforests' worth of paperwork one must labour over ranges from the next to non-existent to the far beyond outrageous. The names of the following real estate agencies (as opposed to pretend estate) have been changed to protect the innocent and in turn, the shamelessly guilty too.
A massive shout-out goes to "We Love Commandment Breakers" Realty. We lodged an application at their office today, although it was less of an application and more of a literary shrug of casual endorsement. I'm not even sure if I had to fill out my name! I'm certain they must have rental properties out there presently occupied by shopping trolleys and abandoned Christmas trees as even those inanimate objects could've successfully negotiated what can only loosely be described as an 'application form'. Love their work, or more accurately, their terrific ability to avoid creating any with their crayons and cardboard paper.
Then we have the agency driving the bulldozer and holding the chainsaw. I've never dealt with such a remorseless bunch of oak-mongerers as the ones at LJ Prostitute. If you had a little trouble breathing today, it's because I asked for an application form and forty-thousand hectares of oxygen producing trees disappeared. Their application form, or High Court Trial if I may, appeared to be in hieroglyphic Latin braille and made the Beijing yellow pages look like a pamphlet. Apparently the current version of the form has already been truncated from it's former horrific glory. LJ Filthy Prostitute management have omitted the following from it's applications:
- Mothers maiden name in binary code: _________
- Fold or Scrunch (please circle only one)
- May we treat you like the personified pond scum of the earth?: Yes/Yes/Yes (you may circle more than one)
- Your previous address in your previous life: _________
- I'm thinking of a number between 1 and 1000000: _________
Thanks to my recent experiences, I'm thinking of opening a rental agency where the property is awarded to the person who can do the best Daffy Duck voice. You know what, even a solid hi five ought to seal the deal!
"Shane Butler Realty - All unsuccessful applicants can crash at my place!"
Friday, May 30, 2008
Bon Jovi, you're a genius!
I've been living on Mount Tamborine for the last few months. For those of you unfamiliar with the place, think 'Garden of Eden' meets a tomb-less cemetery. That's to say, it's peaceful. Excruciatingly peaceful. Don't get me wrong (or get me wrong, what are you gonna do about it?), it's a wonderful, beautiful place. But if God had a library for deaf mute pensioners, this place is even quieter!
This complete lack of disturbance has unveiled an unwanted ability of mine. The ability to sleep. I sleep so much I feel like it's closer to staggered hibernation. Bon Jovi echoes my thoughts, well I guess I probably echo his when I think, "I've gotta live a lot of life, I can sleep when I'm dead". Teased hair AND a philosopher. A combination that shouldn't go together, like pork flavoured ice cream. But you'll try it. You'll try it.
So this gave rise to ponderings on what the world would be like if the body actually didn't need sleep. First of all, that ginger bearded actor who appears in those Captain Snooze advertisements would most likely be unemployed. Would there be such a thing as a prime time tv slot? The very idea of 9-5 could quite possibly be up heaved. Decorative throw pillows that serve absolutely no purpose at all other than to decorate (arguably) beds would finally be in their deserved place in non-existence.
How could one possibly make crucial decisions such as buying a sports car if one can't 'sleep on it'. Hangovers would be unbearable as you'd have to sweat it out wide awake. The alarm clock character in Disney's animated motion picture, Beauty and the Beast, would be utterly ridiculous and confusing. Bon Jovi would have one less hit song.
I don't want to go on. A sleepless world is no world I'd want to be a part of.
This complete lack of disturbance has unveiled an unwanted ability of mine. The ability to sleep. I sleep so much I feel like it's closer to staggered hibernation. Bon Jovi echoes my thoughts, well I guess I probably echo his when I think, "I've gotta live a lot of life, I can sleep when I'm dead". Teased hair AND a philosopher. A combination that shouldn't go together, like pork flavoured ice cream. But you'll try it. You'll try it.
So this gave rise to ponderings on what the world would be like if the body actually didn't need sleep. First of all, that ginger bearded actor who appears in those Captain Snooze advertisements would most likely be unemployed. Would there be such a thing as a prime time tv slot? The very idea of 9-5 could quite possibly be up heaved. Decorative throw pillows that serve absolutely no purpose at all other than to decorate (arguably) beds would finally be in their deserved place in non-existence.
How could one possibly make crucial decisions such as buying a sports car if one can't 'sleep on it'. Hangovers would be unbearable as you'd have to sweat it out wide awake. The alarm clock character in Disney's animated motion picture, Beauty and the Beast, would be utterly ridiculous and confusing. Bon Jovi would have one less hit song.
I don't want to go on. A sleepless world is no world I'd want to be a part of.
I'm scared of babies...
Greetings,
Being the easily influenced man-lemming that I have become, I've jumped on, (perhaps logged on), to the blogger.com blog wagon. For those of you who are familiar with my ramblings, you've either got great patience and time for reading this self confessed dribble or you're my parents. For those of you who don't know me but for some reason continue to read, most likely because I've strapped you to a chair in front of this blog and stuck your eyelids open with surgical tape, you'll find my opinions aren't educated, researched or factual in any way.
An unnecessary bullet point list:
I've recently quit 11 years of working in a sickly string of soul destroying offices. If only I had today's clarity and perspective when I got the first office job 4015 days ago. I would've told Vicki the call centre manager to cram it with walnuts and cartwheeled right the fuck out of there!
For the last eighteen days, I've been a bartender at an Irish bar in Surfers Paradise. Ah yes, Surfers Paradise, home to brightly coloured tube tops, platinum hair and the never say die theory that image is everything. Don't worry if you're not actually happy, just make sure everyone else thinks you are and I mean EVERYONE else. Your hairdresser, the postman, pedestrians, motorists, it all contributes to the popularity contest in your mind. Your poor deluded, ruski addled mind.
Cosmetic surgery and convertible Saabs aside, I do love this place and the plethora of preposterous people that inhabit it. As a bartender, I see all walks of life including some I'm surprised have the brain power and/or motor skills to actually walk at all. I love Americans, I really do. But the next one to come into my Irish bar and complain that we don't stock Budweiser will receive the right to have my bare arms smash them in the face followed by a keg of Guinness straight up the clacker!
Stay tuned for more nonsense as soon as said nonsense makes itself known. Nudity, there will definitely be full frontal nudity in the next episode.
Cheers!
(for some real blogging, check this bloke out:http://www.sitdownforthis.blogspot.com/)
Being the easily influenced man-lemming that I have become, I've jumped on, (perhaps logged on), to the blogger.com blog wagon. For those of you who are familiar with my ramblings, you've either got great patience and time for reading this self confessed dribble or you're my parents. For those of you who don't know me but for some reason continue to read, most likely because I've strapped you to a chair in front of this blog and stuck your eyelids open with surgical tape, you'll find my opinions aren't educated, researched or factual in any way.
An unnecessary bullet point list:
- I have blonde hair and a ginger beard
- I'm sustained by orphan tears and clubbed seal meat
- I often lie about what sustains me
- I am NOT a sophisticated sex robot
- Yo no puedo hablar español
- I'm scared of babies... that have an adult laugh
- And I’m 6’7” which I’m totally fine with, though my patience does wear thin when every pint swilling, slack jawed mooncalf with the intellectual ability to rival that of a chamber pot takes it upon themselves to remind me of my height with such observational gems as “You’re a monster aren’t ya!” and “please don’t eat my children!”
I've recently quit 11 years of working in a sickly string of soul destroying offices. If only I had today's clarity and perspective when I got the first office job 4015 days ago. I would've told Vicki the call centre manager to cram it with walnuts and cartwheeled right the fuck out of there!
For the last eighteen days, I've been a bartender at an Irish bar in Surfers Paradise. Ah yes, Surfers Paradise, home to brightly coloured tube tops, platinum hair and the never say die theory that image is everything. Don't worry if you're not actually happy, just make sure everyone else thinks you are and I mean EVERYONE else. Your hairdresser, the postman, pedestrians, motorists, it all contributes to the popularity contest in your mind. Your poor deluded, ruski addled mind.
Cosmetic surgery and convertible Saabs aside, I do love this place and the plethora of preposterous people that inhabit it. As a bartender, I see all walks of life including some I'm surprised have the brain power and/or motor skills to actually walk at all. I love Americans, I really do. But the next one to come into my Irish bar and complain that we don't stock Budweiser will receive the right to have my bare arms smash them in the face followed by a keg of Guinness straight up the clacker!
Stay tuned for more nonsense as soon as said nonsense makes itself known. Nudity, there will definitely be full frontal nudity in the next episode.
Cheers!
(for some real blogging, check this bloke out:http://www.sitdownforthis.blogspot.com/)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
