Four Days.

Warning: The characters in this blog are trained alcoholics. Many brain cells were violently violated during the occurrence of these events. Without cause, without just, without a shred of common decency. Just wall to wall filth mongering.

I type to you now, through my conveniently attached, mildly nimble yet somewhat rebellious fingers, on the tail end of my 6th double shot Ballentines on the rocks. It’s been awhile between textual drinks but, by jesus jumped up fiddling murmuring drooling child mongering (2^nd use of this word but what a word!) old Christ, it has most certainly NOT been awhile between real drinks.

Two out of my top three humans came to see me on the weekend week ago. And when I say they came to see me, I quite obviously mean they came for completely different reasons. One needed my motorcar and the other needed my house. But apart from that, it was all about the big fella. That’s me.

The first fiend, I collected from Melbourne airport towards midnight on Thursday night. I have changed his name to protect his guilt and he will be referred to henceforth as Benn. Benn and I have been best mates since 1988 and that makes everything so very tiresome. Tiresome for everybody. Except for me. And Ben… I mean Benn. Our brains have taken turns metaphorically spooning each other for the better part of twenty years. And it was just like old times as we put away a bottle of scotch, told wild stories and played video games until 5am Friday.

Just like it has happened so many times before, I woke to Bennn standing at the foot of my bed and murmuring anti-buzz words like relax, natural and wet. With the reflexes of Garfield on slimfast shakes, he managed to dodge whatever item I hurled at him from my bedside table. Like a Tarantino film, we somehow time warped to the part where we’ve buried the body and are in the car headed towards the other side of Melbourne to collect the van he just acquired. A 1978 Transit. Stop. Check yourself. Now wreck yourself as I tell you again. A 19fuckin78 Ford fuckin Transit. The heckling license that I’ve acquired after enduring over 20yrs of friendship with this man allowed me to say things like, what in the sphincter of hell are you thinking? and how you haven’t yet been picked off by a bird of prey yet, I’ll never know. My words were a shot of whiskey splashing against a mountain side though. Pointless, wasteful, inconsequential AND inconse-Quench-al, (see what I did there? Well aren’t you fuckin special).

So we paid off the old omni-toothed slagathor who up until this turning point in the earth’s history had kept this apparent abomination of a motor carriage a very well considered secret from the general populace and we convoyed, (LOVE the convoy), back to the deer in the headlights city of Melbourne. We checked into the luxury loft suite at the exclusive Sebel Hotel on Collins St. Yeah, exclusive to my ass! A quick reminisce to the bottle of scotch from the night before inexorably lead to the decision of acquiring another bottle… post haste! The acquisition of said bottle was swift and homicide free, so refreshing.

After some choice communication to the other drinkers in the area, using my mobilised electronic telecommunications apparatus (named MKO… yeah, my phone is named Mary-Kate Olsen), we soon had a suite full of people that mattered. They mattered because they were there. They mattered because they were with us. In any other circumstance, I wouldn’t even spit on them. But because they were with us, I considered, at numerous intervals in the free flowing conversaries, to spit right up all over each and every one of them. Without pause or concern. Because they mattered.

The bottle of scotch and several beers passed by like a tortoise on a Harley FatBoy passing a hare in a wooden box in the ground. And before we knew it, and seriously, it was before we actually knew it, well I can’t speak for Benn but I was already at the let’s talk about the universe or get in a fight with a wise-cracking midget phase… YOU know what I’m talking about, we arrived at a pub in St Kilda. And that’s a bit of a paradox in itself, because a midget cracking wisely is hardly wise at all wouldn’t you agree? Anyway, I continued to spiral in and out of awareness for the remainder of the evening.

Apart from the time I woke up driving in ‘98, I couldn’t have been more upset with my form Saturday morning. I woke, in the hotel suite, on a perfectly extracted sofa bed, in a bathrobe fit for an anorexic garden gnome and the taste of dried up upchuck on the inside of my cheeks. It was one of those hangovers where you tell yourself you’re never going to drink again. Again apparently having the time equivalent of about 20hrs in this instance.

I dropped Bennnn off at his freshly acquired Ford oh shit an explosion from that devil spawn of the seventies would surely kill us all Transit and immediately made vehicular haste for Melbourne airport once more. You see, it was now time to collect the other from my top three humans. I have changed her name to protect her guilt and she will be referred to henceforth as Zoee.

Unlike me, Zoeee did NOT have a hangover that bore the pain of a thousand ear rapes. In fact, quite the opposite, (don’t ask me what the opposite of an ear rape is). She was genuinely excitable to begin with, she was packed to the gills with coffee and she had just been on a plane. Any girl who’s just disembarked a mammoth winged dildo is almost always the complete opposite of lethargic. I gently and quietly hugged her hello. I was barely a nano-second beyond commencing the disengagement of my drive away from the airport hug when she lunged a free hand towards the car stereo and turned it up as loud as it would go. “Why the fuck do I keep her in the top 3?!” I fiercely pondered. She then cast me a look of a dog that just proudly ate its own vomit. “Ah yes, that’s why. Atta girl”.

The drive to from Melbourne to Ballarat was marred by a series of events surrounding the unanimous distaste for burger gherkins, the apparent fact that I, a man, have a purse stacked to the hilt with tampons and the horrible horrible prospect of the forthcoming Saturday night with an inevitable and unavoidable drinking session. You see, when she’s not kicking my ass in every conceivable fucking way, Zoeeee is a professional wrestler. And a wrestling show means an after-party by default. These people smash the shit out of each other for fun. Just imagine how they party.

Now for those of you who don’t know her, fret yourselves not as she’s not some boat-eating behemoth of a mangina-donning Neanderthal-ette with an oddly cumbersome testicle-hiding swagger in her step. She’s actually what you’d consider quite breathtaking. I say it’s what you’d consider because I consider her to be an unyielding cantankerous wench with every ounce of my pride in a vice as she slowly yet joyfully makes sports energy drinks out of my shame filled tears of despair.

Upon arrival in Ballarat, I dropped the intolerable yet highly addictive baby-giraffe-esque creature off at the wrestling venue so she could prepare with her colleagues by eating clubbed seal, drinking orphan tears and yelling “flied lice” at Asian kids even though those kids have trouble saying Ls, not Rs, you ignorant fucking round eyes! Meanwhile I went home and attempted to rest my weary bones. But to no avail. My mind would not sleep and before I knew it, It was 8pm and I was in the bleachers of the Wendouree Sports & Events Centre screaming, yelling and cheering for wrestlers I had never heard of but was willing to fight for in the carpark.

The show was a raging success and the Ballaratarians put on the best crowd Zoeeeee had ever wrestled before. Meanwhile, I still felt like crap in its purest form from the preceding night. It was now 11:30pm and it was time to attend the wrestling after-party. I drove us there without a doubt in my mind that we’d walk in, Zoeeeeeee would network a little and then we go back home and watch cartoons. We brought a two litre coke and a bottle of Ballentines scotch… because… you know, it’s rude to turn up to a house party without anything at all. Upon arrival, it was drawn into sharp relief that there wasn’t a single drinking receptacle in the entire kingdom of earth. Did we lose a war?! Well, not a problem. It took little more than a silent and agreeable nod between us to ascertain the only way forwards was to pour out half the coke onto the ground and empty the contents of the full scotch bottle into the remaining vacant half. I didn’t go near it. It was 12:15am and my head was throbbing. My bones were sore. I just wanted to sleep. By 12:18am I had taken three hearty swigs of the rocket fuel. I turned to Zoeeeeeee, with the look of a 4 year old who just got a tonka truck for wetting the bed, and proclaimed with unmatched glee, “I’M BACK BABY!”. I don’t remember much beyond that except for the fact I had a fan club and almost puked on the biggest billiard table I have ever fucking seen in my life. Either that or my eyes were so pickled by all the alcohol that they had actually shrunk and therefore the table just had the appearance of being epic.

Sunday morning was, to say the least, difficult. Sunday lunch was a little easier. Forcing down a pint in the mid afternoon was downright nigh impossible and took the better part of an hour for the one beer each. There was nothing for it. We were defeated. We conceded. It was time to just go home, have some water or tea and finally watch those cartoons.

But with great drinking power, comes great responsibility to drink irresponsibly. On the drive home, ZoeEeEe spotted, what seemed the biggest Dan Murphy’s liquor store on this side of the cosmos. I’m not sure how the car parked itself but we were inside bowing to the biggest bottle of bourbon I have ever fuckin seen. I’ve never gone from complete hilarious giddiness to pure unadulterated fear and back again in such a short span of time in my life. For a while I thought we were never going to make it out with our purchase. Then I thought we’ll never make it out at all... ever. Anyway, I’m fairly certain the only reason we didn’t walk out of there with the gallon of bourbon was because of the global economic crisis and the fact my car can’t transport anything heavier than my car itself. So we did the next best thing. Bought three bottles of wine and a litre of vodka.

And that’s how Stella got her groove back.

Ps, the van is actually really good and so was the wrestling!

Shane has rekindled his relationship with Lucy Liu

Just who in the hell coined the phrase, “let the cat out of the bag?”. It’s odd. Seriously odd. Unnecessarily odd. How did the person who first said it manage to communicate its meaning to the rest of the unsuspecting populous? Would it be possible for me to introduce a new phrase? Perhaps, “oops, looks like I just buried the hamster in the truffle” or “wow, she just made the Viking do a star-jump”. Well, cats have now been out of bags since about 1760. It’s here to stay and we’re just all going to have to deal with it.

Now it seems I have a pussy of my own to let out of the sack… did I say that right?

A few weeks ago, I made it known in cyber-space that I had rekindled my relationship with Lucy Liu. We had been on again off again but recently, she’s beginning to grow on me. If you had Lucy Liu on your face, you’d agree she’s a bit of alright. She keeps me warm and I’ve learnt to deal with the itching. She tends to tickle others but I don’t get jealous. I respect her privacy.

Here’s the thing. I’m proud, honoured but more so utterly terrified that no-one laid question to this. It could be because anyone who follows the status of my being online already knows that claims like this are not uncommon and it’s simply expected, these days, to see that “Shane is allergic to gravity” or “Shane just sneezed and farted at the same time and is now inside out, typing this on a tiny laptop inside himself with a handy flashlight”. Yes it seems that “Shane has rekindled his relationship with Lucy Liu” was rightfully dismissed as typical foolery by most people. But it’s the handful of people who were happy for me and Lucy’s reunion that sparks endless amusement for me.

Allow me to “let the gerbil out of the Gere” by announcing that Lucy Liu is not a real woman and most certainly not the Lucy Liu of Charlie’s Angels notoriety. Lucy Liu is the nickname given to my beard.

Yes, my beard.

I remember the naming of the beard coming about sometime in 2007 or 2008. Don’t ask me why as I won’t be able to tell you. The answer lies, segregated, in the bottom of about 2 dozen Carlsberg bottles.

In closing, Lucy and I are very happy to be back together, just in time for the winter.

Proposed substitutes for "Let the cat out of the bag". Whoops, looks like you just...

• let the frog in the toaster
• punched the camel in the jaw (just like Conan!)
• let the budgie start the car
• put the poodle on the podium
• pinched the parrot on the penis
• let the cat in the bag... a bag of dobermans
• put the cow on the clothesline

All abreast! I mean, all aboard!

As you may well know by now, I ride the train to work. It’s about 12 hours a week of boredom, pain, hilarity, politics, carriage hierarchy, subtle nose picking and incessant, claimless farting. One commute in particular found me seated next to my mate, Matt, (fart free thank goodness). After traditionally archaic tales of old and tails of old, conversation turned to what we thought would make the ultimate train.

The predicted folly of pool tables, roulette tables, bars and bowling lanes were strewn about our conversation like popped balloons on the colourfully littered floor of a combat clown massacre. It’s now apparent to me that those plain white bread ideas were the necessary blouse and bra we had to tear off to get to the potentially noble prize winning idea. Boobs.

You see, the train I take has a seating plan very similar to that of a bus or plane. Rows and rows of seats, where you’re staring at the back of the seat in front of you, carefully watching the dust mites make a break for it from the person’s scalp sitting in said seat.

But back to the boobs, (always back to the boobs). The idea was a little out of this world but I think it would teach us valuable skills to helps us, as individuals, work together. It was decided that every single seat of the train would have a set of luscious breasts hanging from the seat in front. Yes. That’s right. It’s proposed that the train is not powered by the engine, but actually by all the passengers leaning forward and motor-boating the swinging breasts in front of them in unison. The more vigorous the motor-boating, the faster the train goes. The details pertaining to sanitisation, excess slobber, the decrease in women wanting to ride the train and the dramatic increase of men with no destination in particular wanting to ride the train all day, have yet to be worked out.

But just picture it would you. You’re in your car, parked behind the boom gate at the railway crossing… and 4 carriages of people all motor-boating a set of fun bags idle past you in eerie awesomeness.

motor-boating explained:

(there was an idea for a train tailored towards women, but it got messy and was swiftly abandoned)

I give you Gunther

I have a pimple. It’s on my nose. It’s gigantic. And by tomorrow, it will join the Great Wall of China as one of the only man made structures able to be seen from outer space.


I name my pimples. The previous, a few months ago, was named Clarence. The thing about Clarence was his tenacity. Even in the face of evil, or on the face of evil as it were, Clarence stood tall, proud and promptly gave all who cared to notice a stifling and resolute finger. The universal gesture for, I care for you very little at this point. It was only the welcome decay of time that saw Clarence ultimately evicted from Casa Del Shanga.


To my unyielding dismay, however; tenancy of the prime property just north of my mouth in the centre of the nasal district, has been imposed by another would be resident.



Gunther.


Gunther made his pending arrival known by invoking a deceivingly healthy shade of cherry red upon my nose. His rosie shades masquerading as festive welcome were swiftly unveiled as locked and loaded pistols of puss. With the rouge rouse of my nose a common knowledge memory, the ugly and true features of Gunther have now been revealed.


The golden dome of Gunther Palace is beginning to crown and the twin guns of Pinch & Pop are at the ready. But, I have learned to pick my battles as I have my nose. That is, with enthusiastic vigor blended with subtle anonymity. As ruler of the Nasal District and surrounds, I’m ordering the guns to stand down. For this, ladies and gentleman, will be a war of attrition.



Your move Gunther.

The Big Shang Theory

Part One: Something to Consider

The observable universe has a diameter of 93 billion light years. Now take some time to digest that figure. Don’t just cast a shrugging fancy at it. In fact, go back to the start and read it again… but then ignore this sentence, because re-reading this sentence will probably only annoy and then infuriate you. This one too.

When you turn on your bedroom light tonight, allocate a thought to how quickly the light moved from the bulb to the rest of the room. Now think how far that light would get in a few more seconds. What about a minute? What about a year! Multiplied by 93,000,000,000! That’s the distance we’re talking about here folks. I point this out to provide you, the educated and/or blind drunk reader, some sort of scope in order to cope with the scale of what I want to talk to you about. Ladies and Gentlemen, I have a theory.

Theories. Most people think of crazy, frizzy haired basement dwellers when the word ‘theory’ is uttered, written or inferred. And usually prefixed with ‘conspiracy’. Then there are other Theories that are more credible and respected. Arguably, the most famous of which is the Theory of Evolution.

In my brief three tenths of a century, ambling around this fantastic, enjoyable, challenging, passionate yet ultimately meaningless existence, I’ve drawn a conclusion or two on certain aspects of planet Earth, the solar system in which it exists, the Galaxy in which it exists and the human race’s place amongst it all. Before you roll your eyes and log into the Facebook (the mathematical centre of the Universe), please hear me out. (ha! Change the word ‘hear’ to ‘lick’ and this rant goes wonderfully blue!).

Focus, take the strain, and stay with me through the following mega-stats that will funnel us towards my theory. The earth is 4.55 billion years old. Homo-sapiens evolved between 400,000 and 250,000 years ago. At just 72,000 years ago, there were still less than 1000 humans on the entire planet. You can fit that many people on three Boeing 747s. Or 90 times that amount of people into the Melbourne Cricket Ground! It then took 70,000 years to expand the world population to just 100,000, the same size as the Victorian country town of Bendigo. Again, don’t glaze these figures. Breath it in. Just over 2000 years later, in 1804, we hit the 1 billion mark. A milestone. A true testament to the human’s ability to master its surroundings and establish itself, devastatingly, at the top of the food chain.

Consider those figures. Sip on those figures. Swirl it around. Taste it. Now spit it out all over the place with alarm. Because the time it took for humans to populate this planet with its most recent billion was 12 years.

12 years!

Recap: It took from 72,000 years ago to the year 1804 to go from 1000 people to the first billion. It took from 1987 to 1999 for the most recent billion. In fact, since I was born, the global population has increased by over 2 billion.

Now some of you will already know of this information. You may have different figures but the pattern of increase will still be very similar and equally gob smacking. However, there will be many of you who have simply never been in a state of mind to consider it just yet. And believe me, the more you consider it, the more cloudy and maddening it all becomes. It’s in these times of endless pondering, I find it’s best to have distractions like playstation, pay tv or a hungry panther prowling your kitchen. Anything to get your mind of things.

Before I go further, or nearer, I understand there will be those who have completely different opinions on the origin of our species and the timelines I’ve discussed so far. As an apathetic atheist, I want to make it clear I’m completely comfortable with your beliefs. I envy you. I’d much rather be playing twister with angels than decomposing. But so help me Easter Bunny, if you ever force me to re-read your “How to make a Universe in Seven Days: for idiots” book, I just might push you in front of a moving pope mobile and you shall meet your gloriously celebrated maker. I suggest you ask him, “Hey Lord, if you’re real, what the fuck is with you allowing Shane to push me in front of the pope mobile like that?!”. But I digress. This is not going to be a God debate. That’s for another time. Maybe after three bottles of wine… not two. This is about my theory. This is about my address on the mind melting figures I just gave you a few paragraphs ago.

A billion in 12 years. Why?

Part Two: Prologue

While reading this tripe, please remember it’s little more than musings. Due to most of you being more academic than me, I suspect my words will be analysed, deconstructed and found to be naught but guff. That’s actually a good way to think about this. Don’t take it too seriously. Be open minded. I’m not selling anything. Unless you’re in the market for a 76cm rear projection flatscreen that occasionally works and is heavier than an opera of Oprahs.

There could be reason for this population explosion. No other creature on earth dominates the planet like we do. Millions of us circumnavigate the entire globe every day. Our presence is comprehensive, consummate, absolute, unrivalled. There are no predators keeping us in check. That only makes sense right? Every other animal is being hunted by another, therefore its population rarely expands exponentially. But we’re at the top. So who here is really surprised that we just kept on going? It’s only natural. With that said, I feel there could be a reason for our sudden expansion and incredible rate of technological advancement. Like I said, if you’re open minded and happy to read the absurd words of a man who never went to university and never studied anything remotely like this, please continue.

I side with the theory of evolution. Truly I do. But I think we’ll never fully understand it. Not in the next several tens of thousands of years anyway. In the same way a cave man couldn’t possibly comprehend the internet, stem cell research or the wheel. And my theory is this.

Part Two: The Theory… (it’s really quite brief)

The role of the human race on planet earth is to act as the big red emergency button. We are break glass in case of emergency. We are the ejector button. The life raft. The flare.

The planet is a living organism and everything living on it, whether it thinks it’s living autonomously or not, is dependent on it. The planet is thinking about retirement. The glass has been broken. The flare has been lit. The big red eject button has been hit within the last few thousand years, which sounds like a long time but considering the Earth’s 4.55 billion year age, it’s really only just happened.

As part of the emergency procedure, the humans are multiplying like crazy and as a result, advancing their technology as well. They honed their skills on exploration by setting about in the oceans and discovering and colonising new lands. They refined machines that once took many months to travel around the globe to now complete the trip in a matter of hours. They even poked about on the moon. Once again I stress, all this advancement has happened in the relative blink of an eye as far as time is concerned. And we’re getting better and more efficient at doing EVERYTHING all the time. Transport. Communication. Production. We’re finding shortcuts and alternatives all over the place. Exploring and colonising is now second nature so to speak. It seems only natural that the minds of tomorrow, of next year, of next millennia will explore and colonise more than just the lands of this planet. Perhaps the land of another planet. And I’m not saying Mars. Think bigger. Our solar system is based upon just one star. There are up to 400 billion stars in our galaxy, the Milky Way. There are an estimated 100 billion galaxies in the part of the universe that we have the capabilities to observe at this point. Are you suggesting that there isn’t one inhabitable planet orbiting the other 50000000000000000000000 stars in the observable Galaxy? Naïve don’t you think?

With resources depleted, Mother earth wants to retire and wants us out of the house. It’s time for us kids to find our own place.

(so are you actually thinking about any of this or are you simply in a rush to comment that I used "Part Two" twice? Shows where your priorities are you blazing simpleton - YOU FAIL)

Meet the Troggles!

Fuckitall.

That should be word has been pulsing though my veins like a blood thirsty great white of bad mood all day. And drawing upon everything I know as an Australian, I tamed the beast by stopping by the bottle-o on the way home. I methodically selected the alcohol based on how close the price tag was to the change in my pocket. The Jaws theme music still circled as a fore thought... until I saw the Jim Beam branded Chili Chips. For those of you who haven't tried them, stop fucking wasting your life and get them now. Right now. Don't even finish this senten........

I know! How good are they! And thanks for coming back by the way. So anyway, I picked up the last 2 bags of these delicious treats in the store. That didn't impress the horrible woman who was also making a dash for the chips. Now I beat her by a good 3 count but she still protested with, "oh good one mate, take the last two bags in the whole store why don't ya... asshole". She then turned to her equally trogloditish companion, a he-she of sorts as it was difficult to tell and muttered, "can't believe he took both of them". Like there's some sort of limit we're all supposed to abide by, I thought.

Don't forget, it's me, giant, generally angry anyway and today I've got the vicious great white of bad moods coursing through my being. I just might have thrown her one of the bags if she just displayed some genuine disappointment and not unmitigated bitchery.

I calmly pointed out, "try the BBQ ones, I hear they're also quite good". She replied, "really?". I responded in a heartbeat, "no not really, these things right here are the best in the world and I have them... both bags. I might even throw one of them out when I get home just to make the surviving bag even more exclusive".

The expression on her toilet of a face indicated she was not impressed with my victory.

So I smugly saunter to the check out. As the help is costing my purchase, the troggles line up next to me, (yeah, by now I've nicknamed them and given them a back story in a Turkish circus). As I complete my transaction, I see she has placed a 6pack of bundy cans on the counter in my glorious wake. I collect my Jim Beam Chili chips, (available as most good liquor stores), and lean over her and say, "Bundy hey?". The disgruntled troggle grunts, "yeah". I lean a little closer, look down at the cans, then look back up at her and say, "what, all six of them? That's a bit rude"

Adagio for Sneeze

The band of ill intent strolls in

And takes the stage all too soon

Piano jazz of unhealthy sin

This is Lady Flu's tune

An adagio in the key of phlegm

A slow and steady pace

She takes the microphone in her hand

With sickly yet sultry grace

She dedicates this song to me

Her lips begin to verse

We can all plainly see

Before this gets better, it gets worse

My throat is sore and begins to swell

My body's defence flees

As Lady Flu emerges from hell

And gifts to me a sneeze

Now in her full embrace

My mucous membranes porous

She's lead another successful chase

And all before the chorus

I resign myself to her will

No point to fight it now

So I take the stage and not a pill

And wipe the hot sweat from my brow

We dance the dance of illness

We dip, we glide, we twirl

We lock eyes in romantic stillness

And then I begin to hurl.

Shameless promotion

alternative sub-headings for this blog site...

• Shangatopia – if you can’t handle the truth, you’ll like it here.
• Shangatopia – a catchy phrase to follow.
• When it rains, it rains flour and dough and when the sun shines ever so brightly, all that dough becomes croissants. This is Shangatopia.
• Lose yourself, then find yourself pants-less on the foot of a strangers bed – at Shangatopia.
• Practice what I preach – but don’t get better at it than me.
• Whether you think you can or you think you can’t, you’re still pretty ugly.
• Feeling tired, emotionally volatile and lacking self esteem? Click the back button on your browser now you good for nothing, moody troll!
• Life tastes like a rainbow at Shangatopia – minus the short bearded ginger fellow with that pot of gold. We all laughed at him when he didn’t buy shares but look at him now!
• Shangatopia – where all your troubles mate and multiply.
• You can’t spell Shangatopia without letters.
• Shangatopia – a place about as real as your new year’s resolution… fatty.
• Shangatopia – the answer to your prayers… if your prayers consist of some light reading before surfing for porn.
• Your dreams come true at Shangatopia – because you dreamt of surfing the net when you should be doing other things right?
• Don’t surf the net. Fluff it, at Shangatopia.
• To get your free Shangatopia tattoo, write ‘Shangatopia on a post it note, stick it to your forehead, go to the tattooist, and offer him a reach around.
• Shangatopia t-shirts, now available where all blank white shirts and marker pens are sold.
• Violate your mind at Shangatopia.
• Shangatopia – it’s a late night Maccas run for your mind.
• Shangatopia – where society grabs it’s ankles.

Leave a comment pointing out your favourite or submit your own!

image courtesy of Ken Crompton

I have a few journalist friends. I idolize them all. They're doing or have done what I've never had the talent, focus, direction, aptitude and drive to do. What draws me to it? It's the mass mind fucking one can do. I present to you exhibit A. I saw the above right headline on ninemsn.com today.

Words have not and will not ever be created to fully capture just how disappointed I was when I read on to find it wasn't a real bird with a girlfriend. When I read the title, I immediately went into Shangatopia and visualised all sorts of typical scenarios containing a boyfriend and girlfriend, with the boyfriend being a parrot, parakeet or budgie. But not a toucan, those things are just creepy.

"What's should we do for tea sexy?"

"sqaaaaawk!"

"oh hun, sunflower seeds again? we had that last night"

"sqaaaaaaaaaaaawk!"

"don't you raise your tiny little talon at me!"

"sqaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaawk!"

And despite their bickering, they move in together. Into his place. And man does she have a hard time sleeping on the perch.

Oh, it was Greg Bird, Rugby League player. Just because you have the brain of a bird doesn't mean you are one.

Disturbed Intervention

Disclaimer: I cannot be held responsible if you find the content of this composition offensive. Actually, I probably could, but I will not go quietly.

My friends Callee, Garth, Zoe and myself passed this place of worship in the back streets of Laverton. To say Laverton is the toilet of Melbourne would be cruel and unjust. It’s more the half flush button on the toilet. And that toilet is in a stinky old service station. A servo in Laverton. Anyway, upon realisation of their unfortunate choice of words, I performed a textbook full throttle burn out u-turn and parked on the front lawn. On the count of three, say Cheese-us!

Never mind the fact that at least three of us are apathetic non intrusive atheists, we were also on our way to an all girl pro-wrestling show in which Zoe & Callee would actually be tearing other girls to shreds. Love thy fellow man? Well it doesn’t apply when it’s no men and all women!

The epic clash of the gash (I cannot believe I just wrote that) was enthusiastically accompanied by Garth and me cheering raucously with all the vigour, jubilation and mindless violence mongering to rival that of barbaric pagan warriors of old. And the canteen sold hotdogs… which was… you know… awesome.

The show was fascinating, although I’ve been to a few events like this now and knew the sort of antics to expect. What I didn’t expect to see that night was a full moon… in a skirt. Oh dear merciless Christ she was horrid. Probably a nice girl. But I’ll never know. Now, one would think if you had an ass like that, you would do your best to conceal it. Like when a family has an ugly child, they grow his hair over his face, encourage an interest in wide brimmed hats and teach it to walk only in the shadows. They do not shine a great big bloody spotlight on the fugly thing and have flashing neon signs and a 12 piece choir all drawing attention to it. It was like the skirt was alive and was doing it’s very best to stay away from her dreadful rump. It literally stayed up, defying gravity, for her entire match. It looked like a fat lampshade yawning. Jesus Christ I’m an asshole sometimes. But if she’s going to parade around like that, she’s simply advertising a hearty heckling.

Now, please bow your head and drop your pants in prayer.

Our Father, who aren’t in Laverton, Shallow be Hal’s name Thy’s favourite word is come and thy will be done, in a gym sock as it is in Laverton. Give us this day our daily porn. And forgive them their scripts, As we forgive those who hold it against us. And lead us straight into temptation, and deliver us the evil. For thine is the kingdom, and the FIRE!, and the gloryhole, for ever and ever.
Amen

Shane reviews: Country Living, Ballarat.

Howdy folks! Welcome to a new segment here at Odd at Ease. Given my propensity to be opinionated, falsely knowledgeable and a card carrying ho to the pimp that is shameless writing, I’ve accepted the position appointed by nobody to review things you never wanted to know about. Not even a little.

Today, I’ll be donning the role of a Catriona Rowntree from the television programming spackle, Getaway. Except my name is Shane, not Catriona, and my show is called GoAway. And it doesn’t exist. Not yet. Not ever.

Dust off your akubras, fish out your oversized belt buckles, start up the ute, halve your vocabulary and punch a stranger in the neck next Saturday night because today’s review is on Country Living. That’s right folks, there may be gold in that them there hills but there sure as shit ain’t no grammar schools, as I give to you my review of Ballarat, Victoria.

In 1851, gold was discovered in Ballarat, and in less than a year, over ten thousand miners had moved there, making it Victoria’s largest settlement. If only some of the gold stayed in Ballarat. The miners are now gone but the minors remain and can be found lurking on the routes that link the hotels through the town on any given Saturday night, stumbling, fighting and generally trying to tread the metaphorical water in a dusty pool of fist fights and unwanted pregnancy.

As I write this, I have the slightest fear of retribution from the locals for casting such slander at their school yard of a town. But then I’m eased by the fact they need to be able to read in the first place, making this review an unbreakable code.

But it’s not all tobacco chewing, tractor derbies and horse fondling. Now that I’ve lived here, I can say my initial impressions of country living may have been slanted unfairly toward the court of toothless yokels. That’s not to say they don’t exist, my word they exist in droves. It’s just a matter of fact. The country have yokels, the cities have crazies and the beachside have buoyant stoners. But I must confess, I find country living quite agreeable.

In most cases, I’ve found people to be relaxed, patient and helpful. If Ballarat had its own motto, it would be, “she’ll be right mate”. The town centre itself is adorable and the sense of community is strong and somehow comforting. It’s a shame to see that the Lake is about as moist as a… (oh God, I’m simply not going to write that!).

Item reviewed: Ballarat, VIC.
How to get there: See that bus full of hicks? Get on it.
Don’t miss: adolescent males yelling obscenities from the back of an overcrowded VN Commodore, (if you do miss, adjust your sight scope and fire again).
Verdict: 8/10. A nice place to live but I wouldn’t want to visit there.

Bill Gates and alphabet soup.

And Bill Gates said, let there be blog.

Ok, perhaps it wasn’t the man who has more money and more pants than Scrooge McDuck but I’m sure he was part of it… or at the very least spying on the idea’s inception through the mini-camera installed on all his products which direct feed back to his space mountain lair on Mars. Hi Bill. How are ya? Enjoying your spying are you? Still have to pay for sex? I thought so.

…that was weird, I just had to reboot my computer after that last sentence.

Blog is a contraction of weblog and to weblog is to take a thought, type it up, publish it and then obsess manically over how many hits it’s got. Then you realise what a tool you’re being and log off the computer and log onto a bar. The thing is, at the bar, you get felt up by a midget in a polar bear costume, just the bottom half of it, and you can’t wait to blog about. And end scene.

I’ve often wondered, since about eight minutes ago, what did people do before the internet? Was there a pre-interent blog equivalent?

Some would suggest it was the Diary. To those people I say fooey because Diaries were always kept under lock and key or sheet and pillow as it were. The diary was the heavily clothed nun’s apprentice while the blog is a Surfers Paradise tube top scragg in logic defying ‘fuck me’ boots. Yeah, we get it Cynthia, you’re a platinum blonde with a horrendous lip gloss to non lip gloss ratio, the letters OMG worn out on your pink Motorola’s keypad and a fake tan so orange that people either speed up or slow down because they think you’re about to turn red.

So did people just type out their fancy on paper and leave copies of it scattered around town? Send a copy of it out to hundreds of strangers? Calligraphic graffiti? Sky writing?

The more I think about it, (which is, to be honest, not a whole lot as I’m quite sleepy), the more I feel there actually was no medium available for the prolific pen master to post his or her rants and raves for all to see and quietly judge. And for that reason, people weren’t lulled into the flawed ideal that’s ok to blurt out one’s opinion on absolutely everything. There was more control, more respect. And the ones that were so good at conveying the King’s language in print, were able to do it professionally, therefore, most things you read back then had exceptional content and phrasing mixed with seamless wordsmithing.

The act of blogging has given wide berth to the literary equal of effluent and allowed rant cowboys like me, who don’t even know that wordsmithing isn’t even a word, to spread like the spilt vat of alphabet soup that we are.

Dirty Old Man.

My word, I am indeed a dirty dirty old man. Walking along the train platform this morning, my attention was lured away from the ground in front of me and up towards the inescapably captive motion of a woman walking ahead of me. Grace. Confidence. Innocent abandon. Legs.

I was so very hopeful she was on her way to a fancy dress party. Or maybe she was playing the role of a character much younger than her on the set of movie. But alas no. The hordes of other uniforms and the fact it was 7:30am made all deductions assimilate the fact that she was indeed a school girl.

I forced myself to look away. The school uniforms aren’t exactly conservative in Ballarat. This lass must’ve been close to 5’10” and it seems they only made dresses for students up to 5’6”. Whether she intended to advertise this or not, she had legs, and she knew how to use them. A movie star harlot when compared to the gaggle that was now busy establishing a pecking order on the platform.

When I looked away, I passively observed almost everyone around glancing or flat out staring at her. So sultry was her walk, I half expected the sun to go down, a spotlight to shine on her, a microphone to drop from the rafters and witness her cascade into a piano bar jazz number.

The fantasies continued as she flicked her long blonde hair over her shoulder and turned to enter the coffee shop. At that point, the shampoo advertisement director in me yelled, “Cut! Perfect, you got it, that’s a wrap!”.

Judging by the height of the students and the broken voices of the males, I estimate they were in their final year of school, putting them at 17 or 18 years of age. If I was the same age, my thoughts could be interpreted as an adorable crush. But I am not the same age and that makes me a dirty dirty old man. Like every single other bloke there.

Shane Butler Users Manual

Shane Butler
Model# 1978

Congratulations on your recent acquisition of Shane Butler’s friendship. We here at Evolution Industries, (Butler Subconscious Division), are proud to present to you the finest in friendship technology. The following is a guide to assist you in getting full enjoyment and satisfaction from the Shane Butler (model#1978).

Contents:
§ Getting to know your Friendbot
§ Tips & Tricks (basic)
§ Tips & Tricks (advanced)
§ Tips & Tricks (Criminal)
§ Maintenance & Repair
§ Friendbot FAQs

Getting to know your FriendBot

It’s important to understand, your Shane Butler#1978 is not just for Christmas, he’s forever. Or until such time he grows bored of you and abandons you during a shared taxi ride, leaving you to pick up the full fare. Apart from demonstrating basic human courtesy, there’s really only one simple rule when interacting with your Friendbot.

**Do not, under any circumstances, point out that he looks like a bigger version of that drummer from ‘Hanson’.**

Tips & Tricks: Basic

The Shane Butler is delivered with a wide range of default programming. For instance, he is pre-programmed to pee in the toilet and not on your house cat. Technology like this should make your transition into friendship with your Friendbot a whole lot easier.

Tips & Tricks: Advanced

For the advanced user, you can customize the default programming to your liking. For instance, you like your house cat to be coated in piss. Then simply click on his tool, then options, then uncheck the box behind his scrotum marked “do not pee on house cat”.

Tips & Tricks: Criminal

In case you haven’t noticed, your Shane Butler is huge. Let’s say you like the handbag that woman at Gloria Jeans Coffee is carrying. Let’s say you want it. Simply right click on Extras. Then select Remorseless Mugging from the dropdown box. Other items in this list include, but are not limited to: Hug a Nanna, Steal an Ice Cream, Compliment a Minority and the popular Head butt an Emo.

Maintenance & Repair

With the Shane Butler#1978, maintenance is as easy as 1, 2, 3.
1. Buy a bottle of scotch
2. Throw away the cap
3. Hand said bottle to the Shane Butler
Compared with previous units, repair has been made even easier by following this 1 step.
1. Keep the receipt.

Frequently Asked Questions

Q. My Shane Butler won’t shut up about everything. What do I do?
A. Do not anger him. Things will get immeasurably worse.

Q. My Shane Butler is coming on to me. Advice?
A. He’s clearly mistaken you for a crack whore. Stop wearing the tarty clothes and lose the habit!

Q. My Shane is often missing for days, he’s in constant maintenance and offers little or no emotional support.
A. Congratulations! You have a perfectly functioning Shane Butler that will degrade then neglect you for many fulfilling years of depravity to come! (or at least until that doom ridden taxi ride. *see Getting to know your FriendBot)

Evolution Industries would like to take this opportunity to thank you on your recent acquisition of the Shane Butler#1978… but we won’t.

Support:
Phone: 1900-NOTLISTENING
Email: hesyourproblemnow@evolutionindustriesdoesntexist.com.org.net.gov.edu.heyyou.au
Alternatively, you could go fax yourself.

optimism

why did the chicken cross the road?




to die...

in the rain.

like Dave's of our lives...

Even though I vowed I never would again, I currently work in a gigantic sterile office tower for a gigantic faceless company. Both these things exist to make money and nothing else. The people inside are making money too but for a variety of reasons. After extensive research, (I popped my head up from my desk and looked around), most are there to earn money to support their families, pay their mortgages, pay off their cars and so on. And I can safely add that almost all of them are miserable with their jobs. The company I work for, which will remain nameless to protect the… well… to protect the titanically guilty, is in the telecommunications industry. Every decision, and I mean every single one of them, is made on considerations and calculations of cost and profit. You know what this means, precise and absolute zero job satisfaction for the employee.

Look, I’ve never been one to hug trees, save Koalas and fondle Dolphins, but even I am searching for something with a little more meaning. A means of making money where somewhere along the working week I actually feel the slightest stir of a job well done. The knowledge that I’ve contributed, directly, to a person’s happiness. As it stands right now, I’d settle for, at the very least, contributing to my own. And this is my theme today. My happiness at work.

If you’re still reading, I figure you can either relate, you’re concerned for my well being… or you just learned to read and now you’re just showing off by making it to the third paragraph. Because there sure as shit hasn’t been any light hearted funnies yet! Stay the course Captain… Giggle Island Hooooooo!

For the life of me, or even you, I can’t remember where I heard this. But it struck a chord with me, which made me smile. It then struck an angsty teenager in the face with a sack of angry badgers which outright made me laugh… then pick up the sack and finish the job. Ah yes Badgers, they truly are the smiley and somewhat rascally emoticons of the animal kingdom. So anyway, I heard some human describe another human as, “yeah, that guy was so happy, he could see the silver lining in a mushroom cloud”. I love that. What I love most is that it’s really quite misleading. In fact, it’s morbidly appalling. I mean, what sick son of a whore actually get’s pleasure from seeing the cloud that results from an atomic bomb blast?

So it seems that my workplace is the mushroom cloud. So what then is the silver lining? Well I figure I’ll just be the silver lining damn it!

As previously mentioned, I’m not the feel good nature boy kind of person. I don’t have bumper stickers that say Magic Happens. I don’t have a poster on my desk of a kitty cat hanging off a wire with the caption “hang in there”.

My name is Shane, and unless we’re already friends, you exist for my amusement. Now dance rummy! I’ve commenced the cavalcade of subtle office madness already. If I can’t be happy instead of miserable, I’ll just take mad.

Sound good? Do you want in? Shane wants you! You can start immediately. In fact, turn towards the nearest person and say, “excuse me?!” in a really shocked and disgusted tone with a fair bit of volume. Before the victim can respond, leave in a huff. Come back a minute later, act as if nothing is wrong and then ask them what on earth they’re babbling about when they question your behaviour.

Another favourite is to whisper and exact replica of a conversation someone else is having. Do it so they might just be able to hear it. It’s basically an echo effect and I bet you dollars to douche bags that you’ll even start creeping yourself out at how spooky it sounds.

For those of you with the power to pull it off, call everyone by a name that sounds dreadfully similar to their name but isn’t their name. And when you address them, look about 3 inches to the left of their eyes. I’ve done this and you wouldn’t believe the sort of internal chaos this wreaks on their poor unsuspecting brain. You see, in an office environment, most people are on auto-pilot. Everything is so routine that their brain need not more engagement than stand-by mode. So when you walk up to your colleague, Dave, and say, “so Dane, how do you want your coffee?”, you can actually watch his brain implode like a 60s Vegas casino. In that simple sentence, combined with the fact you’re looking just over his shoulder, (but you’re making it seem like you’re actually making eye contact), you completely and utterly destroy is thought pattern. His brain pilot comes back to the cockpit to find the auto-pilot is upside down, on fire and the plane is heading for a giant fucking mountain! Why exactly? Because, like a computer, you just gave his brain far too many calculations to cope with and it crashed. It takes just under 3 seconds to casually say, “so Dane, how do you like your coffee?”. And in those 3 seconds, he’s trying to address the following:

“My name is not Dane? Does he know what? Should I correct him?”
“how do I want my coffee? I didn’t even ask for a coffee. Should I just answer him anyway?”
“hang on a sec, I don’t even drink coffee!”
“is he coming on to me?!”
“what have I done to lead him on?”
“jesus, is he even looking at me? Is there something behind me? Should I turn around?”
“oh crap, now I’ve been standing here in silence for a few seconds, he’s going to think I’m weird”
“but that’s not fair, HE’S the weird one! Screw it, I’ll just answer him…”

“I’ll have my coffee black thanks Shane”.
To which I respond with…
“EXCUSE ME?!” and storm off.

old school...

No, not old "skool" you pale lame gangsta wannabe. You're not ghetto, you're not streets and your low slung baggy pants will only slow your escape as I chase you down and beat you like the slave to misguided trends that you are.

Settle down Shane. As if you would beat up a gangsta wannabe. You'd just blog about it.

I'm talking old school because, while at my course this evening, I realised why it's so easy for me to learn now compared to when I was in school.

This year, I've been learning a little about xhtml, css, media manipulation and other webdesign related topics. I'll tell you what I have NOT had to learn:

• How to sit up straight.
• How to not walk pigeon toed and knock kneed.
• How to talk and interact with a girl.
• How to get out of triple dunce in school yard handball.
• How to conceal my crush on Melody Baker.
• How to prevent my ass getting handed to me by the grade twelves.
• How to avoid a raging and uncontrollable erection during speech and drama class.

Being free from all these lessons that weren't in text books has given me unparalleled focus. I honestly feel like I'm copying and pasting the lessons straight into my brain and I can 'ctrl f' it whenever I want.

Sweet.

(Melody Baker - I just realised your name, taken literally, implies you bake melodies! I'm a musician too!)

I’m on the train… and I hate John Mayer.

Fact: you say I’m on a train if you’re heading somewhere social however you say I’m on the train if you’re heading to work.

Like a child unwrapping a toy remote control car on Christmas Day, I opened my laptop this morning with wide eyed ambition and youthful exuberance. Unfortunately, all this positivity was hacked mercilessly to death by the scerated broadsword of reality. It’s another Monday morning, absolutely identical to every other Monday morning in every way. And as the train pulls away from Ballarat station at precisely 7:46am en route for the hive, Melbourne, the revelation insists itself upon me that the toy remote control car was a lovely gesture, but the batteries weren’t included. Last year, I was doing backstroke in woman shaped pools of beer and scotch and fun. Now I’m barely treading water in suits and budgets and targets and I’m pretty sure I’ll soon be dead from drowning in all these ridiculously misguided metaphors.

“stay positive”. That’s what you need to do big Shane-o. Stay positive. That’s the key. Wise advice but as I sit here amongst the biological droids on their way to their respective nine to fives, I’m starting to wonder, (in fact, now I am in full wonderment), if the “stay positive” approach is the long term solution or just a disease soaked bandaid of inevitable demise. If it is indeed the key, then it’s the key to a door I don’t want to fucking open. A door that leads to a room of suppression and misapprehension. My dear friends will know I perform at my optimum when I’m fired up and angry. From doing the dishes to driving my car, from competitive games to competitive sports, from the boardroom to the bedroom, I do it best when I’m angry, (that’s right babe, you’re beaten battered and bruised and you’re welcome). I’m a big fan of anger. I find it provides the necessary and easily accessible framework for powerful focus. You know what doesn’t help me focus. Yeah that’s right.

So the alternative to staying positive is to remain outright fucking livid, irate and/or any other ill-tempered mood that gives you the sort of drive and focus that could help you punt a fluffy penguin 100 yards. You’re flying now you fat, lazy, overdressed beak donning bird imposter! No amount of staying positive would’ve made fluffy fly. Chalk another one up for anger.

It’s by no means the best way to go about things. But right now, I need to use whatever methods I have at my disposal. If anger can power the Shangatrain (lame) to the last stop, then I shall embrace it. After all, we can’t all be perfect… like John Mayer, sleeping on a bed made out of thousand dollar notes made of satin and being woken up each morning by a bevy of supermodels gently gnawing at the genitals. God I hate John Mayer.

Shane of Train and the anonymous funk.

So here’s my idea. When you buy your train ticket, you are not given an actual ticket. Instead, you’re given a small beeper like device that you clip onto your collar. Why Shane? What’s the basis of your proposal? Is it some ingenious method of researching public transport data? Are you doing this in the pursuit of a more efficient commuting future for your fellow man, woman and grommet?

Well, as the invasive and anonymous gaseous filth born in the bowels of another passenger slowly washes over and in my defenceless nostrils, I can safely and securely announce that NO! My idea is not intended for anything so grand. The purpose, the ONLY purpose, is for this beeper to start beeping and shrieking (with as much frenzied electronic franticness as its tiny battery will allow) when the person wearing it… farts.

I’m completely fed up with commencing each and every day by being unwillingly subjected to an onslaught of human waste. An armada of ass acrobatics the likes of which should never be smelt. Poo samples. Because that’s what a fart is. It’s shit, molecularly altered to take flight in gaseous form and relocate from a strangers ass, down the aisle and into your nose, ears, lungs and perhaps even your eyeballs.

Here’s why the beeper would work. The device would automatically calibrate to the user’s scent and instantly recognise the aerial discharge of said user and not the scent of a nearby passenger, thus eliminating the ‘blame it on the dog’ defence. Upon detecting a user offence, the beeper would set off in a pitch and frequency that draws attention of everybody in the carriage to the filthy offender. The fear and shame of drawing attention to oneself in this way will deter most potential sample stirrers.

But what about the few that have no shame and will not fear the beeper. And what about all us non-offenders? As we sit peacefully and respectfully, will we have to endure the sounds of beepers for our journey? I’m glad you asked. Both concerns are valid but in actual fact, they cancel each other out. Initially, non-offenders will become more and more irate at the beeping. So much so, that the stares, glares and potential beatings from non-offenders will scare the fart mongers’ sphincters shut tight. So you see, even though some punks have no shame and don’t fear the beeper, they will indeed fear the thrashing they might receive from other passengers. Ergo, no offending takes places and no beeping will have to be endured by the respectfully clenched commuter.

This is the way of the future as it has been predicted by famous philosopher, Nostrilledanus.

Funny the way it is.

Culture. Even public transport has it’s own culture. I’ve commuted by car or foot ever since I’ve had a need to commute. So now that I ride a train two hours every day, the public transport culture has been a real eye opener for me… because until now, I’ve been walking and driving with my eyes… closed?

Back when the earth was still cooling and I attended primary school, I rode the bus to and from school, (school = a place where every other child on earth who wasn’t scrawny and so pale he was transparent would go to endlessly taunt scrawny transparent kids). The bus hierarchy was simple. Cool kids down the back, below the radar in the middle and geeks, nerds, nannas and myself up the front. In fact I was so uncool, I was sometimes the hood ornament and spent the afternoon walk from the bus stop to home carefully removing nanna’s spitballs from the back of my head and thinking of all the comebacks I should have said at the time. Comebacks like, “that last spitball was a great one old woman… but now this is happening” and throw her bitter chalky skinned ass off the moving bus. And on that note, young bullies be warned. Choose your next victim wisely as he may just grow up to be 6’7” and over 100kg with a temper to rival that of a thousand over cooked Gordon Ramsays with an unyielding penchant for revenge whereby the punishment supersedes the crime by a universally epic margin. One poor chap has learnt that the hard way in 1999 and now his nose is still on his face but he has to do a handstand to smell something.

The earth has since cooled, the core stable, the mantle restless but restrained and the crust dormant and docile. And with that comes my transition to my thirties. My how the hierarchy has changed. Recently I’ve taken to riding in the very front carriage of the train, (toward the far end of the platform). Initially I did this to avoid the fat, wheezing, anti-punctual yet highly perspirant seat molesters who would turbo waddle onto the train just as the doors closed and sit right next to me. Now I realise there’s more than just the extra 40m walk keeping these poor soon to be dead burger king and queens away from me. Every day, without fail, I see the same business men and women sitting in exactly the same seats in the front carriage. This is their commute too. Week in, week out. And weak out. No messing about. The front carriage has an unspoken prerequisite for occupancy: Treat others with respect and dignity and accept nothing but the same in return. There is no bending of this mission statement. This is the front carriage culture (F.C.C.) and today I witnessed a series of delft moves to seamlessly eject a young man who was still operating under the bus backseat spitball guidelines. He entered the almost full carriage, loudly speaking into his mobile phone about how ‘wasted’ he got last night. To avoid the whole pot calling kettle black routine, may I make it clear I have no problem that he got wasted last night. It’s just the manner/volume in which he chose to communicate it given his surroundings. Conflicting with the F.C.C. and still on the phone, he approached several spare seats but each time, the seat was either occupied by a briefcase or a comment to the tune of, “my wife is sitting here”. Clearly she wasn’t sitting there. No-one was sitting there. But this punk didn’t dare put the lie on trial. It then dawned on me that I had unwittingly gained acceptance by the pride. Perhaps by the honourable way in which I conducted myself. Or more likely because no other lion was big enough to challenge. Either way, my commute is more often than not, free from the great unwashed.

Funny the way the hierarchy has shifted from the back of the bus to the front of the train. It also means I was actually cool back in my school days too. I was just ahead of my time. Fuck you Nan.

Insomnimaniac

I'm lying in bed... which is a good start because if I was standing up in bed or doing capoeira in bed or hunting quail... well that wouldn't be conducive with sleep.

I've tried counting sheep but all I can think about is how immeasurably insane the first person was who tried to do that in the ridiculous hope it would actually help him sleep! I wonder how man other animals he tried counting before the sheep. Perhaps he started with Dodo birds. Once he travelled the world to find they were to soon be extinct which made counting them exhausting, he decided to just count the sheep in his yard. He only had one sheep but fuck he was tired! Sad that the poor bastard thought that sheep counting and not globe trotting was responsible for his eventual slumber.

...and segway...

For some reason, right now, right at this very moment, I feel we're being watched from our relatives at the far reaches of the galaxy on a smouldering and ruined planet. You see, they sent us here thousands of years ago to colonise this planet and prepare the place for the arrival of the rest of the race.

Sorry guys, we kinda fucked up. Hope you sent your A-team somewhere else!

...and away we go!

03/01/2009

It is here on this day, the 3rd of January 2009, that I find myself inevitably drawn to the idea of keeping a diary, a journal, a log. The memory splinter nagging the flesh of my thoughts at this moment is that of past attempts at keeping a journal. I first tried when I turned 13yrs old in 1991. It was called “Shane Butler – The Teenage Years”. I would’ve called said literary diatribe “Shane Butler - The Wonder Years” but that didn’t seem appropriate. Not because of certain Fred Savage television show but because my childhood was littered not as much with wonder as it was with a series of explosive and awkward growth spurts. “Dear Diary, today I grew another couple of metres and continue to resemble a giraffe on rollerskates”.

The diary was, of course, pen and paper. Only the wealthy had home computers. Laptops were of a size rivalling that of a small sedan and the internet, let alone the term ‘blog’ was still something familiar only to Buck Rogers. For those of you familiar with my munted concentration span and lack of self discipline, it will come as no surprise that “Shane Butler – The Teenage Years” last less than two weeks and the diary was used as kindling for the living room fireplace. Righteous.

It wasn’t until 2006 and the arrival of Myspace.com that the need to document my day to day to week to month to year to marriage to second marriage to mental asylum administration became too bullying to ignore anymore. With Myspace came the trend that is weblog or blog as it’s more commonly known. Although blogging sounds like something you should do with a girlie magazine and a gym sock, it is in fact something far more unwarranted. It’s a digital voice for the whinging masses and it’s proof read by naught but bias. I’m indeed aware of the inherent hypocrisy when complaining about whinging. And now that I’ve decided to publish this diary entry on the net, it’s hypocrisy squared.

All that really matters is, last night, I accidentally saw up a young woman’s dress. Take THAT Fred Savage!