Mutant Olsen Twins

Welcome back! To you, to me, to the written word which then becomes the read word by you and the spoken word by my friend Ben because he’s too dim witted to read like everybody else. I like to takes this crapportunity to speak about a recent tragedy. My life without alcohol. Ok maybe not completely without alcohol. I mean, come on, I’m not Batman. That guy’s like on call like all the time. He touches a drop of clean skin wine and he puts the entire city of Gotham and the mercy of unmarked, unchecked thuggery buggery. As for me, let’s assume that I’m on my 6^th beer, each beer with alternating chasers of straight Glen Fiddich and bottom shelf cab merlot, and I get a call from the commissioner to go defend city hall from international cross dressing mega bandits, chances are no-one’s going to bat an earlobe when I simply respond with, “wrong number pal”.

So here I am, stone cold sober on the hottest day of the year and nary a Carona raping lime wedge in sight. Like I said. Tragedy. I’m here to protest that there’s a reason alcohol has been enjoyed before history started becoming chronicled. It’s fucking… awesome. Perhaps a little too awesome for its smug self. Subtle and deserving in its smugness might I add. You see, it’s bottled awesome. And when you drink the contents of bottled awesome, well it doesn’t take a puke in a handbag to realise that awesomeness is now inside you.

However it’s awesomeness with an expiry. Not to mention the price you pay to get the awesome and the price you pay the next day in any number of other ways. Be it porcelain hugging “butterflies are too noisy” hangover. Or be it the cost of your pride for making poor overweight practice girl Jennifer walk the hall of shame at 7:46am in your shared house while you’re one successful flatmate Brendan is getting ready for his banking job all the while nodding disapprovingly at you while you lie in your 2 month old sheets, smelling your fingers and eating stale corn chips that you’re quite certain fell out of her hair during a courtship rife with rank and unspoken sweaty horror.

With that said… (sorry, I can still imagine Ben reading this out loud…”wif dat sed”). So ah, yeah, look, they can’t all be winners. Now here’s where I would go on about the heavenly joys of booze but that’s a song you’ve heard and a dance you’ve witness before. I shall never force you through it again. So I have naught but the choice to continue discrediting our friend and saviour, alcohol.

During this last week, where I only got drunk one night and mildly tipsy another (seriously, that’s considered a dry week folks), I’ve become reacquainted with a person long since forgotten. Me. And my God what a stark raving disappointment I turn out to be. Did you know, sober Shane, is completely incapable of contributing to a conversation. He can’t think, create, focus, drive or be interesting in any conceivable or inconceivable way. (all of you who have the Prince’s Bride on your mind right now, kudos to you… now lend me your ears). I’m watching more tv than I ever have before. I’m hungry more often. I don’t play guitar or write. I smile at least 80% less and I’ve forgotten what my laugh actually sounds like, (probably just as well as I’ve been told it sounds like the Olsen twins if they assimilated into one mutant person). I just sit and stare at tv programs I hate and not even notice the poor hapless hours of my life falling through the cracks into wasted oblivion… again.

The wisest of you will interpret these words of mine as just a bit of guff for shits and giggles. The worst of you will say I have a drinking problem. To that I say, read the previous paragraph again you naff. Clearly I have a SOBER problem.

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

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.

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.

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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.
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• Don’t surf the net. Fluff it, at Shangatopia.
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• 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

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.

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.

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 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/)