The Family Guy

2 kids... One is 3 years old-going-on-17 and the other is 3 months... going on... extremely cute, loveable, untainted by her father's flaws... Both are girls... Life? Well... As the profile avatar would suggest... Dan-fucken-dee...

# 136 aka Eight things...

...you never really wanted to know about me anyway:

1. It's a daily struggle for me to understand why anyone would choose skimmed milk (light, 1% fat-99% water, diet, et al.) over the full liquefied blubber version. I mean, if I thought it a wise move, I'd pour additional water into my cup full of coffee and sugar granules before the eyes have fully calibrated the focus necessary to get me through yet another morning, but the thought of adding cold water to the hot I plan to add a wee bit after the deliciously unhealthy - and amazingly tasty - fat-tastic milk I prefer just seems kind of...I don't know...dumb. 'Point taken, Andy, but have you given any thought to your waist?' Well, yeah I have; I give thought to most parts of my body, although I mainly focus on keeping the smaller of my two heads happy...Resume point now: I think about maintaining some form of fitness which is why I exercise regularly and don't waste my time wondering about the likely benefits of eliminating the tasty milk from my diet and replacing it with overpriced white water. Sheeeeeet, I may even afford myself the luxury of more than one cup of coffee a day with my milk of choice. No, not that one. Pass me the udder one!

2. I'm as ignorant as mongoloid apes who repeatedly reach for the electrified baby instead of the organically grown banana when it comes to politics, even though I pretend not to be. I pretend not to be because I'm of the belief that if you can't antagonise someone who is politically endowed then you ought to step aside and let someone else run the night shift at the asylum. I regret to say that this self-imposed
political ignorance may be a genetic trait stemming from my father's side, although I frequently blame my mother during those rare instances when I sneak a fleeting moment to talk to myself under my breath. Apart from those who dedicate their lives to understanding the innermost musings of wordsmiths whose subjects are imaginary deities, I find more than a passing interest in politics to be the second biggest waste of time for anyone not in direct conflict with reason. My mentor, Bill Hicks, once stated that 'all governments are lying cocksuckers'. (I've placed the intonation in the appropriate place to ease the burden of spontaneous analysis.) He made that astute observation in the late eighties-early nineties and I haven't found a reason to think he may have misread the situation. In my unholy eyes, when a fundamentalist Christian belief is combined with this ridiculous infraction on human existence, it only compounds my level of disdain and distrust.

3. I'm a huge fan of picking an argument; not because I'm a cunt or thrive on behaviour unbecoming of a man in his thirties with the mental maturity of an underdeveloped seventeen year old mind, but generally because I find it forces people think about statements they're convinced are infallible. More often than not, they are right, but I would feel as if I'm somehow short changing myself if I don't dive into a verbal stoush with a spear gun, mask and fins... It's either that or, deep down, I am a cunt.

4. Whether by voice or by written word, it is a constant pleasure of mine to swear like the proverbial whore who has been handcuffed to a bed, spread-eagled with her genitalia exposed and the hotel door of the seedy hotel left wide open. I realise the negative impact this has on my credibility as a gentleman and a scholar, but I couldn't give a pirouetting fuck about that. The same motivation has been there since I first came across this particular language trait: to state something that doesn't provoke some kind of emotional response is to not state anything at all. I
thin this point ties in with the previous point. What do you think?

5. To me, answering a stupid question with a slightly better stupid question is on par with witnessing a cracking sunrise on your day off: I'd do it five times a day if the odds were stacked in my favour. 'Are you interested in going to the pub?' 'Is a baby's turd one of the stinkiest expulsions of gas you've ever smelt?' 'How's your wife?' 'Was Tawny Kitaen attracted to David Coverdale because of his golden locks?' 'How was your weekend?' 'I can't remember: was it wax off then wax on or wax off then wax on?' 'Do you have the time, mate?' 'How many General Lees did they trash per episode of The Dukes of Hazard?'

6. Cheese and I are virtually two peas in the same pod. Only one of us is getting out alive.

7. I care deeply about the environment which is why I'm cutting down on the time I spend in the shower from 2 hrs and 10 mins to 1 hr and 55 mins, starting in December.

8. I love everything about baseball, especially knowing that I'm free to explore the finer aspects of points 3 to 5 inclusively without anyone being the wiser. It's a love affair based on mutual understanding between me, my environment and my cock protector.

Ooroo.

# 135 aka Kung Fu Hustle

The tabloids in my home town recently went nuts by stating that I was dead. As with most things written in a(ny) newspaper, this piece of claptrap isn't even close to resembling the truth. Furthermore, I have photos to prove it.

Stay tuned for visual encounters of the two dimensional kind.

# 134 aka I can breathe again

The end of the term / course is just around the corner. It's the middle of Week 10; stu-dents finished their exams yesterday which meant teach-hers went home, cracked their heads against a collective wall, spilling grades of varying success onto stu-dents' hopes and / or dreams.

I failed one out of fifteen. Perhaps that should be rephrased: one out of fifteen students whose work I graded managed to botch up the exam good and proper. The probability of him passing the course is about as likely as him having brunch on the dark side of the moon with Pink Floyd this Friday... Poor bastard.

Meanwhile, the opportunity to do squat-all for the next two weeks looks like a distinct symphony waiting to be conducted. In my mind I have already picked out a tuxedo for the occasion; the morbidly obese lady, whose giant flabby ankles are handcuffed to the base of a sturdy chair, is lubricating her lucrative tonsils with extra virgin olive oil.

Plans? I'm glad you asked. At the helm of the list is a good night's sleep. Call me past my use by date, call me a candidate for prosthetic knee joints, call me Andy the Octogenarian if it'll make your day any easier; after ten weeks of fuck-all regular or prolonged sleep thanks to topic sentences, thesis statements and Tetris blocks falling under my quilt, I'm ready to nod off for the sheer fuck of being able to do so.

Yes, there will be no more need for twenty-minute naps on the bus. Yes, there will be rest.*

Apart from that, my significant other tells me there is an opportunity for the Kaufmans to drive down the peninsula and into a mansion sized shack FREE OF CHARGE. The orchestra is tuning.

I hope there'll be time to take a few snaps between now and the commencement of the next course. I know I'm up for it.

How the hell are you doing?



* I bet my seven-month-old girl has other plans.

# 133 aka Weak as piss Kevin Costner reference

Message found in a bottle on a lawn on North Terrace:

Trapped in a vacuum of permanent marking.
In an octopus' garden.
Can't discern left from numbers.
Three-eyed man.
Smiles nervously to a Vegemite Sandwich.
Crusty words slurring into drainage system.
Substitute led refill cartridges with poison darts.
Natives not native at all but restless all the same.

Pygmy. Pygmy. Pygmy.

Must go to the market.
Food mocks me like socks do sandals.
Europeans have wasps (too).
Many times, too many times.
The nips are getting drier.
Dry zones in wet tropics.
Northern parts of the nether region.

Code. Code. Code.

Crack.
Bum.
Crack.
Smoke.
Crack.
Pipe.

Weezer. Weezer. Weezer.

He's Ebenezer Goode.

Carl. Carl. Carl.

Kill 'em all.

Metallica. Metallica. Metallica.

Exit light.