Done and done.

By: Peemil.

I finally relented and posted a picture of my South Park character.

Found again via The Crazy Rants of Samantha Burns.


Above: Bring it on.

So what? I will go.

By: Igor the Donkey- Editor in Chief.

After a long night of listening to the "Drunken idiot downstair's" choice in music played at 150 decibels and his drunken rantings with unknown strangers till five in the morning, Peemil's mental condition has been described as erratic, scary and quite possibly homicidal by everyone in the office.

On entering the office this morning Peemil was heard to exclaim, "I'll kill that motherfucker if I get my fucking hands on him," after which he headed straight into the staff room for a cup of coffee.

The usually quiet and reserved Peemil was then observed spilling sugar all over the counter and yelling, "Well that cunting well does it then doesn't it?"

After attempting to clean the counter with a sponge which resulted in most of the sugar being brushed onto the floor, Peemil sat down at the lunch table and brooded.

"It's not like I need any bloody sleep. No. I only ask for four or five hours a night, and I can't even get that. Fucking bastard," Peemil was heard to murmur to himself as he sipped his coffee.

Straws were drawn by members of staff, and this Editor had the duty of approaching a Peemil who looked like he could quite possibly pull a knife and stab random strangers at any given moment.

On entering the room, Peemil looked up and tried a smile, which made the situation all the more weird. On questioning, this Editor found out that Peemil's neighbour had a loud get together with friends the evening before.

When asked why he didn't call the Police he stated simply, "I'm not calling the bloody Police. I'm not going to grass anyone up."

Peemil then stood up and informed this Editor that he'd be out for an hour or two around ten in the morning.

"I was up at five and I saw his mates leaving around then. So I figure he'd head off to bed around five thirty or six o'clock. Around ten, I'm going to start a lawnmower up outside his window and blast K-Pop from the balcony," Peemil said.

On being asked where he got the K-Pop from he told the Editor to, "Stop being such a nosy bastard and fuck off and edit something."

Worthless fucking sluts.

By: Peemil.

The Herald Sun reports that the wives of accused terrorists Mr Raad and his brother Ahmed Raad have declared their husbands innocent, describing them as "average, loving, family men who helped old ladies cross the street."

"What are we going to do? Where are we going to go?" Ms Dahman said.

"I wake up in the morning and everyone is out there on my front doorstep. A scarfed woman was bashed yesterday.

"Considering our husbands were bringing in an income, what are we to live on now?" From the article.

This is Australia, and would I not be an Australian if I didn't give some heartfelt advice to these wives in distress.

1. Get a bloody job. It's about time you stopped relying on your husband for your daily bread.

2. Part of being a modern woman is being a selfish whore. Leave the bastard rot in jail and find yourself another man. A simple "Dear Ahab" letter, explaining how you can't see how you can go on and it's better this way for you, should do fine.

3. Slut yourself around town. In fact, why not fuck everything in your area code? Remember the person you're with doesn't have any feelings and he won't mind a couple, or maybe a few slip ups. Remember, for the modern woman it is a "Me first" mentality and "It's only sex Peemil," and "It just kinda happened," sort of attitude.

4. Sell everything out from underneath him. Get his signature on the papers of sale, and tell him that it is for legal expenses. Then fuck off to Hawaii for a long vacation.

5. Now is the time to tell him that you never really loved him. Why? Why not? It'll make the "Dear Ahab" letter and the confessions about your dirty, filthy, adulterous and slutty ways easier to bear.

You fucking creatures aren't worth the energy that it'd take to beat your untrustworthy faces into a bloody pulp.

I shouldn't be writing in this blog this morning.

Sushi bars- Wet fish- It just sucks.

By: Peemil.

I'm into my third and final day off work today. My motorbike started playing up a few weeks ago, and I hoped there for a while that it was some dirty fuel working its way through the engine.

Considering that the furtherest I've driven over the past few weeks is up the road to work and back again, it really hasn't been much of a problem.

But I thought I'd take a ride two days ago, and the problem had morphed itself into something serious.

Coughing, jerking and spluttering everytime the accelerator was applied, I figured that it was not dirty fuel working through, but something a little more serious.

I managed to get the bike into the shop yesterday so the mechanic could have a look. I described the problem to him and he says, "Do you mind if I take it up the road to have a feel?"

"Sure. No worries," I reply.

And off he goes.

I went back to sit in the car with my brother and his fiancee who had followed me down so I had a lift home.

"He pinched your bike," my brother says.
"No- Just taking it up the road to have a feel," I reply.
"Have a feel? Who of?" my brother asks.
"The bike," I reply.
"Well that's just sick," he says grimacing.

His fiancee, sitting in the backseat of the car rolling a cigarette looks up.

"It'll probably run perfect all the way around and he'll come and tell you it's fine," she says.
"Most probably," I reply. "It always happens."

After a while sitting in the morning sun, the mechanic returned.

"So, what do you think?" I ask.
"Well it has definitely got something wrong with it," he says. "We'll have a look at it today. Give us a call this afternoon."

After a long day without transport, I finally called.

"Is it fixed?" I asked.
"Yep. All ready to go."
"What was the matter?" I inquire.
"Busted coil. Should be fine now."

As with all things, it's always just a tiny little problem that throws a spanner into everything.

Either way, I've got my bike and my freedom back today. I have a meeting with one of the opposite sex tonight. I've been dating again, nothing serious of course, but there's been a few come by Peemil in the last month or so.

The one I'm seeing tonight seems interesting. But we'll see how it goes.

So I'm off to buy some new clothes to wear tonight and take a ride down the range for shits and giggles.

Morbid mischief.

By: Peemil.

In our tradition of bringing you the best looking news readers in the world, we here at Where are my socks? would like to introduce some chick from CBS's "60 Minutes."


Above: Peemil uses the "International Language of Showing your Tackle."

Leaves me with nothing to do.

By: Peemil.

Over at the The Crazy Rants of Samantha Burns, Samantha was talking about strange search strings you find in your referral list.

One she found was, "Wet and Wild- Samantha."

And what do you know? I found what they were looking for.


Above: Just another day on the beach for Samantha.

But in all seriousness. Much respect to Samantha. She writes a great blog that everyone should read.

Trepanation.

By: Peemil.

Trepanation is a surgical procedure, whereby the subject has a hole drilled in their heads in an attempt to "Increase their consciousness."

It is also known as complete and utter lunacy. Of course though, where there is a daft medical procedure, there is a dickhead willing to do it.

The medical community argues against it, [the] media has used it as a shock story, but it's a procedure that has been around for ages, and some people believe it to be effective: trepanation. The desire to increase one's conciousness permanently has led some brave people to undergo this procedure. This is the story of one such brave individual.

Of course, no Doctor in their right mind would perform such a procedure. So that means, you get a good mate to come round your house and drill a hole into your brain.

This website chronicles this particular moron and his mate, and their adventure into the world of trepanation.

From his diary, 22nd of March, 2000:

This weekend I had a hole drilled through my skull. I read that this increased one’s consciousness permanently. I read about the supposed de-conditioning properties. I read about more parts of the brain working simultaneously as there would be more blood up there to help this happen.

Why didn't I think of that? And here I am thinking that drilling a hole in your head would just give you a splitting headache.

My girlfriend and I met a friend at the airport and took him out to dinner first, and then went home to discuss how things would go. We made a list of some things we needed that we didn’t have yet. List in hand, we went out over the next two days to home medical supply stores, hardware stores, to autoclave our bits and get smocks, to a pharmacy, and some hobby shops. We picked up the drill, the gloves, sterile gauze, sheets of plastic, sodium chloride, hypodermic syringes, sterile wipes, irrigation syringe, etc. etc. After acquiring all that we needed, we set up my best friend’s bedroom as the operating room and prepared to perform the operation.

I'm glad to see you took the guy who is going to be drilling you out for a feed. It's only polite.

But down to the business of getting your head drilled.

My friend, using a sterile scalpel, pushed the blade in all the way to my skull and made the incision in the shape of a half-circle a little bit bigger than a nickel’s size in diameter. The plan was to pull that flap back and tape it down while drilling. We just thought it’d peel away from the skull like chicken skin or something, but it did actually adhere to the skull though, so one person held the tip of the flap with forceps and another cut away the adhering tissue from below and pulled the flap back. It laid back on it’s own and did not require tape. Then one person irrigated, the other applied pressure with sterile gauze, dripped a few drops of the Epinephrine on a few of the bleeder veins, and the bleeding quickly subsided to a workable level. Then we turned on the drill to speed 4.

Eventually, they get through to the brain.

"As it got closer, we drilled more and more slowly. At one point he hit what we thought might be meninges because it squirted a bit of blood but quickly subsided. We were still doing OK. It was just a bone vessel and we knew that it might happen once or twice more. Luckily it did not. We drilled more and more, slow and careful and eventually saw what we were fairly certain was meninges. As he said he was seeing it, I felt a shivering tingle of energy up my back and up the back of my neck. We told him how to probe to be sure."

Probe? You truly are mad. The last thing I want is a mate of mine fingering my brain. After the operation though, this is what he wrote:

"I was overjoyed. I would attribute most of the joy at being done with the whole affair, as it was months in the coming, and it was about a 3 ½ hour procedure overall. I immediately went to the bathroom after, ‘cause I’d been holding it in the whole time, and then went to my place to hang out, chill, and feel the effects. The room seemed taken on an intense clarity and I was able to pay attention to my thoughts and the world around a little more simultaneously."

I wouldn't have thought so, but hey? There it is.

You should read the rest on your own, but be aware of some of these gems.

"Did the friend who performed this procedure have any medical background?

No. They had cut and pierced themselves and others and had experience with implants and things along those lines."

And I've patched myself up after the odd fall off a motorbike or a brawl, but that doesn't make me a surgeon.

Or, take a read of his final opinion of the procedure.

"I would, at this time, warn against undergoing this procedure, mostly to anyone who was considering this as a way to alleviate chronic depression. If someone underwent this hoping it would be a panacea for all of their troubles and then it wasn't, that might just push them off the edge."

What? They might just put a new hole through their head? Say, with a shotgun bullet?

Morons. They're everywhere.

Runnin' just as fast as we can.

By: Igor the Donkey- Editor in Chief.

TOOWOOMBA: Despite rumours circulating around the Internet, Where are my socks? will continue well into the future.

It seems that overnight, Government agents hacked into the computer system and posted a message stating that this blog would be discontinued.

We here at Where are my socks? are resolved to not only uncover the culprits responsible for this cyber terrorism, but will string them up by the testicles when they are caught.

From myself, the Management and everyone here, we sincerely apologise for any break in transmission and will work to ensure that we continue to bring you the news, reviews and opinions that are relevant for your daily life.

Green curtains.

By: Igor the Donkey- Editor in Chief.

Because the rest of our correspondents are away at the moment, I instructed Peemil to fly to Paris a few days ago to cover the riots there.

Here is a phone interview I conducted with him earlier.

Igor the Donkey: How is it over there Peemil?
Peemil: Bloody fantastic Igor. The women are good looking, the wine is cheap and knocking the block of some stupid French bastard is a feeling that is so good, everyone should try it.
Igor the Donkey: What of the riots?
Peemil: What the club I went to last night? "Riot?" Pulled a good looking French chick. Gave her a good banging over the bed in the Hotel.
Igor the Donkey: Surely you must of seen some of the rioting going on in the streets?
Peemil: Oh that? I thought they were English tourists blowing off steam after a big night on the piss.
Igor the Donkey: So you have seen some rioting?
Peemil: Shit yes. It fucking went off. I've always wanted to know what happens when you burn a Vespa.
Igor the Donkey: You're not supposed to participate.
Peemil: That's not what you fucking said. You said, "Get right in there Peemil. Get to the heart of the story." If throwing molotov cocktails through some old bitch's window isn't, "Getting to the heart of the story," then I don't fucking know what is.
Igor the Donkey: How is the mood over there? Do you think this is purely terrorism disguised as civil disorder?
Peemil: Huh... Sorry. Didn't hear you. Was getting another drink.
Igor the Donkey: Does religion play a big part in these riots?
Peemil: Well, they were beating the shit out of some guy last night, and I reckon he was praying- So yes, religion is playing a big part here.
Igor the Donkey: But more to the point- Is Islam a big factor in these riots?
Peemil: What? The towel heads? They're fucking everywhere around here. Big black buggers with a big axe to grind. My advice, if you're coming to Paris and want to join in is this. I suggest getting a towel from your hotel room, wrapping it around your head and screaming, "Praise Allah." They seem to respond well to that. So much so, that they gave me an axe.
Igor the Donkey: Do I have to remind you that you are representing Where are my socks?
Peemil: No worries there mate. I've been carving the web address into every public building I could get to with the axe they gave me.
Igor the Donkey: Is there any chance that you may have spoken to some people involved over there?
Peemil: Like I said, I had a good yarn with that French shiela last night. But the conversation didn't go far, she was involved with a boyfriend and all. You really should of sent Sally over here, cause I don't speak bloody French. So I communicated using the "International Language of Showing Your Tackle." Works a charm everytime.
Igor the Donkey: But have you spoken to any rioters?
Peemil: Like I said, I thought they were English tourists. When I approached them to talk, I couldn't fathom what they were saying, so I figured they were from the North. You know what I say in situations like this?
Igor the Donkey: What's that Peemil?
Peemil: It's better to be the one pushing over a car with a Northerner than it is to speak too much and end up getting kicked to death.
Igor the Donkey: Good advice. We'll leave it there.

A Technicolor presentation.

By: Peemil.

A couple of NFL cheerleaders got caught having lesbian sex in the restroom of a Tampa bar on Sunday morning.

According to the report, they were arrested after patrons waiting to use the facilities called the Police after it was discovered that the two were having a clam bake.

The idea of two lesbians going for it, in an intoxicated state on a filthy bar bathroom really doesn't do much for me.

As one who used to have to clean the female toilets in bars in the morning, I can tell you this much. Women have a completely new level of nasty going on in there.

You think everytime that door swings open and that fresh breeze of perfume and make-up that floats out is a sign that it's a feminine paradise in there? It's not.

Firstly, from my experience, women can't vomit straight. At least in the male toilet you only know from the odd stain on the side of the toilet, or a hint of smell. Women just let it all hang out when they're loaded, and that means they spray it everywhere.

Honestly, excluding the odd bush pig who us blokes enjoy drinking with because she is a challenge in an arm wrestle, most women can't vomit. It's all stumbling, trembling and tears as the gag reflex loses control.

At least men can stay on target all the way through it. There are even some of us amongst us who'll just stand up at the table and say, "Well boys- Gotta have a quick spew. Be right back."

For most women, it's a drama. I remember one time behind one particular bar, two young women came in, already half sloshed and full of beans.

"Give us a couple of pints and a couple of tequilas," says the one wearing a tight black skirt and a black top which defined "cleavage."
"Got any ID on you girls?" I ask after sizing them up and figuring that these two were most probably too young.
"ID?" the other questions incredulously. "ID? Where am I supposed to keep ID on this outfit?"

Looking her over I tended to agree with her. She was dressed much like the other one, except there was less and it was white. It's one of life's mysteries that a woman can walk down the street wearing close to nothing at all, but yet still be embarrassed if she answers the door to a stranger wearing nothing but a towel.

"Sorry girls. No card. No drinks. It's that simple," I said in a serious tone.
"You're not very nice," says the one with in black, as the other shoots me a look like I've just murdered her only baby.
"I'm not here to be nice. I'm here to serve drinks and not lose the license on this place. So you either get some ID, or you turn around and get out."
"You're so mean," says the other.
"There must be an echo in this place. I'm sure we've established that."
"Meanie," they both add as they delve into their purses.

Out it all comes. Mobile phones, tampons, tissues, keys, a pamphlet from a demonstration, a hundred photographs, a large giraffe and a grand piano.

It bothers me that astronomers spends so much time searching the universe for black holes, when right here on Earth, there is one attached to the inside of every handbag, on the shoulder of every woman on Earth.

Should I also mention that the male wallet, is proof alone that men really have got it going on? Everytime someone asks me for ID, I simply reach into my back pocket, pull out my wallet and flip it open.

"There," they say in unison, slamming their IDs down on the bar.

About that time I wondered whether during the Nazi period in Europe if many women were shot, purely because they got uppity with the SS guy with the sub-machine gun who asked simply for some identification.

"Your papers please," says the tall SS guard, with a rifle slung over his shoulder.
"You're so mean," says the German fraulein. "It'll take me forever to find them in this basket of mine."
"Your papers please Miss," the SS guard repeats.
"Don't 'Miss' me! I'm not going through this basket. There's so much in here."

Bang. Shot dead. If this world has taught me anything- It is this. When someone has a gun, it's a good idea to give him whatever he wants, and be very polite about it.

But I'll save that story for later. Back to the bar.

I examined their identifications and found that they were just over 18.

"No worries ladies. I'll get right on it," I say as they start shovelling their shit back into their handbags.

The night passed slowly. It was a quiet evening, so I had time to talk to some of the other customers. Leaning on the bar talking to one, he says to me, "Those two can't be of age. Did you see their ID?"

"Yep," I said.
"We might get to eighteen and be allowed to drink, but it doesn't mean we should. Take a look at the one in the black."

I looked down the bar to see the one in the black swaying gently in her chair, while her friend in white had her arm around her and was talking softly to her.

"How much they had Peemil?" the customer asks.
"About three pints and a few shots of tequila each," I reply.
"She's going to spew. I give her two minutes," the customer dares.
"Righto. You're on. Five pounds says she'll chuck in four," I say putting five pounds down on the bar.

From the end of the bar, I see the girl in white waving me over. I duly went.

"She's going to spew," she says.
"As long as she does it in the toilet, that won't be a problem," I reply.
"Can't you do anything?" the girl yells at me.
"What do you want me to do? I'm just the barkeeper. I'm not Chief of Holding Stupid Drunk Heads."

The one in the black raised her head, looked at me and through a cloud of tears and said.

"You're so mean."

These were her final words as she and her friend headed to the toilet in a stumbling, tearful mess.

From the bar, we could hear the heaving diaphragm of this girl, expelling the pints that she had just drunk.

I returned to the customer at the top of the bar.

"How long was that?" I asked.
"Just under two minutes."
"Fuck it!" I replied. "Stupid girls who can't hold their grog."
"Wouldn't want to be the one cleaning that up in the morning," the customer said.

Now back to that discussion about female bathrooms.

Secondly, what the fuck are they putting in the bin? Some of that stuff is just wrong. I'm not talking about the average sanitary pad here, I'm talking about stuff that just isn't of this world.

Thirdly, they can't aim when throwing toilet tissue in a bin. Even if they're sitting right next to it. At least men have the common sense to flush it, even when there is a sign saying not to.

I once had this discussion with a woman about flushing when the sign says not to. What I know about the practice is this. Flushing isn't going to back the toilet it up. The reason they ask you not to is so the City's sewers don't get crammed with paper.

But that isn't my problem. That is the City's problem.

The woman I was discussing this with, decided to play high and mighty and say, "It's just not good for the enviroment."

I don't know. Usually I consider my immediate environment, which means I can't see the point in saving one sewer drain, because I'd rather have shitty toilet paper everywhere.

Finally, what the hell is happening around the sink? I've seen some sinks and mirrors that look like a batallion of queer soldiers have paid a visit. Between the used tissue, thrown or lost lipsticks, marks on the mirror, shit in the sink and water and crap over the floor- It's an absolute battle zone.

And they complain about the toilet seat being up? Go figure.


Above: Doesn't the one on the left look like she's had too many punches in the face?

Aheb the Suicide Bomber.

By: Peemil.

The New York Times reported that fifteen suspected terrorists were arrested after a string of morning raids in Sydney.

Chemicals used to make a large quantities of bombs were found in the raided residences, and most of the suspects are facing trial charged with membership of a banned organisation.

While The Age reported yesterday, that Sheik Mansour Leghaei, a Muslim Cleric, faces deportation after the Federal Court dismissed his appeal for a permanent residency permit, because ASIO considers him a security risk.

Of course, we can't forget those lovely riots going on in France at the moment, mostly perpetrated by Muslim immigrants.

If I come into your home, I don't trash the furniture, complain about the colour of the wallpaper or blow myself up now do I?

What sends me into fits of rage is when this stuff happens. Here are a group of people who, unsatisfied with their own countries, move to ours and then start telling us how to run the show.

The bloody audacity of it all. Of couse some soft-cocked Liberal will say, "Well, they're not all bad. We can't just lock them all up, or send them all home."

Why not? It's our bloody country. It's about time we all started acting so.

Stirring the honey pot.

By: Peemil.

Just a small interlude. All images found on Nikkan Erog.


Above: That'll hurt your back if you lay like that.


Above: Don't look at me like that woman.


Above: Look away from the light.

Rex returns.

By: Peemil.

In an unexpected farewell, August saw the departure of Rex who kept a thoroughly readable and interesting blog over at Rex in the City.

After his departure I threatened to execute a baboon, but it was to no avail. Rex didn't return and the baboon inevitably got whacked.

In hindsight, killing the baboon was fun, but a little hasty because he's back, blogging over at Labor First.

We here at Where are my socks? would like to welcome Rex back to the blogging world, and state that we're looking forward to reading your thoughts on Australian politics once again.

Are you quick enough to kill a stationary object?

By: Peemil.

As I shuffled around the kitchen this morning making my coffee through my bleary eyes, my brother says, "You're a big bastard."

"What?" I ask, turning to look at him. On the table there is a huge house spider which my brother is cajoling onto a flat sponge.

"You're gonna die," my brother says as he carries the spider which has made its final walk onto the sponge and is now being transported across the kitchen and onto the sink.

Deftly turning the sponge upside down on the sink my brother crushes the house spider underneath the sponge with a quick blow of his fist.

"There you go. Now that wasn't so bad was it?" says my brother as he washes the remains of the spider off the sponge and down the drain.

"I can't believe your fiancee is an arachnophobe" I said.
"Yeah- It is weird," my brother replies.
"It's not like these eight legged bastards have any special skills, like jumping onto your face and biting you," I ventured.
"Or that they can chase you out of the house and into the street- But she is a girl" my brother adds.
"You know, my good friend is absolutely terrified of them,"
"Is he?"
"Yep- Can't stand them. He'll just turn and walk away."
"He doesn't get up on chairs does he?" my brother asks.
"No, but his walking does turn into a slow jog when faced with one."
"Huh- I didn't know that. It's only a spider. Kill the bastard. He's not going anywhere fast. It's like shooting fish in a barrel."
"It seems like a wasted fear, this arachnophobia," I state.
"You know what terrifies me," my brother says. "One hundred elephants lining up behind me to give me a rogering. That's fucking scary."
"Or a large rottweiler which is determined to bite off your wedding tackle," I add.
"What about one million Chinese holding one million pins who are about to prick you one million times?" my brother asks.
"That'd be fucking terrifying. How about ten terrorists with nail bombs strapped to their bodies and a hard on for the afterlife?"
"Yep- That'd scare the shit out of me," my brothers says. "Arachnapobia does seem like wasted fear, given the options."
"Yep- Wasted fear," I say as the kettle finally boils.

Confusion in her eyes says it all.

By: Peemil.

I have to head off to work now. One thing before I go, what the hell is this all about? Found via The Crazy Rants of Samantha Burns.

Write your own caption in the comments if you like.


Above: "I say Charles, is that your finger in my arse?"

Dr Elephant in pedophilia scandal.

By: Peemil.

TOKYO: Beloved children's cartoon character, and creator of Astroboy, Dr Elephant, has been arrested on charges of sex with an underage robot, indecency with a robot minor and possession of robot pornography.

Dr Elephant is best known as the creator and mentor of Astroboy, a crime fighting robot and hero to millions of children world wide.

The charges stem from the testimony of an undisclosed source who said they saw Dr Elephant acting indecently with Astroboy and his sister Astrogirl on numerous occasions.

"Often I would drop by and see Dr Elephant late in the evening," the source says. "Many times the door would be locked and when the Doctor answered my knocks he would be hot and flustered. One time though, he left the door unlocked and what I saw when I opened it left me shocked and confused."

"He was engaged in sexual intercourse with Astrogirl while Astroboy sat terrified in the corner. He admitted that he had a problem and begged that I wouldn't tell anyone. For years I have carried around this knowledge, but I can't bear to keep it anymore. God only knows how many robot's lives he has ruined in the interim while I wrestled with this."

When Police were finally informed they discovered around four thousand CDs of robotic pornography, possession of which carries a five year sentence alone, after a dawn raid on his laboratory.

After his arrest his victims have been coming forward in hopes of seeing that the Doctor is finally jailed for his crimes. "I was just a small robot working in a factory when Dr Elephant approached me," one victim said in an interview. "I was in awe in the beginning. Here was Dr Elephant, creator of thousands of robots, an innovative genius and a respected member of the community. Little did I know what he had in store for me when he offered me a can of oil and took me to his car."

But Dr Elephant has denied all charges, pleading not guilty at his preliminary hearing today. "I stand before this court and your Honour, as an innocent man. I'm a victim of the jealously of my peers and their false accusations."

The Judge released Dr Elephant on a bail of two million dollars.

The case continues next month.


Above: Dr Elephant fiddles with Astroboy.