Where are my socks?

2007-11-22T01:17:00.000-08:00

Is murder.

By: Peemil.

I bet you this guy thought, "Why don't they stop attacking me?"

As many of us would.

2007-11-20T00:20:00.000-08:00

When it happens it moves all by itself.

By: Peemil.

The veracity of reports that I am, in fact dead, are not correct.

I am attempting to write a particularly difficult e-mail at the moment and am trying my best to avoid it.

Opening is always difficult. You should say something along the lines of, "I hope your fist lodges in your ass after a horrific cycling accident," or, "May Allah rain down rock hard muffins on your head."

I have had a thing for muffins of late, however, I haven't yet bought any. Every time I pass them in the supermarket, I stop, pause and think about buying some. I deny them to myself because I like the feeling of bitter disappointment. That, and often I am being chased by knife wielding leprechauns from the fresh food section, so time really is of the essence.

Not American muffins, those sweet things, but English muffins. The ones you put in the toaster and put great dollops of butter and Vegemite on.

Lord be praised!

Driving through the park recently I wondered exactly what I was doing. So did a young couple who were having a picnic.

They didn't have many muffins.

Recently I've taken to the park in the afternoon with a six pack, a book, grapes, sandwiches and crisps.

A woman stopped to talk about shit, but I think she wanted to eat my crisps.

Either that, or she was eying my beer.

I gave her some of both, but then she claimed that she actually knew me.

I tried to stick my finger in her cunt through her underwear and she jumped back aghast.

"What are you doing!" she exclaimed.

She doesn't know me that well.

2007-10-01T01:48:00.000-07:00

After fucking your mother in the arse, I wiped my dick on your sister's mouth.

By: Peemil.

Apparently, a new Blade Runner is going to be released. "The Final Cut," or something of the like.

I realized yesterday that I haven't seen this movie, and after a bit of a hunt around Youtube, I found a segment of it that I quite enjoyed.

My friend L. has probably seen it, and is shaking his head in disgust. What can I say? I don't even have a Blockbuster card.

I found my beer in the bathroom.

The walls keep getting in the way.

This is the soundtrack of my days at the moment.

So tell me? I'm jubilant today. It has been a while since I've smiled.

Can we fight the Germans again? In fact, let's fight everyone. Welcome to Peemil's University of International Relations.

1. If they smell funny they ought to die.

2. Banzai! We die for the Emperor!

3. What are you lookin' at punk?

4. Don't get pissed! You can walk off a couple of rounds in the arse.

5. Don't even breathe near my fucking girlfriend.

6. The reason that I took your chair is because I spilt beer on my own. Deal with it cunt.

7. Your black missus is lookin' mighty fine.

8. Your mother has every venereal disease known to man.

9. You see my friend? I'll give you fifty dollars to blow him. I hear you poofs do it for less.

10. Oh? They're your motorbikes I pushed over?

We are your brothers.

H. and I talk and talk. I like her.

For D.

I asked God to be more providential with the heating of the beans.

He told me that I ought to stop hanging my balls out on the stairs.

Bastard! Why does he make it so difficult?

La paloma es agua potable

Stop putting it in the toaster.

2007-09-30T00:00:00.000-07:00

Important news from the Undergroud. 4 5 4 2 5 6 2 5 4 8 7 1 3 6 4 2 7 3 6.

By: Peemil.

Soon there will be a great nuclear holocaust.

The people on the rolling hills soaking up the money and blood of the poor and enfeebled, who they left for their houses of bitter gingerbread, will give pause, turn and run.

Amongst the wreckage many will take their own lives, and others, alone without misery, will take to enforcing their wills.

Those of the day will tremble in terror at the fire of the own making.

Others will complain of eating the eyes of the nuclear fried for sustenance and a long held desire since High School.

It's soon you sick bastards.

You have been warned.

Above: A couple of swells.

2007-09-29T23:42:00.000-07:00

Summer has come early this year.

By: Peemil.

When Truckee, Calif. animal control officer Robert Brooks got a cell phone call five minutes after his shift ended, saying a bear was trapped on the arch of a roughly 100-foot high bridge, he was sure it was a joke.

But then he went to the Rainbow Bridge and saw a bear nestled below the car deck.

The black bear had tried to cross the two-lane California highway on Sept. 15. But Brooks said cars approaching in both lanes honked, and the scared bear climbed over the concrete railing. Somehow in his panic, the bear reached the bridge arch, a few feet in from the car deck edge.

Seattle Post-Intelligencer.

I suppose it's all our ends really.

2007-09-29T22:49:00.000-07:00

Your wife needs more ball time.

By: Peemil.

18 Now the birth of Iesus Christ was on this wise: When as his mother Mary was espoused to Ioseph (before they came together) shee was found with childe of the holy Ghost. 19 Then Ioseph her husband being a iust man, and not willing to make her a publique example, was minded to put her away priuily. 20 But while hee thought on these things, behold, the Angel of the Lord appeared vnto him in a dreame, saying, Ioseph thou sonne of Dauid, feare not to take vnto thee Mary thy wife: for that which is conceiued in her, is of the holy Ghost. 21 And she shall bring forth a sonne, and thou shalt call his Name Iesus: for hee shall saue his people from their sinnes.

What a way to get it over on your old man.

Slut!

2007-09-21T23:05:00.000-07:00

An Odeish to my Balls.

By: Peemil.

I am so tired of my testicles bleeding for no apparent reason.

It always seems to happen while I am in the shower, which leads to much blood being everywhere and yet another soiled towel.

Before you think that I am brutalising myself to extremes in there, I can tell you that you are wrong. Even I am not that sick as to keep wanking while bleeding profusely from my balls.

Although, I once ate a Canadian girl out who was on her period, but that was because we'd just been chased by a Thai guy with a shotgun and I was hungry.

I am not going to bother going to a Doctor, because they are quacks and don't know what they are talking about most of the time. Instead, I will diagnosis and treat myself.

My theory is that I am the reincarnate of Saint Bella of Alazikie, who is both a little known saint and was quite the lady killer. According to legend, he traveled most of early Christendom spreading the good word and chasing tail.

That was until he set eyes upon the Roman Emperor's wife, who quickly succumbed to his busy hands and quick tongue.

The Emperor was furious when informed of his wife's philandering and subsequently Saint Bella was arrested and crucified by the balls.

This theory therefore confirms that my current problem is a stigmata, and also that I am closer to God than any of you punks.

H. and I have been playing telephone ping pong all day. It is about to rain soon, so I hope she turns up and we'll get stoned and she can rub my head, which is what she likes to do - because unlike you mob, at least she talks to me and doesn't think I'm some kind of whacko for talking about my balls.

Get fucked.

Above: Saint Bella of Alazikie

2007-09-21T03:20:00.000-07:00

Out my window I see you.

By: Peemil.

You'd be surprised how often this happens to me at the dinner table.

This doesn't happen often enough.

2007-09-21T00:52:00.003-07:00

Get me close to the honey pot.

By: Peemil.

I had something extremely important to say today, but I can't think of it because I just ran out of cold beer.

I must go to the Bottleshop and get some more. I should only be five minutes.

Instantaneous writing at its best, without the audience.

I went for a cigarette and started thinking about the Strait of Hormuz.

American hegemony must be protected at all cost - And for the sake of ice-cream makers the world over.

Word is, that all ice-cream makers will be sold into Islamic slavery if we do not conquer the Caliphate.

Free Ben and Jerry!

I still don't have any beer.

The Australian Federal election will be called on Sunday evening.

Above: Anal slaves of Mohammed's mates.

2007-09-18T01:29:00.000-07:00

Be fried banana on my fish tank grasshopper.

By: Peemil.

I woke up this morning with snot on my finger, which means that I was probably picking my nose, got a good one out, and left it there to dry.

Sometimes I just lose my head. I have found something that I have the potential to love, and will most probably provide the money that I need to do the other things that I already love. I am not a prostitute.

If I were a woman, I'd be a slap-her-funny, probably infested, scratch your hard-on, moan for me whore. Let's face it. You women have got it easy. All you need to do is to get drunk enough to fuck after having all your drinks paid for by some guy.

And to do that, all you need to do is not eat anything and have a run around the block every day. Fat bitches are just soft, and aren't trying hard enough.

"And Sargent Dow Jones, 27 years old, commanding his very own tank."

Kraft are a mob of cunts. They've changed the average size jar of Vegemite from 455g to 400g and are still charging the same price. There should be a national outrage.

God damn it, just go up for fuck's sake!

Many people wonder where I am through the day. The answer is- I'm not home.

Stop thinking of dry humping my dog, you filthy swine!

Above: Seek and destroy.

2007-09-16T01:27:00.000-07:00

I made pirate noises last night.

By: Peemil.

I was talking to my Prime Minister today and I asked him what his wife's pussy taste like.

"Melon," he tells me.

"Soon though," he continued, "I'll have to beg for it."

"Why is that?" I inquired.

"Because I'm selling it to the Iranians in exchange for ten poppies, a lock of hair, and a plastic fairy wand for which I shall scratch my back with."

Strange man our Prime Minister.

Above: Fruit.

2007-09-15T04:15:00.000-07:00

You can take it.

By: Peemil.

When elected, I promise to execute every third person.

Above: Brmm!

2007-09-14T03:28:00.000-07:00

O.H.M.S

By: Peemil.

2007-09-06T02:55:00.001-07:00

Bed time for Peemil.

By: Peemil.

A fat man died today.

We should all be tearful because there just aren't enough fatties in the world, and the loss of one, is a grave tragedy.

2007-09-06T01:02:00.000-07:00

In pyjamas.

By: Peemil.

Today I discovered that the best song to listen to in the laundromat is Velvet Underground's "Venus in Furs."

Something about that song just clears my head, the same way that the washing machines clear the skid marks of my tightie whities.

I can't wait till I get a girlfriend and she can lick them clean like the cheap whore that she is. The laundromat, despite the VU, is a real drag.

Anything by the Cocteau Twins is making it's way up the best songs to listen to while waiting for something, or someone.

I imagine that a lot of the Cocteau Twins has been the last tune heard by a successfully suicidal Emo teen.

People will often boo-hoo about teen suicide and point fingers directly at Emos and their like.

I take the approach that if you want to mix depressing music, a pathetic outlook, bad dress sense and teenage hormones, then you deserve what you get.

It is much like a hard-core raver taking a wander in the desert and swallowing a handful of ecstasy.

I think the girl who cuts my hair is on her period. She smells like it.

That's all I have to say today.

I'm horny and want to jerk off now.

*BANANAS*

2007-09-04T01:02:00.001-07:00

What is wrong with you people?

By: Peemil.

Pooh. Merciless corporate raider and enslaver of bees, or promiscuous slut, dipping his bits in lots of honey pots?

Disney has a lot to answer for, especially considering that I came on this thought when running it through the knuckles in the shower while attempting to think good thoughts about the girl at the fruit shop.

I like the girl at the fruit shop. She smiles, winks and gives me my apple for morning tea.

What bear ever did that for me? Most would just try to rip off my head and suck the goo out from inside.

Walt and his minions are cunts.

2007-09-03T01:15:00.000-07:00

Cotton tips in a clown's eyes.

By: Peemil.

I'm listening to Mozart's Requiem Mass, because it is a perfectly imperfect piece of music. It is a tribute to the maxim that "You ought to get stuck into whatever you're doing you lazy sod, because you never know when you are going to take ill and die."

It also helps me imagine disabled fat midgets in wheelchairs pushing themselves across a cratered no man's land into a nest of machine guns, which contrary to popular opinion, gives me much pause for thought.

When I was at work today my boss was talking to his wife and I was muttering about something.

"I'll see you when I get home honey," he said, "the angry giant is about to lose his top."

When he got of the phone I told him that I wasn't going to "lose my top," and was well under control. This, he reckons, I'll just let simmer for a while, but sooner or later, I'll have to let it out.

I'm the first one to admit that I do lose my nut on the odd and very irregular occasion. One coffee, two fucking sugars. What the fuck is that shit? I thought that fucking rule was well and fucking correct. What dozy fucking lesbian, left wing, town trollop of a second grade teacher told me that one? Filthy mole. Ought to be hung up on a hook by the vagina and whipped by everyone in town.

When I was at the lights a few days the woman near me and I reached for the button for the little green man at the same time.

"I'll get that for you," I said, trying to be charming.

"Thanks" she said with a stuck up air.

"Well if you're going to be like that, I'll just fucking throw you in front of a fucking truck."

Fuck.

2007-08-29T19:03:00.000-07:00

I want to eat a sandwich and have a nap now.

By: Peemil.

Women seem to think that they ought to be given a medal for laying on their backs and getting fucked.

Most gay men also think that they ought to get a medal for laying on their fronts and getting fucked. However, the difference between the two acts is that only one has the chance of leading to procreation of the species.

Sometime during the rule of the Nazi party in Germany, women were given medals for how many children they could pop out. This was a system of control, and it worked well. The Nazis, despite all their evil, could at least keep their damn women under control.

These days though, they get three wheeled baby buggies- Which seems a bit more practical, but not as shiny.

They also, at least in Australia, get a big wad of cash from the Government. Which pays for the baby buggies. This is like the Government telling women that they better get their pants off, spread their legs and fuck all and sundry.

This is because women will do anything for money. For a woman, money= I can buy stuff. For a man, money= I can buy women. The system is sick like that.

See, a man doesn't care what state he lives in, as long as there is beer and condiments for a sandwich in the fridge, and the possibility of sex.

Women on the other hand, need to fill their lives with shit. It is constant consumerism on a grand scale. Three billion women everyday, out there, laying on their backs for money, sucking all nature of dick, so that they can go on shopping sprees to placate their vacuous minds, and sooth their sore cunts.

Women are the cause of all the environmental ills in the world. They are the ones who built the factories in China. They are the ones who fill the streams with pollutants and drive the economy, in which men, the slaves, work to get money, to give to women, so they can go out shopping for goofy Paris Hilton glasses and boxes of Tampax.

Free yourself men from your slavery and stab the nearest woman in the throat.

Especially Grandma. Those bitches will do anything for money. I saw that on the Internet.

2007-08-01T03:13:00.000-07:00

What the donkey saw through the keyhole.

By: Peemil.

Seven months ago, or about that, there was a knock on the door.

The rational thing to do at this point would be to answer it after asking various questions, such as, "Who are you?" "What do you want?" "Did you bring something to eat or drink?" and, "Do I have to put on any clothes?"

Being the irrational soul that I am, I generally take the least expected course of action. So, rather than answer the door, I took the next best step and grabbed a bag of clothes and Igor, climbed out the window, and hid under the house.

After a few days in the dirt with only the mains water tap to amuse me, I realised that not only was this course of action hasty, it was making me rather smelly.

So back through the window I climbed to ponder what I was to do with the rest of my days.

The last seven months have been interesting and I want to start talking again.

I'll see you all on Tuesday.

2006-11-12T02:16:00.000-08:00

Let's federate them.

By: The fingers on the keyboard.

I'll be back soon enough. Final exam tomorrow. Feeling confident.

In the meantime. What the fuck is it with this country and mustaches?

Photo from article.

2006-10-30T01:56:00.000-08:00

So long, so far, so far, banana.

By: Peemil.

Why do I always address myself as "we?"

Because he tells me to.

I'm coming for you and there is nothing these chipmunks can say that will change my mind.

2006-10-09T03:38:00.000-07:00

The retarded person in the shopping trolley is making me uncomfortable.

By: Peemil.

1. The voices have stopped. I think they may have gone somewhere. I'm not going to go looking for them this time, no matter how alone I feel.

2. With the Internet and the way those pesky kids keep fucking around with perfectly good grammatical conventions, the English language isn't going to be the same in two hundred years. I'm not sure what it will sound like, or what it will look like, but what I am sure of is this. People probably won't say, "That is complete and utter bollocks," as often as they do now. Unless of course, they had to listen to the tripe that this old bag was waffling on about to me today.

3. I had this woman once. She came on to me in a club. We went home and had sex.

Then she started coming around more often and having more sex.

I was happy with the arrangement as she was a nice girl.

When we had sex, she used to moan really loudly.

One day she left me for the neighbour on the other side of the wall behind my bed.

Soon she stopped coming around and started moaning and hanging around at the neighbour's house.

She came over to visit me.

She told me that the purpose of her picking me up and having sex with me was because she wanted to get close to the neighbour, and turn him on with her gasping and what-not.

"Surely there are easier ways to ask someone out than having sex with me?" I asked her.

They stayed together for a long time.

I still had three months left on my lease.

5. You know how in books how when one of the characters runs another over with their car, it is always described as a "sickening crunch?" Well, they're right.

6. I once rode over a cat on my motorbike. It was a hell of a shot and got him clean across the head.

What I learned from this experience is this. Always wear boots when riding, and secondly, cleaning cat brains off your feet isn't as fun as it sounds.

7. Why does my toilet cleaner smell like roses? What type of moron puts roses in their toilet?

2006-10-08T01:36:00.000-07:00

Everyone must have a hero.

By: The fingers on the keyboard.

2006-10-07T01:59:00.000-07:00

Abstract conceptions of class consciousness and you.

By: Peemil.

My brother and I were having a yarn a few days ago, and he told me that he had a ticket in this week's lottery.

"If you hit it big, you ought to give me some of the bounty," I said.

"That's depends. What would you do with it?" he asked.

"I'd do one of two things. I'd either eat so much that I put on two hundred kilos- so fat that I'd have my belly hanging around my knees- then, I'd get a hooker and have her blow me on the toilet while I expel ten pounds of curry from my arse, and, as she fought for dear life trying to hold up my ample stomach and the noxious fumes coming out of my severely tortured bowels, I'd laugh like a demented man. I'd film it too, just for the sake of posterity. Or," I continued, "I'd fly to China, buy a panda, take it to Tiananmen square, pay some poor deluded woman to have it fuck her, and then, when it was done with her, I'd shoot the black and white abhorrence in the back of the head in front of a crowd of stunned on-lookers."

"Well, I suppose it's a good thing that I probably won't win then," my brother replied as his fiancee called the local hospital to tell them that I was having another one of my attacks again.

Above: Like a duck, its head can be held underwater. However, only a duck will come back up and say "quack."

2006-10-06T04:03:00.000-07:00

It's time to eat.

By: Peemil.

While I sit here and type, my dinner is supposed to be just about cooked, but some stupid cunt, mainly I, completely and utterly forgot to turn the fucking oven on after putting in tonight's dinner- Macaroni and cheese with bacon and Italian tomatoes, all mixed up all good and proper.

But you have to cook it in the oven really slowly and serve it with a nice big strip of crispy bacon on the top. And therefore, as I am a stupid pillock, I will be up waiting a few more hours for it to cook yet.

You ought to chuck some cheese in there with the mix. Good stuff, not shitty stuff.

And some butter.

Fuck it. Oregano is a nice way to do things. Just a little bit, cause no one wants to gag. Salt, pepper and a touch of chilli.

Got any sundried tomatoes? Take those bastards out and make a salad real quick. Just those and some onion, a bit of lettuce, some chunks of brie and a little olive oil.

Fuck I'm hungry. Going in and out of the kitchen and writing this shit is just extending my appetite.

Appetite for Destruction was a half decent album wasn't it? I like "My Michelle" and "Rocket Queen."

I oughta have another drink. Tally ho!

Too much beer.

And have some bread and butter. Real butter too. Not that half arsed shit. Proper fucking butter. What type of people eat anything low fat? Work your guts out all day and you don't need to fucking worry about low fat shit.

Pick something up. Think like a donkey.

I told someone recently that I'm coming back as a donkey in the next life.

"Why?" she asked.

"Because I like carrying stuff, am a stubborn bastard, and want to kick people when they get too close."

"Like fuck," she replied. "I am the ant mother and will conquer you puny humans with my galactic army. You shall never be resurrected as a donkey!"

"That was an unexpected reply," I thought.

I have no idea what she was talking about. That really was a strange day.

Update: I not only have problems turning the oven on, but turning it off too.

I rose this morning to find the kitchen a trite warm.

It was a nice dinner though. And that crazy ant mother didn't get a bite of it.

Serves her right. Crazy bitch.

It's my right to come back as a donkey.

Surely there's an organization that will take up my cause?

Above: Hide the picnic. They're coming for us.

2006-10-03T03:36:00.000-07:00

Peemil's Directive for a Better World:
No. 3563-A. Sub-section B.

By: Peemil.

This post is directed towards those women who may be reading this. I sincerely doubt that there are many out there still reading this drivel, but for those who are, firstly, consider treatment at a mental health facility, and secondly, follow the following rule as I have spoken in your daily lives.

In the first instance, understand this simple reality. Subtlety doesn't go along way when dealing with a man's mind. A sly smile, an engaged conversation or some lingering glances all mean absolute bollocks to men.

Instead, if you care for the company of a male, cut through the impossible carry-on, and instead, present yourselves.

Yes, present yourselves. Turn your back to us, bend over, pull down your pants and expose yourselves to us.

In this manner, everyone knows exactly what is going on, and like in the animal kingdom, the chances are that many males will mount you and give you a good pounding.

Hence, you make the world a better place and don't leave miserable schmucks like me flabbergasted at the revelation that you've been trying it on for the past three months and have given up because I'm "the most clueless man" they've "ever met."

Why is it so difficult with you women?

Above: "Baa..." A Kiwi mans' wet dream.

2006-10-01T01:58:00.000-07:00

Humbug and shit.

By: Peemil.

Dear God,

If you, and that long haired cunt also known as Jesus, stop colluding against me, I promise to stop telling people that you ought to have your omnipotent balls squeezed in an even more omnipotent vice till they pop.

It's a fair trade cunt features.

Yours,

Peemil.

Above: Miserable old bastard.

2006-09-28T04:11:00.000-07:00

Answer this advertisement now, and God won't smite you down.

By: Peemil.

Chocolate sprinkles are real hoity nosh aren't they?

A well known food critic- I fail to remember who- once called them the "Caviar of the Dessert World."

Although in this instance, they are entirely correct, food critics generally say alot that is complete bollocks. In general too, they are gay. Much like chefs.

I'm not sure about the sexuality of TV chef and all-round wanker, Jamie Oliver, but I'm sure he has probably stuck it in the brown pie in the kitchen. Or maybe the attic? Wherever it was, I'm sure there was a deep fryer there.

For those who are scratching their heads and wondering what type of people have deep fryers in their attics- I'd counter with this. Only smart people have deep fryers in their attics, so therefore, not being part of this exclusive club, you are now technically a stupid pillock. Why not do us all a favour and head out the back to top yourselves for not realising that there may come a time that you will want a fry up of wedges and sour cream, or your grandfather's ashes next time your poking around looking for clothing that went out of fashion twenty years ago for a fancy dress party?

Regardless of the state of your intelligence and attic, what Jamie Oliver proves is the eternal maxim: "It doesn't need to smell of fish to be a cunt."

I don't think, being a cunt, that Jamie Oliver would be too keen on chocolate sprinkles.

I'm sure he'd make up some bullshit about grating up some chocolate he bought from an obscure, wankey shop that is the feces of a Belgian man, force fed cocoa, chocolate and milk, and then hand moulded into something they can sell for an outlandishly exuberant price in some upscale shop, with terrible house music on the P.A, and some guy behind the counter called, "Ray Ray the Gay Gay."

Personally, I've always wanted to see a naked woman, with a bottle of schnapps up her arse, rolling around on a bed of chocolate sprinkles.

A quick Google search reveals that it maybe a while.

Maybe if I wrote to Christina Ricci she might do it for me? Or at least do it and send me the photos?

I don't like my chances though. She still hasn't written back from the last letter I sent her.

I think she'd probably be concerned about chocolate sprinkles getting into her nether-regions.

Probably not the schnapps bottle though. I'm holding out that she's real kinky like that.

Above: Chocolate sprinkles before they race for the ovum.

2006-09-27T02:05:00.001-07:00

The chain of command.

By: Peemil.

Self-defence is important.

If a woman stabs a man in the balls with a pocket knife, like the crazy bitch in Battle Royale does to a chap who threatens her with a crossbow, and after a misfire which grazes the side of her face that sends her into a murderous rage, where she stabs the said poor bastard with a pocket knife right in the gonads after a tussle in a copse of trees; most try hard lesbian, feminist academics, who are intent on taking the fun out of bloody everything- for the sake of having everyone talking about the state of their cunts all day- would say that this is an appropriate reaction for a woman, oppressed by a patriarchal society, emasculating the oppressive dominant discursive hegemony.

What complete and utter cods!

The reason that she attacked him in that fashion, was that given her relative position to his body- on the ground, straddling his hips, face forward and away from him- this was the only reasonable attack that would guarantee disabling her enemy.

What was she supposed to do? Stab him in the thighs? Give him a few cuts on the calf? Or simply, give the poor confused bastard a pedicure with the tip of her pocket knife with a psychopathic grin on her face?

Maybe she should have just pulled out an Ipod, some battery powered portable speakers, and un-girdling him, sat down beside his cowering figure and played Kylie Minogue's "I believe in you," while clapping like a retard at a circus.

Although stabbing someone in the jewels lacks a certain class- A true psychopath would stab him once in the balls, and then would have leapt up, grabbed his hair in their fist and slit his trembling throat- attacking someone by repeatedly stabbing their nuts, is most undoubtedly, an efficient way to end any threatening situation.

Effective self-defense is the safest way to ensure that you, and the people you love are safe. And hence, there is no shame in crushing your enemy where they are weakest.

In the interest of self-defence, I will not only give you those previous wise words, but I will also supply you with a guide to climbing a clock tower to pick of civilians, in the interest of your own self-preservation.

The following is what you'll need.

Above: A Gewehr 43. Perfect for keeping those bastards at bay.

Above: An Uzi for when the bastards get too close.

Above: If you survive repeated attacks from law enforcement and eventually run out of ammunition, you'll need a meat cleaver. Because there is nothing that people expect least than someone jumping out from behind them in a well thought out trap to stab them in the back with great brutality.

Above: A teddy bear. Because they suggested all this, so it's only reasonable they come along for the ride. And let's face it, when the chips are down, you're probably going to need a cuddle.

2006-09-26T03:48:00.000-07:00

Killed by a falling hamster attached to a piano.

By: Peemil.

The Australian Women's Basketball Team, the Opals, reckon that their recent success at the World Basketball Championship, was due in part to the deaths of prominent public figures, Steve Irwin and Peter Brock.

I can see how the death of these two people, and the incessant media regurgitation about the deaths of two people, who but got their comeuppance, can result in throwing something around with great force.

And I should know. Thanks to that corporate scam, better known as Steve Irwin's funeral, I threw the television out the window.

Above: Every over hyped Australian media commodity was there to send off some twit who didn't know when to leave well enough alone.

Above: Even the Wiggles were there, because, as we all know, the opinion of someone who dons bright clothing and prances around on a stage singing about a bloody dinosaur, outside of a mental institution, is extremely important.

Of course though, if you disagree with the line and fail to nod in time, you are somehow being "un-Australian." As if somehow, being Australian meant that you had to give up any semblance of individuality and fall in with the rest of the goose steppers.

This crap that has surrounded Irwin and Brock is symptomatic of a false consciousness of Australianism. We are being fed this Irwinian nightmare, and others like it, by a media that is implicitly controlled by the interests of corporate dogs and governmental swine, so that the great mass of people won't notice when the very rights that we hold to be a part of "the Australian condition," are snatched away by rich corporofascists, so they can build the submissive and enslaved Australia of tomorrow.

In short, I do not recognise any authority, except that of the Great Leader, Basil Brush.

Above: I kneel before you my Imperial Overlord.

2006-09-25T02:05:00.000-07:00

A haze of satisfaction.

By: Peemil.

The truly rich are cunts. Arrogant, miserable and sad cunts. It's good that you don't meet these people everyday, as you may find yourself on multiple murder charges.

Luckily though, they usually don't bother themselves with pathetic pleb scum, and instead, lock themselves up in their high tower harems- As we all wish we could.

In their place though, they buy, with an extension of credit, a pretentious army of cunts to perpetuate their views and to vote "correctly." Yep. The fucking middle class.

Here is what should be done.

Above: Die.

Above: Die.

Above: Die.

Above: Die.

Above: Die.

Above: Fucking burn you cunt! You must all die!

2006-09-19T04:00:00.000-07:00

And my name is "Hippo Surprise."

By: Peemil.

You'd think that I'd been busy doing something really important?

But I haven't. I've been addicted to playing Call of Duty II online.

This game is like smack and I think it is time I got off the horse.

See you tomorrow.

Above: Even now I want to play it.

2006-09-03T03:01:00.000-07:00

And the theme music would be "Ride of the Valkyries."

By: Peemil.

I dropped in to see my brother and his fiancee on the way home from work tonight.

Sitting in their lounge room I enjoyed a hot cup of milo, a cigarette and their company.

The subject of their future wedding came up, and I told them of my plans for their special day.

As I've stated before, I consider the fact that the chances of me procreating with a woman, or the chance of ever meeting a woman who gets it after the first line, let alone wedding me in my deranged and quite possibly "needs to be hospitalised state," are slim to nil. Therefore, the way I see it, being the eldest of the family, and charged with continuing the family name, that given these circumstances, I am entitled to a 25% share in what happens in my brother's and his bride to be's wedded and procreative life.

"When we have the wedding, I'm going to dress up in a purple suit, with three quarter purple shorts, orange socks and ugg boots. That'd be great. People would be looking at your wedding photos- maybe they'd be single and female, and would be so interested in 'that guy,' that they'd ask you for my phone number- Which you'd give them."

"Uh huh..." my brother's fiancee replied.

"And- You could have the wedding in a meatworks. Preferably the slaughter room with many cows being killed while the ceremony went on around it all. There's not too many people who could say that has been their wedding."

"Uh huh..."

"You'd have a story to tell people too. 'So there we are, getting ready to give our vows and this cow gets away from one of the slaughtermen, and runs over all our guests.' Absolute hilarity it is."

"Brilliant!" my brother exclaimed. "And afterwards we could have a fresh feed of steak at the reception out in the packing room."

My brother's fiancee was none too impressed with my ideas and insisted that I "stop putting ideas into his head, and piss off home and do my damn assignment."

Now that I've done my assignment, I'm just about to call her and tell her that we should change the venue and have it in a strip club, because it'd be nice to see some tits while it's going on, as that's all I ever think about anyhow.

25% entitles me to that at least.

2006-08-31T04:30:00.000-07:00

Skylark.

By: The fingers on the keyboard.

Astronomers say they have recorded a supernova - the death explosion of a massive star, typically only ever spotted days after the blast.

In studies published in the British journal Nature, four international teams of astronomers say the extraordinary blast was preceded by a short, sharp burst of gamma rays.

They say the recording provides the first confirmation of a theory that supernovae follow an early warning signal of this kind. Article.

Above: Awesome.

A supernova (pl. supernovae) is a stellar explosion that produces an extremely bright object made of plasma that declines to invisibility over weeks or months. There are several different types of supernovae and two possible routes to their formation. A massive star may cease to generate fusion energy from fusing the nuclei of atoms in its core, and collapses under the force of its own gravity to form a neutron star or black hole. Article.

Above: Just imagine what havoc we could wreck upon this Earth if we could only harness that energy in its entirety. I can think of a few people I'd like to aim it at.

2006-08-30T00:39:00.000-07:00

That watermelon has a mind of its own.

By: Peemil.

The Government has decided that giving a five thousand dollar relocation allowance to the unemployed, so they may move to areas where their labour is needed, is a fair and reasonable idea.

My honest opinion is, that given the state of the economy, and the fact there is work everywhere, anyone who isn't working is a lazy cunt, and hence, the Government ought to save our money and institute slavery- Because that is the only way you are going to get these indolent pricks to work.

I also met a chap who told me that he had a bar through his penis. One of those- stick a hole in every part of your body- sort of chaps.

He told me that after he had the piercing done, it not only hurt, but he couldn't under the pain of causing severe damage, allow himself to have an erection for six months.

This of course led to much consternation, and after not being able to get down to the business, as these many piercing type of people are oft to do, he had to take up residence in a mental home.

I have two questions.

1. Why do that to yourself?

2. Why are you telling me?

It has finally rained properly over the past few days, and considering we've barely had a lick of it over the past few years, it is welcome.

It's not enough, but tomorrow everyone in this town will open their conversations with this line,

"Nice bit of rain- Could do with a bit more."

This will become tiresome eventually, and I think it is only natural that I start thinking of things to reply to people with. Here are a few I've thought of so far:

1. "Rain! Allah is saddened with us and covers us with his tears!"

2. "I ask for hot volcanic ash, and the Lord sends rain? Maybe if I praised him more through masturbation I would've got what I prayed for."

3. "Just be grateful it is water and not thousands of retards falling from the sky. Christ only knows what type of mess they'd make plummeting to Earth."

4. "To celebrate the rain, I'm going to dig a hole and put bodies in it."

5. "No, save your offers of casual sex and large amounts of cash for later. I, the Rain God, do not want to deal with such pointless exercises as I have a cheese, tomato, onion, leg ham, mustard and salt and pepper sandwich, a six pack of beer and something to read. Too, I'll take my nap on the yard lounge this afternoon, as the warmth will let me drift off quiet happily."

6. "Last night when I was under the bed with a flashlight, the monkey told me it was going to rain."

7. "Rain? If everyone in this town wasn't over 80, I'd suggest a wet t-shirt competition."

2006-08-29T13:50:00.000-07:00

Juicy jumper.

By: The fingers on the keyboard.

The fact that I don't receive a lot of e-mail doesn't worry me. I'm used to not being spoken to. In fact, I'm so good at being ignored, my last relationship was two and a half years of someone's complete ignorance of me. Hell, one year she neglected to remember my birthday, and instead went out to a concert with her ex-boyfriend. You know, you'd reckon after living with someone for all that time, that they'd be a bit more thoughtful. Another girlfriend once completely forgot about my birthday, till a few months later when she said, "Hey... I just remembered it was your birthday a few months ago. How did that go for you?" I mean honestly- We went to bed together that night and not even a birthday root. And people wonder why I hate women? It's really not difficult to be decent to your fellow human beings. Especially those that you profess to love. But really, I don't expect much more from the fairer sex these days.

No, what bothers me about the dearth of correspondence in my inbox, is that the only remaining mail is spam, and it is piss poor. For some reason lately, Jamba Juice, which coincidently is the name of a well hung black porn star, think I ought to have a drink on them after completing one of their surveys.

What I don't get is this: How are they supposed to put that fruit smoothie through the mail? It'd be ruined by the time it arrived here.

Above: Mushy in the mail.

2006-08-29T03:30:00.000-07:00

A girl, her tears, a cat, and me.

By: Peemil.

It isn't unusual for women to cry around me. In fact, it is quite possible that if you are a woman and are reading this, you have already felt the tears welling up in your eyes. If you are a woman, and are a long time reader, you have probably wondered why everytime you read this blog, you feel the sudden urge to bawl. But now you know- It's because I made you.

The amount of women who cry around me is only second to the amount of women who run away screaming, and just ahead of those others who feel downright uncomfortable in my presence. But these sad facts are beside the point, and have only been given for the sake of full disclosure. I'm not going to behave like the Government and hide everything from you- Only my despicable face- But I'm sure that most of you will be grateful to never have to look upon it.

A woman decided tonight to have a cry in front of me, and after a little bit of probing, it turned out that it was about her cat.

Apparently, the feline is sick, and near death.

"Well that's no good. Chin up though- It can't be all that bad," I offered.

She replied with more tears.

"Look at it this way. You'll save some money on cat food if it dies. No point feeding a dead cat now is there?"

This, much to my surprise, pushed the lass over the edge and the pipes broke.

I don't understand women's emotions, nor do I understand their thought processes.

Why is she crying for the cat? It's only a cat and easily replaceable. Just wander into any pet store, or wait underneath a bridge for someone above to throw a bag of kittens into the river. Cats are like Germans. They're arrogant, moody, like to start wars, have peculiar sexual and grooming habits, and can often be found tied up under a bridge. Don't ask- It'll be on the news soon enough.

Having not finished digging my hole, I suggested to the crying woman that now is a good time to consider buying a new cat. This time though, she "ought not get one that is so sickly and a cause of large vet bills." This just brought on more tears.

To me, and for men in general, this doesn't make any sense. Why cry at something that can be fixed or rectified? But we are dealing with a woman's mind here, and that is an infinite bloody mystery.

I understand that men cry sometimes. But this is only done in extreme circumstances. In fact, only two circumstances warrant a man crying. Firstly, when all avenues of hope have been exhausted- Like at the death of a loved family member, or something of the like. If no amount of rigging Mum up to jumper leads and the car battery is going to help, then now is the time for a man to start crying. Secondly, when a man drops a carton of beer on the front steps because they were too busy day dreaming about what it'd be like if the town was attacked by a flock of carnivorous griffins, then it is ok for a man to cry.

It's like I said to the replacement beer that I bought- and am still angry at, because it will never be half of what it's fallen comrades on the stairs were- when I got home this evening.

"You know what I love about you beer? I understand you, you don't smell like fish, you don't leak fluid, and you don't bloody bleed and whine."

2006-08-23T12:47:00.000-07:00

A quickish note.

By: The fingers on the keyboard.

Three hundred and twelve dollars and forty five cents for a power bill?

Well then, that's the last time I use the oven as a heater.

Where am I? Sick. This annoys me immensely as it puts the brakes on the entire system.

I'm also currently interested in a woman, which, for those of you who read this religiously, is nothing short of a miracle.

I met this girl who swims in the pool every morning at the gym, and for the first time in a year, had to stifle an erection while gazing at her through the glassed door to the pool.

Thankfully, our relationship has developed from a sick and perverted one way staring competition, to actual interaction.

She is pretty, well spoken, intelligent and likes a lot of things that I like. This is disappointing, as all my relationships and girlfriends have had one thing in common- We have had nothing in common at all, and hence, spend most of the time wondering what the fuck we are doing with each other. Therefore, this entire thing is bound to never start, because it doesn't directly correlate with past experiences. It's pure empirical science for Christ's sake!

She says I'm funny and make her laugh. If only she knew that it's not hard to trip over yourself and fall head first into the pool because you were too busy trying to cop a look at a nice set of jugs without getting caught, then maybe she wouldn't be so easy with the compliments.

I really want to touch those jiggly bits though, so maybe I won't tell her? Or maybe I will? I'm sure she'll see the funny side.

Now I'm sick though, and no one wants me coughing all over them, so I'm not going to the gym this week. By the time I return though, she will probably have forgotten all about me. That is easy to do, so I forgive her for that.

I suppose it is all for the best- If I'd gone any further, there was only disappointment waiting. At least this way, I don't have to deal with any of that.

It's like I said to the boss at work a few weeks ago. "It's better to be pessimistic and right, than optimistic and disappointed." He laughed and said that I was a strange one.

So there you have it- I'm now going to snort, cough and fart at work for the day. Maybe that way I can spread some misery. Maybe, just maybe, some old geezer with a congenital lung defect can pick up this flu, die, and the entire universe can be back in karmic equilibrium.

2006-08-15T11:45:00.000-07:00

My birthday.

By: Peemil.

It is my birthday today.

Today, like every other day for the rest of my life, I will be producing sperm.

Thank you for your time.

Above: Jizz.

2006-08-15T03:55:00.000-07:00

A future indenture.

By: Peemil.

I went up to the university today to hand in my first assignment for the semester.

It was a doddle to write, and I'm hoping for a good mark to get the semester off to a good start. Failing that, I'll carry through with my threat to put a hamster in a blender, as I wrote to the marker in my cover letter.

I study externally, so that I don't need to go to any classes or deal with people. I like it that way. If I lived in a perfect world, I wouldn't deal with any of you, and would live somewhere secluded.

It wouldn't be the desert, because I don't want scorching heat, and I can only imagine what it's like to keep sand out of your crutch and out of the house. The jungle is out, because let's face it, I can't live in a place where the humble monkey rules the roost. I'd like a temperate climate. Maybe a cave, but better still, a small shack in a grove.

In this perfect world, I still haven't decided whether I'd want to bring a woman with me. I don't think I could really handle the nagging and the daft questions she'd inevitably ask me on the porch of my shack, like, "If you were left on a desert island, and could only have one type of sandwich, which one would it be?" I mean honestly, who gives a fuck? If you're trapped on a desert island, the last thing you're going to be worried about is whether you can get some sun dried tomatoes and a cut of ham.

A woman's ability to rag constantly on a man still gives me much cause for concern. It's like they've been programmed with an automatic bitch and moan button that has been stuck in since they popped out.

A woman on a motorbike behind me at the lights today rode up next to me and remarked that my indicator was on, and that if I proceeded in that direction, I'd ride through the local park.

"And..." I replied.

"You can't do that."

"Who the fuck do you think you are?" I spat angrily.

"I'm just trying to help."

You see, that is the problem with women. It's all about trying to help so they can feed some sick desire for changing the intimate details of somebody. It's bullshit pyschology on a macro basis and feeds that warm gushing feeling between their legs.

Men don't do that. In the old days, we didn't worry about changing anything, we'd just get on a boat, land in a strange country and then proceed to rape, pillage, burn and murder everyone and everything in sight.

This behaviour is what makes men more efficient, and in the end, better than women. While men go out and enforce their rage on a group or an individual in one foul burst, and then sit down and have a few cold beers, women spend an eternity picking away at something in what can be only described as a cold and torturous elation.

I can only imagine how lesbians get along. It must be something akin to a drawn out period of psychological mutual masturbation with barbed wire.

When I lay in bed at night I dream of the day when I can exact my vengeance on the world and the people in it. When the walls of society come down, I will make you all breathe your last at the end of my knife.

Maybe I'll do it in a clown suit, or maybe a viking costume. I still haven't decided. But be sure of this, you won't be giggling or talking shit when I gut you like the pigs you all are.

In the mean time though, I'm off to eat some chili and to think something through.

2006-08-12T00:46:00.000-07:00

Heavy girl, likes stuff.

By: Peemil.

2006-08-10T03:55:00.000-07:00

It is time we get away.

By: Peemil.

"Why don't you close up the shop and come back to my place?" said a pretty good looking woman in her early 30's to me at work.

"We could, but I've got a sandwich here, the abridged version of Manning Clark's 'History of Australia,' and after that I might just sit down, have a think about things and watch the clouds out the window."

The conversation turned abruptly silent and the woman left.

Later while I was sitting down thinking about it, I think maybe she was coming on to me?

Probably not though. She probably just wanted me to mow her lawn, rake up some leaves, unplug a drain or fix the toilet. That's all they ever want.

Women haven't got a clue.

In other news, anything that keeps British tourists at home over their mournful and quiet pathetic attempt at summer, is fine by me.

Above: The world doesn't need anymore of your loose women.

2006-08-08T03:50:00.000-07:00

Hot female members of Parliament- An occasional series when I get around to it.

By: Peemil.

It's hard not to notice the Honorable Member for Adelaide Ms Kate Ellis, who is regularly in camera shot on the televised sittings of the House of Representatives.

Although the photos below don't do her justice- may I suggest a nude photo shoot to increase the amount of images of you on the net?- I'd like you to know that I'm considering moving to Adelaide just so I can vote for your sexiness, despite the fact that I despise churches and Adelaide is quite possibly the most boring city in the world.

I'm watching you.

Kisses,

Peemil.

Above: It's hard to keep my hands out of my pants when I'm watching Parliament.

Above: We don't have to have sex, just tell me about policy decisions and that'll get me off.

Update:

To The Honorable Ms Kate Ellis MP,

I watched you in Parliament again today.

You looked dishevelled, and none to happy. No matter, I still love you.

Maybe you saw what I wrote and was scared.

Don't be scared. You and I are meant to be together.

I made this artist's representation of what you and I would look like together.

I hope you like it.

Kisses,

Peemil.

Above: A happy couple.

2006-08-06T23:57:00.000-07:00

Discharge.

By: Peemil.

"I wonder if black people ever don white gloves and creep into an old woman's bedroom in the dead of night and smile, so when the old sow wakes up all she sees is two hands and a big grin floating in the air, and then promptly keels over from a major heart attack?" I asked the strange woman while she was trying to make a call in a public phone booth.

"That's so racist," she replied.

No it's not. That is a legitimate question. I'd kill to be able to do that.

Above: Spooky.

2006-08-06T12:48:00.000-07:00

A shining tomorrow.

By: The fingers on the keyboard.

I was standing outside having a cigarette on the street a few days ago, when an obese woman passed me, brushing imaginary fumes away from her delicate nose, and as she passed she said to me, "That's so disgusting."

"Shut your hole you fat bitch," I replied.

I know it is far from one of my wittiest replies, but it served its intended purpose.

Turning to me, she let off a tirade, which included such gems as "How dare you judge me?" "You ought keep your mouth shut," and the Koh-i-Noor, "Don't criticise me."

I was content to ride out her virulent waffling, as in a case like this, allowing your enemy enough rope while remaining silent, is always the best course of action. And let's face it, everyone always thinks the fatties are quite mad- Too much fried chicken skin on the brain and all that.

Much has been made of the debate regarding smoking, and the current "obesity crisis," and it is not my intention to add to it here.

What bothers me in both cases is this creeping paternalism from governments, N.G.Os and lobby groups with the general populace the police officers to their dictum.

Where did we, as a society, come to the conclusion that it was our duty to comment on the behaviour of others? That somehow, we were all the keepers of each other?

This is hypocrisy at its finest. How someone can live in a selfish society, geared towards individual gain at the expense of the collective, and yet, still lambast others for perceived slights which they judge as wrong against the whole, and still face the mirror with a straight face, is beyond my imagination.

It's like the neighbour across the street who take photos of bogans burning rubber in their cars as they come out of an adjoining street, and then hands the photos into the police. What does it matter to him? Who gave him a badge and told him to keep public order? No one did- He's just being a self-righteous prick.

I'll be honest. I don't give a flying fuck about any of you. To me, you are scum, not worthy of my time or my concern. If tomorrow, everyone in the world magically disappeared, I'd shrug nonchalantly, go across to my neighbour's house, wank into his pool, raid his liquor cabinet, take his expensive European car and then take it bush bashing.

To those of you who are offended at the previous statement, and need further clarification, consider this. Much has been written about the socially dislocating effects of living in modern society. It is a lonely place to be, and hence, for me it doesn't matter if you cunts are either here, or have been zapped by some irradiating ray gun from the heavens. It's that simple, and the only difference between the two worlds is that without you mob, I might be able to get a little bit of peace and quiet, and I'll be able to get away with a whole lot more shit than I am currently getting away with.

Those who put their faith in friends and family are usually the first to say, "It'd be a lonely place."

I'd counter with this. Friends and family are the vestiges of fools. In a place so selfishly self-centred you cannot trust anyone. That goes especially for people who supposedly tell you they're your friends, your family, and doubly for girlfriends, boyfriends, wives or husbands. The latter grouping should never be trusted, as they are often the ones you least expect to sink the knife into your side.

The reason you least expect them to stick you is simple. Sex. Sex is a means of nature to cloud the mind. By engaging in intercourse with another human being, you are giving up your trust and placing it in someone, who has their own agenda which you cannot control.

The more you fuck someone, the more trust you are placing in them. Hence, over time, people do stupid things like stay with the same person, tell them everything they need to know to crush them underfoot, and even more bizarrely, get married and profess their undying love.

People do this for a number of reasons, the most popular one is that it is nice to have someone who knows you from top to tail. This is absolute madness. Do you give the enemy information about your positions and invite them to attack at dawn? No. Then stop telling people anything. They are the enemy, they cannot be trusted, and they must be wiped off the face of the Earth. Always remember, that the person next to you has a mask over their true nature, and it is always better to kill them before they kill you. It is just the way things are.

By not caring about anyone, keeping your mouth shut about a person's behaviour in public life, and ignoring their cries for mercy, you absolve yourself of any responsibility towards them, and finally free yourself from the shackles that is this modern society.

2006-08-06T01:42:00.000-07:00

H.C.T.

By: Peemil.

For the past few months, I have been stalked by two gentleman in Hawaiian shirts. You can forget the idea of dark men in suits and sunglasses, as this is erroneous. They don't dress like that anymore, as it attracts attention, and instead they prefer to blend in. The lesson here is to firstly keep your eyes open, and secondly, to never trust anyone in a Hawaiian shirt in a small inland town on top of a range.

Every where I go, I find them waiting up the road for me, following me around the supermarket aisle, or asleep in their car outside my front door.

In the first instance I became tired with this arrangement and confronted them.

"Fancy a cup of tea?" I bellowed from the front porch. They responded by raising their newspapers to cover their faces and slumped further into their car seats.

"Fine then. Fuck ya then. Don't say I didn't offer."

Imagine my surprise then, when only five minutes later I heard someone knock on the door.

"Have you still got some hot water? Would you mind if we refilled the thermos?"

"No worries," I replied.

As the agent refilled his thermos with hot water and a few tea bags, his partner burst through the door.

"I can't fucking hold it any longer," he exclaimed. "Can I use the toilet?" he said addressing me.

"Sure you can. It's in there," I said pointing towards the bathroom.

As the agent and I stood in the kitchen listening to the moans of his partner from the bathroom as he expelled what sounded like fifteen cups of strong tea from his bladder, we had time to chat.

"Shit of a job yours?" I said.
"It's not too bad," he replied. "The benefits are good. Only thing is, it takes you away from your family for long periods."
"That has to hurt," I ventured.
"Doesn't worry me. I'm divorced. It's my partner who feels it the most. Recently married and with a child on the way."

The toilet had been flushed. His partner came back into the kitchen with a look of relief only known to those who have had a pineapple removed from their back passage.

"Feel better?" I inquired.
"Much. Thanks for that."
"Oh well. We must be off, thanks for the water and the use of your bathroom," one of the agents said.
"Listen fellas. Before you go, do yourselves a favour and think outside the box," I said as we exchanged cheery waves.
"We'll keep that in mind," one of them replied as I closed the door behind them.

This was to be the only time that I've interacted with the Government agents on a personal level, and over time they have become a hindrance to my activities.

After being pulled over by the police recently for speeding while on a mission for the organisation, I was asked by the officer why I was hooning down the street at break neck speeds.

"I have to lose the Government agents in Hawaiian shirts who are chasing me. It is imperative that I pick up the package for the organisation before the end of the day."

He raised his eyebrows.

"Look in the car behind me," I implored pointing to the two agents who had pulled up about fifty metres behind me.

"I see," he said.

I saw the agent behind the wheel nod to the police officer.

"Listen. I'm going to let you off with a warning this time. Next time, keep off the sidewalk and stop chasing old women using walkers."

The police officer waved me on, and I continued on my way eventually losing the agents in some back streets. After leaving the bike hidden, I changed clothes and acquired a scooter from a helpful citizen who agreed to the exchange with a terrified, "Whatever you want man. Just don't kill me."

"Don't worry mate," I said as I drove off. "Just stay here, keep your mouth shut and I'll bring it back for you soon enough. Important business for the organisation."

After navigating my way out of town, I realised that my current transport wasn't going to cut the butter, as the end part of the journey involved a trip over farm land. "Why didn't I take a dirt bike?" I asked myself speaking aloud.

"Yes a dirt bike."

I stopped the scooter, got off and got down on my knees. Raising my arms to the heavens, I shouted "Why!"

God must of been with me that day, for a family in a new SUV were heading up the road towards me.

Standing in the centre of the road, I motioned for it to stop.

"What is the meaning of this?" the driver asked impetuously as I approached the driver's side window.

"No time to explain," I replied as I reached through the driver's open window, grabbed the back of his head and slammed it repeatedly into the steering wheel.

Quickly, I opened the door and dragged his unconscious body out of the cabin and jumped in behind the wheel. Locating the over-ride controls for the door locks, they went down with a pronounced "clunk."

"Now. There's nothing to be scared of," I said turning to his wife and children. "Daddy has taken a hit for the organisation, and he'll be fine when he wakes up."

Flooring the accelerator I took the SUV off the road, through a farm fence and up the side of a hill.

"Hold on kids, this is going to be a bumpy ride," I tried reassuring them over their screams.

They eventually calmed down, their screams becoming nervous shakes.

"What do you want? Take whatever you want, please just spare the children," the wife uttered.

"A sandwich," I replied.

"Huh..."

"A sandwich my dear. I'd like a sandwich."

Turning in her seat she asked one of the children to search through a cooler for a sandwich.

"Which one does he want?" the child asked.

"'He' has a name," I replied. "Peemil would like a ham, cheese and tomato sandwich-if at all possible."

The child passed the sandwich to his mother, and after unwrapping the baking wrap around it, she handed it to me.

It was hard to stifle the lump in my throat as I took a bite out of the tasty food. I've never asked much from a woman, only that she make me a sandwich occasionally, do a bit of housework, and sometimes buy me a beer.

Unfortunately, most of them have been too concerned with power plays, silly games and sex power trips as a means to get what they want. Had they just figured out that all they need to do is put some meat, a bit of cheese and a couple of slices of tomato between bread, they would have found out that I'll do whatever is asked of me. Alas though, that is the nature of modern woman.

"Don't suppose you've got a beer back there too?"

"Sweetheart, get the man- I'm sorry- Peemil a beer from the cooler would you?"

Again the child passed a beer to his mother, she opened it and handed it to me.

"Nearly perfect," I thought.

"Say, this dash is looking a bit dusty," I said.

Quickly the wife opened up the glove compartment and took out a dusting rag, some dashboard cleaner, and began furtively spraying and wiping.

For a second, I felt contentment, only to have it replaced with an alarming sense of guilt.

Grabbing the spray bottle and rag, I threw it, along with the sandwich and beer out the window.

"It isn't right when you're shaking so," I told the stunned wife. "Don't worry, no one is going to hurt you, or your children. The fact is, you're going to a better place" I continued saying as I gunned the accelerator and parted a herd of wandering cattle.

"Disneyland?" one of the children said from the backseat.

"Yes, Disneyland," I replied. Turning to his mother I continued. "Smart kid you've got there."

She nodded in agreement and tried to smile.

Over twenty kilometres we travelled through hilly farm land, till finally we reached our destination.

"We must wait here till we are contacted by the mother ship at sunset. You all might as well get some rest."

We waited for a few hours, with the children eventually nodding off to sleep.

"Please don't kill us," the wife asked of me.

"I'm not going to kill you. Neither are they. In time, everything will be revealed."

"What is this mother ship?" she asked.

"It will take you, your children, and your husband back on the road away to a better place. Unfortunately, you got caught up in the organisation's plan and my duty to that."

"What are you talking about?"

"Don't worry about a thing. I wouldn't hurt you. You gave me a sandwich."

The radio crackled to life and a string of dots and dashes could be heard over the static.

"They're here. It's time to get moving. Wake the children and get out of the car."

As I opened the car door, the distinct hum of the mother ship could be heard above us. Huge in structure, it hovered slowly down towards us.

"What the hell is that?" the wife asked staring at it.

"Like I told you- It's the mother ship. Now be ready for beam up."

"Beam..." her words were cut short as a bright light surrounded her and the children.

The lights on the hull of the ship flashed a message in morse code, thanking me for my work, and next to me a package materialised.

And then, in a flash, they were headed into the stratosphere at light speed.

I picked up the package, opened the back door of the SUV, sat down amongst the belongings of the blessedly taken, opened the cooler behind me, and got out a sandwich.

"Ham, cheese and tomato," I mused.

As the night came over, and the stars came out, I sat silently and alone munching happily on food, drinking beer, thinking of a job well done, and of better days ahead.

2006-08-06T01:11:00.000-07:00

This is for Saturday.

By: The fingers on the keyboard.

I was having some R&R on Saturday and watching old episodes of my favourite television show.

Above: Bottom.

2006-08-04T04:14:00.000-07:00

Hanging isn't good enough for these clowns.

By: The fingers on the keyboard.

President Bush issued his first comments on the ailing Fidel Castro on Thursday stating, “I urge the Cuban people to work for democratic change on the island.”

“We will support you in your effort to build a transitional government in Cuba committed to democracy, and we will take note of those, in the current Cuban regime, who obstruct your desire for a free Cuba."

I wonder how that ends?

The commander of American forces in the Middle East bluntly warned a Senate committee on Thursday that sectarian violence in Iraq, especially in the capital, Baghdad, had grown so severe that the nation could slide toward civil war.

"Gen. John Abizaid, Commander of United States forces in the Middle East, right, Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld, center, and Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff Peter Pace, left, respond to questions during a hearing about the Iraq war on Capitol Hill."

"The commander, Gen. John P. Abizaid, also acknowledged that since the security situation remained so unstable, significant reductions in American forces were unlikely before the end of this year." Article.

Go for it Cuba. What have you got to lose?

Above: The author recognizes the general inefficacy of his argument, although, after a few years of American occupation, who knows what type of divisions can be wrought?

2006-08-02T11:18:00.000-07:00

Well, well, well.

By: The fingers on the keyboard.

The credit economy is a trap which many of us seem to blindly fall into. It is a cesspit of indentured servitude at the behest of the banks which is strangling those who haven't had the foresight to avoid it.

Over the years I've seen my friends take up easy credit with delighted glee for a sparkling new car, an overpriced home, or that nifty little toy that they just had to have. "Why shouldn't they?" they figure. "The economy is good, I've got a good job and everything is rosy."

And the economy has been good. It has been steadily growing, unemployment has gone down, inflation has been stable, and generally everything in Australia, and the world, has been travelling along well. In these types of condition then, it is easy to borrow against your future earnings.

A trick of the human mind though, is that it always clouds the reality of things- especially when things are apparently good. If it didn't, no one in their right mind would ever get married, nor would they ever get around to having children. I call this the "coital effect," and it extends not only to human interaction, but to the economy, and people's interaction within a western consumerist society.

Take this for example. All purchases outside of those needed to sustain life are based on desire alone. Rob goes and looks at cars and comes across one that excites him. His cock hardens as he browses the swank interior, his heart accelerates as he pops the bonnet and checks out the engine, but the reality strike home when he sees the price. Rob doesn't have forty thousand dollars, and hence, cannot purchase the vehicle.

In the corner of the lot is a banged up second hand car that will do the job asked of it, without the bells and whistles, and is well within his price range. Even if Rob secured a small loan, he could quickly have it paid off.

But the lure is to great. Checking once more that forty thousand dollars hasn't magically appeared in his wallet, Rob skips the reality of the situation and heads to a bank, who'll graciously give him the money.

Banks don't mind handing out money. It's their business. With each loan they gain another slave who'll have to part with a fraction of their pay cheque to service a loan, and to them, a person who has disposable income, is one who just hasn't heard of their new line of credit cards, or just hasn't thought about overpriced real estate.

Happily, Rob returns to the car yard with the bank's money and buys the car. Sitting in it he has a small pang of guilt. "This is too much," he thinks. But it is quickly brushed aside as he turns the key and thinks, "It's alright. Everything is well in the economy and I'll pay it back. I've still got some disposable income, so everything is fine."

Driving off the lot, Rob loses 25% of the car's value. Therefore, Rob has effectively taken ten thousand dollars and flushed it down the toilet. If your friends and family came into your house and saw you literally doing this, they'd think you completely off your trolley, but for the greater many of us, to lose money in this fashion is perfectly acceptable.

If Rob had bought the lesser of cars, he wouldn't have needed to worry about that, and what loss he would have taken, would have been an acceptable amount.

Rob still has some disposable income left over, but at the bank's insistence he takes out some credits cards and spends that immediately to satisfy his "needs."

He meets a woman and they get married. Rob and her decide to buy a house and find some more disposable income between the two of them to service yet another debt. They have a few children, and now, rather than having the right amount of money to support their spawn, they borrow more. Rob and his lovely wife are now living beyond their means.

But it doesn't end there. There is always more stuff to buy, a pool to put in the back yard, the car that Rob so stupidly bought is getting old and "needs" replacing, or the television needs upgrading to an obscenely sized LCD model. Rob and his wife haven't even paid that off their previous debts yet, but the bank is more than willing to hand out some more cash, adding to the previous loans.

Rob and his wife go to work every day, and when their pay cheques come in, it all goes right out the door again. They may have everything, but it isn't theirs. It belongs to the bank, and the bank owns it all until the debt is paid in its entirety.

If the bank decides tomorrow that it needs more cash, it will call in its debts first. That means that the bank will come knocking and tell you that it will be taking away your home, and anything else that it may have laying around that's theirs.

But people delude themselves and believe the bank's advertising schmaltz. It is your friend helping your reach your financial goals. Bullshit. The bank is there to make money, and if that means that they have to take your pay every week for interest payments, then it will do so. If that means that they have to take away what you "have," to make up for a short term loss in their cash flow, then they will do so without any qualm, regardless of how much you bitch and complain.

It says so right in the small print. But most people don't read the small print, in fact, most people don't read. It's too difficult, or takes up way too much of their precious time that they could be using to watch the latest reality television show, or browsing through the propaganda leaflets of consumerism lovingly placed into their letter boxes by faceless corporations.

The reason that small print is small, is because they hide everything in there, and when someone has something to hide, it is always in your best interest to find out exactly what that is.

But onwards we go. Slaves to the mechanics of the machine of consumerism and its lord and master, the credit giving banks.

Over the past few days the Australian media has been going quite nutty over the latest interest rate rise, decrying it, and asking how Australians- especially middle income and low income earners- are supposed to service their debts from their already strained pay packets.

Some commentators have been wondering how is this possible? The economy was doing so well, we were acquiring so much shit, and the party seemed like it was going to last forever.

The party never lasts forever. At some point, the lights come on, the door is opened and you need to file out into the cold light of day. All periods of great economic prosperity end with a loud thump as the bottom comes out. It is the nature of economic life. Markets get over zealous, consumers consume too much, prices inflate and it all goes pear shaped, amongst a myriad of other reasons.

Middle class and low income Australia. You've been living well outside your means for too long. The only people to benefit from your gluttony have been the banks, and the already rich who so lovingly sold you everything you could possibly have wanted. When this entire house of cards comes down, they will happily saunter off to wait for better tidings, while you will all starve.

It was only a matter of time really, and it needn't had happened if you'd only read between the lines and remembered the one simple rule: Always own the table that you eat from.

I have no sympathy for any of you. As far as I'm concerned, drown under the weight of your indolent and ignorant greed.

2006-08-02T01:42:00.000-07:00

Four choices?

By: The fingers on the keyboard.

In a recent post, I asked you the reader, to consider a simple proposition; "Peemil: Boxers, jockeys, a g-string, or commando?" Given the innumerable amount of comments, and my flooded inbox, women throughout the land have been waiting in anticipation for the chance to ponder my dungerees. Throughout the land, legs everywhere have been crossed, pussies soaked, and panties left sopping wet.

For the record, I wear jockeys- as this is the only appropriate under-attire for a man to wear. Everything else is just uncomfortable or feminine.

Some women will tell you that you should pay attention to the type of underwear that you put on. These women are as dumb as shit, and shouldn't be listened to.

Given that no one sees them in my daily business, and I fuck in the dark, and am always naked during the entire process- underwear is truly irrelevant.

But I'm sure you all already knew that?

In other news, welcome to another semester of university. I will be sequestered in the library on Saturday for the afternoon writing an assignment and studying, because that's what people like me do for shits and giggles.

2006-08-01T03:45:00.000-07:00

Saturday was a bright day.

By: Peemil.

Most things that begin with red wine end badly. This is an established scientific fact provable with a quick dip into history.

Alexander the Great was quite the pisshead, and without his copious consumption of the vaunted grape, would probably have stayed home and not gone out to conquer the known world. While he was out there too, he also slayed his best friend, who was probably his bum buddy, and, if you believe Oliver Stone, he probably had a hard on for his mother.

Nero was loudly off his trolley while Rome went up in flames around him, and if you've ever read Suetonius' "The Twelve Caesars," another chap called Caligula was quite the drunken perve.

There isn't much historical evidence, but it is believed that Joan of Arc was a recurrent alcoholic, at one moment on the wagon and decrying the evils of alcohol, and at another moment, drunk as a skunk and whoring herself off to half her army.

Martin Luther was out of his head when he penned the 95 theses, and if historical record is correct, after nailing them to the door of the castle church door in Wittenberg, promptly vomited on the doorstep, and then, wiping his mouth, went and touched up a hooker down a nearby alley.

Napoleon was hammered at Waterloo. Never mind the mud getting in the way of moving the artillery, he could barely focus on the map, let alone direct a battle. Although again, there is little historical evidence, his Hundred Days was quite the booze up from Antibes to his inevitable demise.

Bismarck was an angry drunk and not to be fucked with. It is said that his statement that he was the State, was delivered after a long night on the red sauce.

In recent history, it is well known that Winston Churchill enjoyed a tipple, but it is little known that Roosevelt was a drunkard of the highest order, only losing the use of his legs after a drunken stumble down a flight of stairs, which spared him his life, but left him a cripple for the rest of his days.

The only world leader to not be off his head on the grapes of wrath was Hitler. But he was a amphetamine addict, and that, for all of you who know, is another world of being completely fucked up.

It is well established then, that the consumption of red wine, although good for your heart and all that other gizz, is generally not conducive to productive or lucid thought.

I like the odd bottle of red, but for reasons beyond me, seem to drink it with a gusto known only to a camel reaching an oasis after a fifty-five day stint in the desert with Arab tribesmen, who have attempted to sodomize you every time you've been tied up.

I also enjoy rum, whiskey, white wine, port, dessert wine, anything that has coconut in it, liqueurs... In fact, I'll drink what is underneath the kitchen sink if someone tells me that I'll get a buzz from it.

This goes the same for a range of illicit substances I've imbibed throughout my life. I'm not much good to anyone after I've been orally attached to an opium pipe, or have taken a handful of mushrooms, or snorted, swallowed, smoked or even dropped whatever has been on offer. In fact, I'm downright bizarre, which is never a good thing, because I'm strange enough when I'm sober- and that is why I don't touch them anymore.

Those drinks and substances, for me, are like a strange fellow who comes to the door sometimes with a bag of fireworks, a map of a secret entrance into city hall, some matches and a mischievous grin.

That is why I enjoy beer. Beer is like the tried and trusted friend that you give the key to your house to. You know they're not going to come in and set fire to the furniture, leave your pornography on the lawn, and hang the neighbour's cat from your back porch.

Women were the first to brew beer, which, in my times of great rage towards that half of the species, I remind myself of. It is a small miracle that these creatures not only have the best fun bags in the land, but are also responsible for the one true joy that I have in my life- water, hops and fermented yeast. Nothing ends a day quite like a beer, and nothing gives you such a sense of contentment than the taste and effect of this glorious substance.

To continue though, Saturday began the same way as any other. I rose early, got some work done, went to the gym, and then went shopping for a present for my Mum's birthday with my brother and his fiancee. By two o'clock we'd decided on the gift we wanted to get her, purchased it, and I came home again. Opening the fridge, I got out the ingredients for a sandwich, and my trusted friend, beer.

What else to do on a Saturday afternoon, but have a feed, a drink, and maybe a nap in the afternoon sun? But not today. One beer quickly become two, two became four, four became a six pack, and a six pack very quickly became twelve. In my inebriated state, the wine rack seemed like it needed some attention.

Ignoring the conveniently placed sign which stated "Peemil: Don't drink me," I chose my first bottle. A nice shiraz to start off with.

I don't drink out of wine glasses. Wine glasses are for poofs, and instead, I drink out of a ceramic goblet, better known as a coffee cup. With one bottle down, I was beginning to feel a mite tiddly.

Soon there was a knock on the door, and a few more empty bottles on the counter. From here, a lot of what happened is a black hole and I have only these words of advice.

1. "I'm loaded with explosives you know?" is not a good thing to tell the security guard at a local club.

2. The Police Officer will not stop for ice-cream.

3. "Maybe they're in my butt?" isn't funny, and will only bring pain.

4. Don't waste your phone call on your hooker, as she won't do an "out call" at the jail.

5. Like singing in the shower, singing in your cell sounds great to you, but horrible to everyone else.

6. There is an appropriate time and place to masturbate.

7. Whatever you do, smile and have a laugh. Police Officers are people too, and the worst thing they can do is think you're completely out of your tree and finally release you into the community again, thereby washing their hands of you. They'll also nick your cash. Bastards.

8. After all this, a feed of BBQ chicken and chips is an apt reward.

2006-07-31T17:33:00.000-07:00

Is pants.

By: Peemil.

My pants won't stay up without a belt.

To allay this problem, I decided to no longer wear pants.

More on this issue, and why my brother had to bail me out of jail on Saturday night, later today when I'm not so distracted by this leprechaun who seems intent on drilling a hole into my head.

For the meanwhile, consider this. "Peemil: Boxers, jockeys, a g-string, or commando?"

The results will surprise you.

2006-07-27T13:13:00.000-07:00

Crawley scum.

By: The fingers on the keyboard.

Wait till the end. It is beautiful.

Via Needs to be glassed.

2006-07-26T12:16:00.000-07:00

On death, Kings Quest, women, bomb building, tasers and Thai sweet chilli sauce.

By: The fingers on the keyboard.

Last night my phone rang around 9:30. When the phone rings around here, it often leads to consternation as I wonder who could be calling me, and either decide to not answer it at all, or pick up the handset and pretend to not speak English. At 9:30 though, the sound of the phone sends shivers down my spine, as when I was a young lad, the phone ringing at ungodly hours often meant that someone in the family, or one of my father's vet mates, had carked it or topped themselves- which meant going to sit in another church, or listening to the nonsensical wafflings of a priest by the graveside, followed by a drunken wake with much chair throwing.

Sometimes it meant that whoever was calling was soon to turn up at the door, and that meant that everyone would sit around in the kitchen till the early hours and I'd have to listen to everything from my bedroom till they decided to retire.

As a brief aside, when I was a lad, I enjoyed playing Sierra adventure games, because I was a sad nerd of a child. When I was trying to play Kings Quest XI, every time I reached a certain point in the game, the phone would ring and then I would be told the news. This happened three times, and after that, I decided that I had taken enough life and shelved the game.

As an adult then, I have grown to believe three simple rules. Firstly, never call or answer anyone after 8:30, secondly, never take guests after 8:00 in the evening- if you're not in by 8:00, you can get fucked- and finally, adventure games are tools of the devil.

Unfortunately though, the world doesn't follow my rules, and continues to defy me. Hence, at 9:30 last night, I was in bed reading and listening to the shrill ring of the phone and wondering exactly who had kicked the bucket.

I was in a decidedly happy mood last night, it being Wednesday and all, and being an adult now, the prospect of engaging in "Chuck the chair into orbit competitions" is exciting, so I decided that I may just find out who this mystery caller was.

"Yes," I answered the phone in a gruff tone.
"Hello, I'm an electrician and I do some work for your real estate. I've got a work order here to put in some smoke alarms. When would be a good time for you?"
"How about Friday morning? I'm at home then."
"I'll just have a look in the diary... Sure. That'll be fine. I'll see you around 8:00."
"No worries. See you then."
"Bye."

I can not tell you how disappointed I was with this entire conversation, and will no longer be answering any phone call unless it rings out three times in succession.

All I'm asking for is for you pricks to just die. At this rate, I may have to crack open Kings Quest XI again.

In other news, what the hell is it with women in this town using terms of endearment to address me? My case in point: I went to the supermarket yesterday, and the young lass behind the counter at the deli asked "What can I get you doll?"

"Um... 200 grams of that smoked ham please."

She went and got the ham.

"Anything else sweetheart?"

"Umm... Nope. That'll be all."

"See you doll."

Excuse me? Don't address me like that. I don't even know you.

The woman at the video store addresses me as "hun." "That'll be seven dollars hun."

Am I wearing a German uniform? No. Then stop calling me that.

The girl at the bookstore follows me out the door every Wednesday, chatting all the while. She comes into my work sometimes for a chat and to get some supplies. I'd ask her out, as she is pretty, has a funny laugh, and nice tits, but with all things, there is only disappointment to follow. Besides that, I'm suspicious that she escorts me to the door, just so she can shut it and keep other freaks like me out. I never hear the door slam, but I reckon she is just being polite, and maybe waits until I'm around the corner. It's better to just go home and have a beer.

Women are strange. The next woman who winks at me is going to get a referral to a doctor who can help them with their twitching.

I hurt my bad finger on the heavy bag. I hope it isn't broken again. It still works, which is a good sign. I think maybe that I just bruised it a little. I'm either going to have to give up boxing in the morning, or funnel my rage into building bombs.

I must remember that my Mum's birthday is next week. On Saturday, my brother, his fiancee and I are going shopping for a present. I hate Saturday crowds, and I don't know what we are going to get her. I suggested a taser, because everyone likes tasers. My brother agrees. His fiancee reckons she is going to take control of the entire situation. That figures- we'll probably end up getting her something decidedly boring.

As I told her, "If I got a taser for my birthday, I'd be stoked."

My birthday is next month. Birthdays are like Christmas and New Year. It's usually a struggle to keep yourself from throwing a rope up and taking yourself out. At the end of the day though, who am I to argue with statistics?

I bought a big bottle of Thai sweet chilli sauce yesterday. This makes me joyous and gives me a reason to go to work, so that I can buy more.

I am stockpiling it in case the revolution comes and I can't get it anymore.

It's better safe than sorry, as they say.

Above: It goes on everything.

2006-07-26T02:07:00.000-07:00

Jimmer jammer.

By: Peemil.

These poofters sure have a wild ride of it don't they?

As everyone is already aware, George Michael got caught getting dirty with a stranger in a London park.

"News of the World investigators caught the singer red-handed and red-faced as he emerged from the bushes after cavorting with a pot-bellied, 58-year-old, jobless van driver."

"In a sweat, the ashen-faced singer declared: 'Are you gay? No? Then fuck off! This is my culture!'" Article.

What I want to know is this. How is two blokes getting it on in a public park a cultural event?

I'm sorry George, but the word "culture" doesn't extend to wanting to put your piece in another guy's arse. Why not try different words like "horny bastard?"

"Are you gay? No? Then fuck off! I'm a horny bastard!" That works much better doesn't it?

Honestly though, you would have to be a horny bugger to want to bugger this bugger.

Above: A Georgie whacker.

2006-07-26T01:40:00.000-07:00

Bouncing bosoms of botulism.

By: Peemil.

Bigger tits trump everything don't they Mr Trump?

Above: Mr Trump has a hard time curtailing his enthusiasm at the recent Miss Universe competition.

The runner up was a Japanese lass who just didn't have the curves needed to impress the judges.

Above: Bee stings and what look like a cold sore.

And there we have it. Don't say you never learn anything 'round this blog.

2006-07-24T02:52:00.000-07:00

That reminds me- I've got to get some smoke alarms for this place.

By: The fingers on the keyboard.

2006-07-23T22:41:00.000-07:00

Send in the clowns.

By: Peemil.

It is a good thing the world has my brother and I.

A few weeks ago, we were sitting around talking about the current quagmire in Iraq. It seemed to us that American policy wasn't geared towards winning the war decisively and definitively. To us, the entire apparatus was in need of a few shake-ups. So we wrote a letter with our suggestions and sent it off to the President.

And what do you know? A few weeks ago, we received confirmation that one of our ideas- "Dress the troops up as clowns and terrify the enemy-" was actually adopted, and is currently in the testing stages.

Here is the photo we received from the men trying out our idea.

Above: Shock and awe.

2006-07-23T11:39:00.000-07:00

The eyes have walls.

By: Peemil.

As someone whose life is broadcast to the world in the "other realm," and as someone whose major life decisions are controlled by SMS voting, I have a few things to mention to you all who are watching, and to those who are running "The Peemil Show."

1. The woman who has been sent to chase me around the countryside is completely and utterly unacceptable. I know it must be some "other realm" joke, but to be honest with you all, if you seem to think the more this woman propositions me, the more my will be slowly chipped away, then I urge you to go and catch up on the repeats of "The Peemil Show," or whatever you are calling it now.

Granted- yes, she is quite beautiful, and I like the choice of tits- but she is a vacuous and thoroughly unintelligent skank. I'm sure you're all pretty keen to see her get banged by me, but it just isn't going to happen. I'm tired of women I have to explain the joke to, and I won't be going down that road again, no matter how many times you make her call, or drop into my place of work.

You know the girl at the library? Not as pretty, but she got that joke about Admiral Nelson. I like that. Send her on. Or that other one who got the obscure reference to the Crimean War? She was cute to boot- but hell no. Not the "other realm" viewers. We've got to have the one who'll float away after you inject helium up their nose and into the empty cavern where their brain should be.

2. Whoever keeps voting for a mechanical fault on my motorbike to be created on the show ought to have their hands removed so they can no longer SMS such financial and emotional distress.

While on the subject, I don't know what you're trying to hide in front of me, but one day I will get through the maze of old people travelling at 20kph and discover it.

3. Yes, a bout of food poisoning is always funny- but not every week. What type of sick people are you who want to see me sitting on the bog at three in the morning with a severe case of the squirts? Sadists.

4. The obligatory "emergency carton of beer party" every time I say that I'm going to get a rope and hang myself in the garage is getting beyond the joke.

Learn to distinguish the difference between the times I'm serious, like at the end of life changing events, and when I'm not, like when I broke my favourite coffee cup in the kitchen yesterday. No sooner had I got the dust pan and brush and murmured that I was going to take myself out, there was a knock on the door. This cannot continue.

Also, rotate the guy that you send around. I feel sorry for the poor bastard. I imagine he's got a wife and kids, and I'm sure they'd like to see him sober for a change. Just because I can lead a relatively successful life under the influence most of the time, doesn't mean that everyone else can.

5. I will not pay the fines asked of me. As I stated in my correspondence, I do not recognize the authority of your judicial system, or the state in its current form. Go ahead and lock me up if you must, but I'll be damned if I give you fascist pigs any money.

6. The amount of advertising I encounter in my daily life is beyond the joke. I understand that you have bills to pay, but surely you can leave one space clear of brand names or advertising harlots?

7. I know good story lines keep the show chugging along, but some of the more recent ones have just been downright bizarre. I'm tired of finding myself in a situation and asking how the fuck I got there.

8. The taxi driver who looks like my deceased father is scaring the living shit out of me. Please have him removed, for continuities sake at least.

9. Stop coming into my house in the evening. I'm tired of waking up for a brief second with a chloroformed rag over my mouth, so you can do whatever it is that you do. Being knocked out regularly with chloroform can't be healthy.

Why not do what needs to be done while I'm at work, or when I've ducked out to the shops for some groceries? That way, no one needs to wake up with a splitting headache and vomiting blood.

10. I don't think that the doctor I went to recently was actually medically trained. I know that she was good looking and all, but I think I've got the right to have my medical disorders attended by someone whose training extends past operating a till at a fast food restaurant.

11. I don't give a fuck what you people do. I'm still going to Israel whether you like it or not.

Above: Send a woman like this please.

2006-07-22T18:52:00.000-07:00

Nothing more needs to be said.

By: Peemil.

2006-07-21T13:37:00.000-07:00

My calender.

By: Peemil.

I will be down in Brisbane for the afternoon. I am attending a conference on "Receiving better radio waves through tooth fillings and aluminum swords."

I am also going to see this tonight.

2006-07-21T00:51:00.000-07:00

Two Georgian diplomats enter the room.

By: Peemil.

I'm looking forward to my years of homelessness. You don't have to keep up appearances, you can finally masturbate in a dark alley without anyone batting an eyelid, you wake up somewhere different everyday, you can drink cheap wine and vomit wherever you please, and standing on a street corner professing that the government is responsible for everything- and that they will be slaughtered in "The Coming"- just screams fun, fun, fun!

For as things stand, anyone who doesn't have a bucket load of cash at the end of their working life to spend on astronomical medical bills, a resort home, and a penile implant so they can shag the 83 year old invalid from across the road- who complains bitterly about her back every time she is bent over to be fucked in the arse- is going to be out on the streets with me.

The problem we are facing in this modern world is that people live well after their time. Thanks to the joys of medical science, many of our citizens are able to reach long and pointless lives into their late eighties and early nineties. With a little bit more help and some grit determination, they can hold on to grim life over their century.

It's not the fact that they live so long that angers me. It is that they insist on telling everyone else how the show should be run. I'm sorry- but I've got no time to listen to someone who is barely lucid most of the day, forgets who they are on a regular basis, and needs to have someone raise them out of bed, lest they piss it because they can no longer hold their bladder.

The next group to reach retirement, and thankfully, to start dying off is the baby boomers. Those spawn of post-war ejaculations, who had some "groovy" ideas, but gave it all up so they exchange it for an SUV, open heart surgery and a position in society where they can enslave everyone underneath them with their unceasingly selfish greed.

Be it known: When I come to power, you baby boomers will be some of the first to be injected with rat poison- and God forbid you try to get out of the bed and make a break for it, as I will personally crack open your skulls with a cricket bat. You bastards alone are responsible for this mess, and your sins must be purified.

However, as they head off into the merciful curtain call of their sickingly impetuous lives, and having the governmental power they have acquired, the baby boomers have engineered the system whereby they have taken the last pennies from social security, and scuttled the ship on their way out, leaving us with nothing but a load of explosive on a vessel that ought to have been sunk years ago.

Therefore, I shall welcome the rest of you- except the super rich out there- to the streets when we get on them. As such then, I am laying down a few rules for your general knowledge for these future events, which you ought heed.

The Peemilanic Code: Without Social Security and Living on the Street. Sections 5.6 to 5.11.

5.6 Where food falls to the ground, and is not claimed by its owner, said foodstuffs will belong to Peemil, if it falls within a one kilometre radius of the person of Peemil.

At no time, without express consent is said foodstuff to be touched, nor shall said foodstuff pass the lips of any other but Peemil.

Where foodstuffs are in a public waste disposal unit, Peemil reserves the exclusive rights to said foodstuffs for a period not extending more than three days.

All offences against the person of Peemil under this section of code shall result in the accused being summarily executed by design of Peemil.

5.7 Peemil reserves the right to all property, both public and private.

Where a person will not render their property, or the property of others onto the person of Peemil, said person will be gutted live like a pig.

5.8. All public discourse is to be controlled by Peemil, and a committee of one, Peemil, shall decide daily what subjects are to be discussed.

Where public discussion extends past the bounds of what is decreed, either in a public forum, or private abode, it is the right of Peemil to order the removal of the offender's tongue.

5.9 All males shall serve Peemil in "The Guard" for a period of no less than three years. After the initial service, all males shall serve two months a year at Peemil's request. All women shall serve Peemil when he sees fit.

5.10 All commerce that does not serve Peemil, or render on to him appropriate tribute, shall cease.

5.11 Where this sub-section is incomplete, Peemil reserves the right to decree additions at his pleasure.

Hard- but fair- I believe.

2006-07-20T03:50:00.000-07:00

When I talk you listen.

By: The fingers on the keyboard.

Someone please do Stalin.

2006-07-20T03:40:00.000-07:00

An e-mail I received.

By: Peemil.

Dear Peemil,

I'm having a party on the weekend if your interested in coming down to Brisbane.

The last party was a real hoot. Here's a photo from it. Just the guys messin' around with some hooker we picked up.

Hope to see you then,

Rory.

Above: That is just down right perverted Rory.

2006-07-19T02:14:00.000-07:00

Daisy root.

By: The fingers on the keyboard.

"She bounds along on all fours through long grass, panting with her tongue hanging out. When she reaches the tap she paws at the ground, drinks noisily with her jaws wide open and lets the water cascade over her head."

"This is 23-year-old Oxana Malaya reverting to behaviour she learnt as a young child when she was brought up by a pack of dogs on a rundown farm near the village of Novaya Blagoveschenka in Ukraine."

Above: "Woof!"

Article.

2006-07-19T00:34:00.000-07:00

Highway enzyme.

By: Peemil.

Wednesdays are a great day. I get paid and buy some "Commando Comics," because I like reading about Germans dying when I'm on the shitter.

Above: This man isn't a German, I think. The two women giving him a kiss make me want to beat my head against the table and masturbate vigorously while listening to Prokofiev.

Above: "Germans! And they're using a Ringtrichterrichtungshoerer."

"Attack the target immediately. Give Jerry everything you've got. Tally ho!"

"No detector was better than the German Ringtrichterrichtungshoerer (RRH). The detector was used mainly in anti-aircraft searchlight batteries for the detection of British night bomber formations. The RRH could detect targets at a distance of twelve kilometers, and depending upon weather conditions and operator skill, it could help detect the size of the aircraft formation."

"It had a directional accuracy of 2 degrees. The device had a crew of three with the dial reader in the middle. The rolled up material over the operator's heads could be unfurled to provide cover in bad weather." More on listening devices used during the Second World War.

I also fuck a prostitute on Wednesdays. Sometimes it's the great G., or this other fantastic bit of tail who moans like she wants it. I like getting in behind her and orating passages from the Bible, and quizzing her after each passage. When I'm close to finishing, I spunk into the book of Matthew and make her lick it up like the cheap whore that she is.

Yep. Wednesdays are grand.

2006-07-17T14:59:00.000-07:00

Peemil's guide to keeping bodies in the freezer.

By: Peemil.

For many of us, there will come a time in our lives when we will need to keep bodies in a freezer.

Popular conceptions in the media make this practice seem like it is a simple operation, but for the uninitiated and uneducated, it is full of pitfalls and problems.

This guide therefore, is an attempt to sweep away some of the often held fallacies and give some simple dos and dont's.

1. We'll start at the beginning. Selecting a freezer that suits your needs is often a baffling adventure. What size do I need? How will it stand up to prolonged use? And finally, will I be able to put everything I need to in it?

My first piece of advice is that bigger, is always better. When shopping around, don't tell the salesperson your intended use. Instead, ask whether you'll be able to get a side of beef in it, and if necessary, get in it yourself and try it out for size.

Also, don't skimp on the price. Given that this is such an important appliance, spend the money on a trusted name brand like Westinghouse, or Kelvinator. Don't jump in the lower end of the market and expect that it'll serve you well.

2. Now that you've got your freezer home, the next thing you need to be thinking about is placement. My first words of advice would be to not place it in the kitchen. Nothing is guaranteed to stop a dinner party in its tracks more than one of your guests getting curious and having a peak inside your freezer.

Think about constructing a shack out in the back yard and equipping it with a sturdy lock, electricity, maybe a toilet and a comfortable chair for those long nights that you want to be around your freezer people.

Remember not to draw attention to your shack and build it close to the house. Your neighbours will grow suspicious of you if they see you dragging heavy garbage bags down to the back of your block. To allay any suspicions, consider moving your garbage bins near your shack, so your neighbours think that you are simply taking your garbage out.

3. Another important part of any shack is a workspace area. You don't expect that you are going to just jam your bodies into your freezers whole now do you? It is much more efficient if you take a butcher's cleaver and cut them into smaller pieces, so as to pack them into your fridge without wasting space. Of course, some body parts are better left as is, for example, the head and the sexual organs.

Easily washed benches are important. Don't go with wood, as it stains and is problematic trying to get clean. Always remember, this is your little secret and no one can know about it, so clean up after yourself!

4. Now that you've got your various body parts, just don't throw them all in the freezer. If you eventually have multiple bodies in the freezer, you'll never be able to tell whose toe belongs to who. I suggest ziplock freezer bags, as they come in various sizes and they can be marked with a permanent pen. A simple system is often the most effective, for example, "Janie- 25. Left foot." Others may prefer to divide their freezers into subsections, for example, foot, hand, fingers, legs, but I personally find this method time consuming, and enjoy searching through my freezer for that one pretty toe. It's like going to a party and mingling. "Oh hello Samantha. I remember you. I clocked you over the head with a tyre iron in the park. Oh and you Ester! That was a wonderful evening the night I tied you up and beat you to death."

5. As much as you'd like to have the various body parts around the house while you go about your daily life, I would suggest that you don't. It is easy to become complacent, leave various parts around the house and then return with company. Most people are too squeamish and will run once they enter a house with decaying body parts laying around. Too, having them around only attracts the flies, and the smell will alert the neighbours to your little game.

6. Finally, when you tire of having multiple bodies in your freezer, or need to make room for new ones, you'll need to find a way to dispose of them that is clean, cost-effective and doesn't leave a trace of evidence.

Many will suggest you use a drum of acid, however, buying this usually leads to such questions as, "Why are you buying 150 litres of hydrochloric acid?" Others will suggest pigs, but keeping them in a suburban block often violates council laws. My advice is to buy a separate plot of land, in an out of the way place, where you can bury them without the prying eyes of others, and transport the body parts out there in the trunk of your car.

Remember too, that an ounce of effort during this part of the operation is worth it. Dig the holes deep, place the body parts in them, and cover them with lime to keep the smell down. The last thing you need is wild animals digging them up.

Remember to mark the areas where you have buried the bodies too. Something that isn't noticeable, like planting a pine tree above the bodies is a good way. It won't attract attention and will give you some shade in the years to come when you return to pay your respects to those who gave you so much pleasure.

Above: "Now where did I put that toe?"

2006-07-17T04:37:00.000-07:00

'Cause I'm bored.

By: Peemil.

2006-07-17T01:49:00.000-07:00

They came to take me away.

By: Peemil.

Every Monday around about one o'clock in the afternoon I am abducted by aliens and taken aboard their spaceship for five hours. I am then returned to the porch of my house and give them a brisk wave before coming inside and having a beer.

As always, when you tell people this, they usually snicker about the inevitable anal probing that occurs when you get abducted. Trust me on this one though- the anal probing is a small discomfort compared to the other experiments that they carry out in the early part of your abduction career. Just imagine for a moment, what it is like to have your eyes removed without anaesthetic, and then re-attached without so much as a "thank you."

Over time though, the physical experiments cease, to be replaced with experiments of your intellect. In the beginning you are given simple games to play, and slowly you begin playing more complex ones that involve your reason and choices based on your emotional limitations.

One very enjoyable one involves a movie being played of two people's life, and it is then up to you to decide which one lives and which one dies. It is a tough choice to make usually, but I base most of my decisions in this game on merit alone. Although sometimes, it is just because I don't like the look of one of them.

The first time I played this particular game, I gave a gruff answer and said that I'd kill the old bitch. I didn't know at this time that it was the alien's intention to scoot around the world, aim their laser and turn said old cow into a fine powder. To tell you the truth, I was a little shocked at the alien's immense power, and humbled in that, I only wished that I too had this type of technology at my call, for I would make the lot of you bastards pay.

I excitedly asked whether we could play again, but was told that it would have to wait till next week. Disappointed, I felt the warm glow of the transporter surround me, and the next thing I knew I was back on my porch waving into the blue yonder.

The aliens were true to their word though. The next week I was to play the game again. This time I considered deeply who would be taken out. The first was an eighteen year old girl, who looked like she had so much promise. The other, a father of two who worked at a factory. I decided on the father, as it was my opinion that I was sparing him the rest of his life of drudgery, over a young girl who had an entire life of monotonous boredom in front of her.

In my time with the aliens I have taken a fair few of you out, and for that, I apologise. I had little choice, as not choosing results in my own head being vaporised.

For those of you who are thinking ahead, this also explains where all those missing persons go to. They are, for evermore, fine dust floating around in the atmosphere, and no amount of photos on milk cartons is going to bring them back.

Do I feel guilty about this? Not at all. I've cleaned up some rubbish of humanity while playing this game. Adulterers, thieves and some sick, twisted individuals. Just a few weeks ago, I took out a guy who was fiddling with his secretary and his nanny at the same time. His wife was pregnant too, which was just icing on the cake.

I don't get to play that game as much as I used to. For the last few weeks I've been sitting around talking to my captors. They ask an awful lot of questions and most of them are extremely invasive. Given too that, the group of aliens who have been testing me have been the same since the first abduction, I've grown to like and trust them. There is something about having someone's finger in your arse, as after that, there isn't too much you don't feel that you can't share with someone.

Lately though, I've been able to ask them some questions, and I have some information that humanity may find useful. I'll put it all in point form, so as not to bore you.

1. A group of people, better known as the "Kalinar" are controlling the Earth. They have been controlling everything since their inception in 1492. Since that year, they have known about the aliens and have controlled everything to their own ends. This man is a member. That is all the information I have.

2. Bono is being controlled by their mind control device. You must not listen to a word he says. So too, are many bloggers. Take everything, except this blog, with a grain of salt.

3. Masturbation causes cancer. The reason Granny died of this insidious disease is because she spent a lifetime friggin' herself.

4. Jimi Hendrix didn't die. He was transported to the home world where he lives happily and has made some wicked tunes. Elvis did though. He was a fat cunt.

5. The current war in Iraq was started as an alien party joke that got out of control. They feel bad about this, and would love to help, but have decided that it is too much of a mess for them to clean up.

6. The most important word in the English language is "hush." If we finally figure this out, we may finally be able to communicate telepathically.

7. Most of the great intellectuals of Earth are, and were, aliens in disguise. The aliens despair that one species can be so mind boggling stupid, and sometimes have mercy on us.

8. Singapore, Dubai and Las Vegas will spontaneously implode in the next fifty years. It will be a surprise to most of us.

9. The rhythm in Britney Spears' "Toxic" is a mind control device. Avoid it at all costs.

I hope that somehow I've enlightened you all. I asked the aliens if I could write this, and they told me to go right ahead, as no one is going to believe it.

You must not write this off as confused ramblings. Our world is being softened up for what is known as "The Great Calamity." I warn you all- keep your cupboards full of beans, a supply of water in the basement, and a cob of corn on your desks.

That is all the infomation I have at the moment. I hope to find out more, especially why a cob of corn is so important, next time I'm taken away.

2006-07-15T15:34:00.000-07:00

The hamster thinks like I do.

By: Peemil.

2006-07-15T14:06:00.000-07:00

She likes Bacardi Breezers.

By: Peemil.

Stop touching the Doctor you filthy harlot.

Above: The Doctor doesn't need you skank whore.

2006-07-13T02:54:00.000-07:00

All my hommies are here.

By: Peemil.

I will follow you till death.

2006-07-13T01:05:00.000-07:00

Footfalls in the night.

By: Peemil.

Best looking intern in Washington hey?

The winner looks like she could suck the intestines out of an elephant's arse. Given the nature of politics in Washington, I imagine she'll be running the show soon enough.

Because that's the only way women get ahead- Is by giving it.

And let's face it, the last thing we need in Washington is another cocksucker. Lord knows, there are enough cocksuckers in that place as it is.

Above: Everyone in Washington sucks cock. Surrender your power before I launch a full scale attack with my army of robotic plunger men, who'll wrestle you to the ground and beat your head against the pavement.

They look something like this:

Above: Terrifying.

Many would ask where I find the time to build such instruments of control to be feared by the United States military and civilian dictatorship? That's easy to explain. I sub-contract the work out to the living-dead midget who lives in my laundry basket. I'd draw a picture of him, but he threatened to cut my throat in my sleep if I ever cast an image of him.

You have to help me. It's dangerous enough just writing all this, which is why I had to premise the beginning with a bit of misogyny. I know he checks my blog, but only ever reads the first paragraphs and then moves on.

For the record, I don't believe the only way women can move up the ladder is by sucking dick. But, to me, denying themselves such a potent weapon in exchange for merit based promotions only, is just downright stupid.

2006-07-13T00:19:00.000-07:00

Bloody fuck and gosh.

By: Igor the Donkey: Editor-in-chief.

After a day of terror in India where seven bombs went off on commuter trains, customers around the world are angry that their ridiculously daft questions regarding their new purchases couldn't be answered by India's legions of call centre staff.

"I just bought this lawnmower today, and I can't find the warranty papers for the damn thing, and I can't reach anyone at customer service," Mr Jones said as he hyperventilated into a paper bag. "I have to get that warranty away today, otherwise I'll never be able to replace it once this Chinese piece of shit reaches the end of its life span grossly prematurely."

Another customer, Mrs Kaine, lamented the fact that she couldn't reach the IT desk to ask whether the power connection of her new computer goes into the power outlet on the wall. "I mean this is a travesty. Don't these things power themselves?" she whined.

Others bitched for other reasons. Mr Dyson of Seattle complained that given his insistence on masturbating in public, he has been left friendless and a sociopathic recluse, and that, without Indian telemarketers, he has been left literally with his dick in his hand. "I keep waiting for them to call so I can listen to them go on about great new deals while I furiously tug myself. I like the idea of getting some curry munching pussy, and close my eyes and imagine my Indian Goddess cooking me a meal while blowing me and changing the channel at the same time. It's amazing what you can do with more than two arms."

Dr James of the Department of Sociology of some University with a particularly brilliant name, but churns out graduates of questionable intelligence, who are more intent on getting their ends wet or their cunts shafted and drinking grog- let's say, Ohio University- that this is a sign of what many of us knew for years; the general populace is thicker than two short planks, and ought to be subjected to eventually fatal water torture for their stupidity.

World leaders have also condemned the attacks and are worried about the attack's effect on the economy. "Around this great land, thousands are trying to contact their bank's call centre, and hearing only a busy signal," President Bush stated in an interview. Continuing in an unusually lettered fashion he stated, "Oh woe betide the economy. Forethought alone would have scuttled the rats from the deck."

While many haven't blamed the Indians directly for an unexpected terrorist attack, consumers around the world have questioned the levels of customer service the country's populace can be expected to provide. "What am I supposed to do!" Mr James the lawnmower man said as he dug a hole and crawled inside it. "What ever am I supposed to do without getting my warranty?!"

Above: After terror attacks, inexcusable levels of customer service.

2006-07-11T04:08:00.000-07:00

The glory that is eggs on toast with BBQ sauce.

By: The fingers on the keyboard.

I'm in a surprisingly good mood tonight. This is unusual because most of the time I'm an angry bastard who you should get out of the way for.

Earlier at work I was giggling about two story ideas. The first involved Ronald McDonald saying something along the lines of, "Ronald McDonald considers blind children to be the niggers of the sighted world," and a second one where Rory takes a monkey to court for biting off his balls after a perverse and disturbingly sexual game of "Tea-bag the primate."

There is a voice in my head at the moment who comes sometimes at important junctions, and is directing the show at the moment. It is very powerful and cannot be ignored.

I tried to ignore it and had to hit some sense into my self with the frying pan.

I like eggs and control.

But never together.

2006-07-09T12:19:00.000-07:00

May have to give it the silent treatment.

By: Peemil.

I'm tired of arguing with the kitchen sink.

Will someone please tell it that it isn't having custody of our child?

Above: "Baaa..." Our child.

2006-07-09T04:35:00.000-07:00

Let the readers decide.

By: Peemil.

Where should Peemil have his yearly vacation this year?

The West Coast of the United States- or- Israel?

It's up to you. Votes in the comments please.

Update: Israel it is then. I was leaning towards it. I'll be away for a few weeks in October then with a bit of luck.

2006-07-09T02:52:00.000-07:00

You can never pay today for that which you took in death yesterday.

By: Peemil.

My brother thinks there's a crazy man in my head who comes to the fore and beats a drum that overpowers me. He made this observation while we were talking about whales.

His fiancee is quite the sweet touch and always manages to turn into a gooey mess anytime she sees something remotely non-human.

This behaviour baffles me. While I see a meal or something that needs a good kick to the curb, she's defending its right to exist or feeding it milk.

As such, she has a calendar in her house with a couple of those aerodynamically designed mammals, better known as dolphins, and not what you were thinking- A hobo dipped in plastic and moulded into the shape of a bullet.

"No one would misses the dolphins if they were gone. I certainly wouldn't. Mob of show-offs they are," I casually mentioned as we sat on the couch.

"What do you mean?"

"We might as well process them for food, or some other purpose. Even firing them out of a cannon is preferable to having those bloody things swimming around the ocean and disturbing shipping."

"You think about it," I continued. "What was the last thing a dolphin did for you? Nothing- That's what. And yet we allow them to gallivant around in our oceans. Those punks need a good seeing to."

"I think..." my brother interjected.

"That goes doubly for the whales. Those over sized mammalian upstarts have had it coming for a long time. What type of creature dares to take up precious ocean space with their ridiculous girth? Whales are like the Sunday drivers of the ocean. Paddling along at their own pace without care or regard for the other fish in the ocean."

Continuing in the tone of some old hag I pressed on. "Meryl- Have you got the map? I don't think this is the right way to Antarctica," too which I replied in a similar tone, "No Madge- I have a hard enough time seeing three inches in front of my face, let alone finding a map while travelling at the mind boggling pace of five miles an hour."

"But..."

"You know the Japanese have an over-supply of whale meat on the market? They're pushing it on to school children in an effort to get rid of it. It's about time they admitted that what they're doing isn't scientific research, stood, and pronounced in a firm tone- 'I am man, and I have the power to drag this wretched animal from the depths of the ocean and munch on it.'"

"Hmm..."

"I ought to open a whale meat restaurant here in Toowoomba. Despite the initial protests, I'm sure people would fall in love with the bacon taste that is whale meat. Then I could expand into horse, dog, guinea pig, cat, and an assortment of other delicious animals."

"You don't really believe that do you?" my brother finally stated.

"Sure- Why not? When was the last time you saw a whale? Not for a while I'd imagine. It's not like you go outside and there's a whale in the driveway. Therefore, you wouldn't miss them even if they were gone. That goes for a whole variety of species. Unless it's around your home, what's the point of worrying? Kill em all."

And that is where he mentioned the crazy man banging a drum living in my head that he envisions. Although, it makes perfect sense to me.

2006-07-07T18:34:00.000-07:00

Do not Google hey?

By: Peemil.

Above: The Hoff after surgery.

2006-07-07T15:10:00.000-07:00

10 Reasons Why I Don't Live in Sydney.

By: Peemil.

1. It's full of poofters.

2. Its major landmark is an opera house with sails. If it actually floated and I could take it for a jaunt around the harbour I would be impressed. As it stands, it's just god damn ugly.

3. I can't live in a place where everyone thinks that they are better than everyone else. When the "Time of Resolution" comes, I will decree that Sydneysiders be first against the wall for their insolence.

4. It's full of poofters.

5. Bondi Beach is full of English backpackers intent of frying their dismal brains with the Australian sun and an assortment of alcoholic beverages, designer drugs and poor house music. English women are loose harlots and deserve nothing but the strong rebuke of a large pile of tinder, a pole and a cleansing fire.

6. The Prime Minister likes Sydney. This is reason enough to hate the place.

7. It's full of poofters.

8. Every pub and club is wankey in the extreme. Only dickheads pay ten dollars for a drink.

9. God tries systematically to purge the city every summer through bush fire. We are only making him angrier every time we fight back the flames for the sake of a few houses. Let the holy wrath go forth.

10. It's full of poofters.

2006-07-07T13:51:00.000-07:00

The Irish.

By: Peemil.

If you pressed most people they wouldn't be able to find Ireland on the map. This has nothing to do with the geographical deficiency of the general populace, but more because Ireland is a crap country, and all Paddies ought to be strung up like the rebel scum they are.

This opinion is not based on the fact that the one dingo root I've had was a Paddy girl, and that I distinctly remember fucking her in a handicapped toilet- Much more spacious- And that despite their supposed sense of humour, the Paddy girl I fucked, could find no humour in me doing her from behind, while pretending to be in a wheelchair and behaving in a severely mentally handicapped fashion.

The problem with the Irish is that I can't fathom a nation whose notion of identity is based on the fact that they aren't English. Congratulations Ireland. By my calculations, given that the population of England was around forty-nine million in 2001, that means that, around another ninety nine per cent of the world's population also agrees, that we really want to be not considered as English, because the English are quite possibly the most inane mob of twats ever to grace this Earth.

Even God himself, under his pinned on name tag has another which states- "Not English."

How do I know this? Simple. If God was English, the Empire would have never crumbled, Princess Di would have died in a more interesting fashion- like being run over by a stampede of artificially stimulated tortoises- and I'd be in prison for trying to stab the Queen with a sharpened dildo.

Another part of the problem with the Irish is that their national identity is based partly on their difference in religion. Again- congratulations Ireland- you got duped by the Italians. Getting duped by the Italians is like being a starving and partially deranged monkey which is challenged to a competition involving a large chocolate cake with John- "I'm completely in control of the situation"- Smith, whose winner gets to be omnipotent for a day, and which the outcome is based on who can go the longest without throwing it over the walls and masturbating with a vocal screeching tone.

As a quick note for humanity, if this ever occurs, I don't want to be the one who is selected, as I'm not sure I could win, and no one wants an Earth where it rains bananas twenty four hours a day for all of eternity. Nor do I want the population of the world to feel impelled to masturbate at regular intervals. Although the idea of a woman accepting a coffee and her McDonald's breakfast through the drive through window, and spilling them over herself because of a perceived need for manual sexual gratification is absurdly beautiful.

The problem too with Catholics, is that they just are. Find me a Catholic who doesn't stink of their disease, and I'll show you one that stopped breathing fifty years ago, and has rotted to the core. Besides that, all Catholics are wrong. God would never sub-contract his work out to three very dodgy sub-contractors, especially one who is completely ambiguous in nature.

Others may like to mention what we have to be grateful for from Ireland. You want women singing in annoying voices? I challenge you to grab a woman's nipples and squeeze, and not produce the same sound. Or the awful and rather loud dancing- AKA-"Riverdance?" Give me a sub machine gun, a submissive subject, and a clear shot at their feet, and I'll give you someone who can dance in the same manner.

Then we have the sound of their voices. The Welsh are also completely and utterly unintelligible, and they have sex with sheep and engage in intercourse with their cousins. If not being able to be understood within the context of a shared language, causes people to act in this fashion, then I dread to think what the Irish are doing with themselves on those cold and lonely nights.

Other will mention the Irish fortitude towards the drink. If drinking yourself into a stupor every evening is a matter for pride and reward, then I ought to be walking around with my head high and a Victoria Cross pinned to my chest.

Finally, people will mention the great exodus of Irish into the New World. Yet again Ireland, you've proven my point. Your country is so shit, that everyone wants to leave the place and take up awful jobs in foreign countries. To make matters worse, after being thrown out of every drinking establishment in town after your days at the grindstone, the Irish have to resort to building their own "clubs," where the rest of their uncouth ilk can drink together without fear of reprisal from a populace who have managed to string three words together successfully in a sentence, and can drink without attacking each other or trying to hump the flashing lights of the poker machine.

Don't ask me what I think of the Scots. Bloody girls.

2006-07-04T03:35:00.000-07:00

The women's studies department and me.

By: Peemil.

I was at the university a few weeks ago and decided to go and check out the women's studies department.

"Surely they'd be able to offer some clues to womenkind," I thought.

My university's buildings are dry and dull, much like you'd imagine it'd be like if the communists had taken over the world and made everyone build depressing brick boxes. Their halls are drab and quite claustrophobic- "Psychological Repression in Architecture-" There's a thesis for you gits.

Everyone always has a bad word for the communists. Everyone is always keen to mention, that to perpetuate their system they need to keep a repressive social order, stifle civil liberties, and behave in a fashion that really isn't the nicest way to get about business. They are also keen to mention that communism doesn't work. I always mention in reply that neither does capitalism, and the truth is, that we ought to get right along to the part where we launch a large scale nuclear attack, thereby destroying all social order, and allowing me to become king through the use of the heavy weaponry I've been saving up in my back room for this exact purpose, and finally allowing me a social position whereby I have a harem of tri-tittied women with blue hair and ever so tight mutant pussies.

Most people never know how to respond to a proposition such as that, and grumble something about my mental state and wander off scratching their heads. Of course though, if they used their heads, they would respond by asking what colour pussy these mutant women would have? To which I would reply, they are green- because, as we all know- mutant pussy has to be green for the sheer sake of natural order.

The woman's door that I knocked on in the women's studies department wasn't a mutant though. She was a tidy little piece, who looked like she spent her days tapping away at the computer screen decrying men, and then leaving in the evening to engage in sexual activities involving oral sex on a horse, anal sex delivered by some bloke she had just met, all finished with a monkey pissing over the whole scene. You know what these academics are like- All overpaid, oversexed and perverted in the extreme.

I imagined for a moment that I was the man delivering the anal sex, gripped my buttocks, and started thrusting madly while yelling, "You like that shit bitch? I'm gonna fuck your arse!"

And that, my dear readers, is why I'm not allowed in the women's studies department any longer.

2006-07-03T12:14:00.000-07:00

Back soon.

By: The fingers on the keyboard.

Happy Birthday America.

2006-06-18T02:34:00.000-07:00

Communication is vital to any conversation.

By: The fingers on the keyboard.

Take your Christian, uptight, moralistic world view and shove it up your arse.

Update- What day is it? Nearly at the end. Exam tomorrow. Work nearly complete.

All women are crazy.

Above: Hormones.

2006-06-07T01:46:00.000-07:00

And therefore, your fingers won't get so strained.

By: The fingers on the keyboard.

The reason I'm doing the blog in this style at the moment, is because I like the immediacy of throwing things up into a never ending post, over setting out a new post every time I want to write something.

As before, it'll be like this till June the 20th.

Update: That's a hell of a bind you've got yourself in.

Update: I think it's the monkeys.

Update- 8th of June 2006: Damn the wind. It blew over my favourite plant on the landing and now it is dying.

In other news, I've also had beans for dinner four nights in a row.

When I finally pull the girl down at the shop, I'm going to give her the most wicked dutch oven.

Update: Koreans really dig searching for granny sex.

Via Western Resistance.

Above: You hot bitch.

Update:

Telepsychiatry is all the rage according to the New York Times.

But really, what is the point of going to a psychiatrist unless they give you the answers you want to hear?

Above: "Don't give me that woman! Feed me!"

Update- 10th of June:

People are always writing to me and asking what I'm wearing. I usually don't reply because that is a silly question.

But for all of you out there who are still wondering what I'm wearing- I'll tell you.

I'm wearing a costume of a goat that I made out of paper mache.

Now that we've dispensed with the silliness, and you've all got a clearer picture of me, I have to go to work.

Update: Another Senryu.

I am cage happy.
The material is here.
The reckoning soon.

Update:

Watch this and tell me where society has gone wrong, and therefore, why we should execute every human on this planet. Either leave a comment, or to write me an e-mail, with your answer.

The winner gets a penny for their thoughts.

Update:

That's it! Fucking can opener is rooted. I'm going to buy a bayonet tomorrow.

Update:

No one told me about this.

Update:

When two conspiracy theorists combine. This has everything- Even physics is a scam.

Update- July 13th 2006:

My plan is working.

Update- 14th of June: We all know where I'll be on the 24th of June.

Everything moves towards resolution.

Update: E-mail from my University.

"Have you ever though about a career in the Australian Intelligence Community?"

No. I'm too busy scratching my balls and lookin' at stuff.

Update- 15th of June 2006:

A woman walked into the shop today.

"Is this the butcher?" she asked.

"Nope..." I replied. "Although, many people often mistake a bottleshop for the butcher. It's quite common actually."

"Oh..."

What I didn't tell her though, was that I too, was sharpening knives out the back.

Update:

Above: Water water everywhere so let's all have a melon.

Update:

Firebrand cleric Abu Bakar Bashir has been greeted by a sea of supporters punching fists in the air and screaming "Allah hu Akbar", or God is Great, as he arrived home to his Java boarding school.

After a brief stop to bathe his feet and pray, Bashir immediately launched into a brief sermon, telling thousands of students and onlookers seated in a dusty courtyard before him that Australian Prime Minister John Howard should "convert to Islam". Article.

Given the way that man kow-tows to Jakarta, it's only a matter of time.

Above: No beer for you.

Update- 16th of June 2006:

Guess who?

Above: Your Majesty.

Update- 17th of June:

Seeing though you have a mental illness, you may want to speak to my brother. Here is his photo.

Above: Hey bro!

Update:

I can't believe that Stalin is so misunderstood. Who doesn't want to kill peasants?

2006-06-01T11:31:00.000-07:00

This post will remain at the top till the 20th of June. Scroll down for updates.

By: The fingers on the keyboard.

I love this country.

A Burmese dissident has successfully fought a decision refusing her asylum in Australia because the word "oogabooga" was typed into the Refugee Review Tribunal's ruling.

The word appeared next to the heading "Definition of 'Refugee' " in a document outlining tribunal member Wendy Boddison's 2002 findings in the case of Burmese woman Khin Wut Hmon Win. Article.

I wouldn't expect tons of writing over the next week or two. I've got a couple of pieces left to write, and then an exam to sit on June 20th, after which, I'm free!

Update: A young T&A Man in the making.

Above: I too, like boobs.

Watch this space, as this is how I'll be doing it for a while.

Update- 3rd of June, 2006. The results of our poll ten month poll are in.

There isn't one single woman in Toowoomba.

Even the ugly ones have boyfriends.

You really wouldn't think it would be possible- But it is.

I think there's an office where people go and have the council hook them up, but no one has told me about it.

Maybe I should call the council and ask?

What do you think?

In other news, national and international applications are sought.

Please reply to the e-mail address on the sidebar, or leave a comment detailing yourself, your hobbies, or whatever you're keen on going on about it.

Photos of breasts are always appreciated.

Does not need to speak English.

Cooking skills not essential.

Breathing optional.

Update:

Above: Rob Pongi should be made Emperor. Watch the video here.

Update: This is why people who own cats are wrong. Watch this.

Update- 4th of June: I've got to change an introduction to an essay on the Ottoman Empire. So far I've got, "Fuck the Ottoman Empire- What have those mob of sodomizing towel heads done for me lately?"

Whatever. If I forget to, I'll tell them it was a typo.

Update:

Dear Alan Jackson,

It's not alright to be a redneck, nor is anyone ever the designated drinker. That is alcoholism, pure and simple.

Why not just state it honestly? Everyone is an alcoholic to degrees.

Now- Get the fuck off my iTunes.

While I'm at it- Who the fuck put Britney Spears on this fucking thing?

Yours,

The fingers on the keyboard.

Update:

Update- 5th of June 2005:

Women are way too sensitive.

Would you have preferred if I had clocked you with my elbow instead of a few curt words?

No?

Then shut the fuck up.

Further, I am not a "rageaholic." If everyone just gets out of my way and does as I say, then no one needs to get hurt.

Update:

Cooking.

1. Decide to cook a big pot of tomato based stew on the way home.

2. Go to the supermarket- Get ingredients.

- Two cans of tomato soup.
- Two cans of peeled Italian tomatoes.
- A block of good cheese.
- Some butter.
- Some capsicum.
- A bit of garlic, which you won't use anyhow.
- Those nifty little onions, good for throwing at the back of people's heads.

Have girl at check-out demand to look in your bag.

Tell her to get fucked and that she isn't a cop, has no reasonable cause and bellow that you aren't a criminal and won't be treated like one.

Have check-out girl call manager.

Have manager arrive and tell him to get fucked too.

Leave store.

3. Go to bakery and get some fresh loaves of bread and rolls.

Have girl behind counter fuck everything up completely. Stand around like a twit and think about sex.

4. Go to butcher. Get a hock of bacon.

Don't think about sex.

5. Go to bottleshop. Get a bottle of port.

Realise that you have no corkscrew at home.

Get back on motorbike, drive around everywhere trying to find one fucking place that sells corkscrews.

Find corkscrew eventually.

6. Get home. Realise that you don't need a corkscrew to open most bottles of port.

Bang head on table, swear that you'll punish God one day.

Open bottle of port, pour a glass, grab a beer, sit down and complete some more work.

7. Look at clock. 12:00PM. Think that is a little early to be drinking. Think about it a little more. Disregard.

8. Brother arrives at 4:00PM.

9. Lose track of time because of what you've imbibed.

10. 6:00PM. Realise that you should have put dinner on a while ago.

11. Get out ingredients.

12. Pour can of peeled tomatoes into crock pot.

13. Realise that the cans of soup need a can opener.

Get out can opener.

Damn fucking thing doesn't work.

Curse the Chinese and their wretched attempts at manufacturing.

Struggle with can.

Take out screwdriver from drawer.

Stab top of can repeatedly till you can pour soup into crock pot.

14. Cut up capsicum, onions and chuck them in the crock pot.

15. Cut up hock of pork, stick it in fry pan because the bastard stuff won't cook otherwise.

16. Put pork in crock pot.

17. Add Worcestershire sauce, pepper and salt.

18. Put lid on crock pot and walk away.

19. Return half an hour later and realise you haven't turned crock pot on.

Threaten to throw all of this fucking stuff out the bloody window.

Refrain.

20. Put everything in pot and cook on hotplate.

21. Walk away.

22. Return to find soup boiling over.

23. Curse God and the laws of thermodynamics. Threaten to kill various world leaders and turn down heat.

24. Walk away.

25. Return to find soup simmering. Feel relieved. Tidy up. Butter rolls, cut some cheese.

26. Serve to brother and his fiancee.

27. Eat.

28. Drink more beer. Finish bottle of port.

29. Pass out in bed.

Update: I know I posted it ages back, but this is still the funniest shit I've ever seen.

Update: 6th of June: Well, today is the day that I hopefully get to engage in some pretty hefty raping, pillaging and looting.

My theory is that he'll be down around one in the afternoon- He doesn't seem like one for early rising.

Which is a bonus because I'll be able to do some study this morning, and miss work this afternoon.

The only questions left are- Who am I going to rape first, how much can I steal, and didn't I make up some Molotov cocktails for a rainy day?

I suppose I'll be disappointed if he doesn't turn up, but that's the nature of the beast.

No matter- I'll just get stuck into everything tomorrow. He'd want it that way.

Update:

Did you know I passed the 1000 post mark about 11 posts ago?

In other news, my brother said to me yesterday- "Why do we spend all this money trying to keep order in society, when all people really want to do is kill each other?"

I suppose it's part of the same reason why we keep old people alive. Because it feels like the right thing to do.

You know when you're having sex with a one night stand, and you think- "Shit- I've only just met this skank and I'm fucking her. This is the right thing to be doing."

And then of course, you wake up and realise that everything was wrong, you feel guilty and you're itching downstairs.

I think, that as a society, we are still giving it to her and loving every minute of it.

It is about time, as a society, that we blow our load, smoke a cigarette, go to sleep and wake up.

Then we can be free of law and order, do what is in our hearts, turn off the machines of every old person in the land and take to the streets with murderous relish.

And that, my dear readers, is the right thing to do.

Update: I chatted up the doctor yesterday.

"That is highly inappropriate," she said as I lay it on her.

"Well- You're the one with your hands on my balls," I replied.

Seems some women really don't want to see my erection, even if I can pulsate it in rhythm with the Blue Danube Waltz.

Update:

And the topic for tonight is lesbianism.

Apparently I've got a couple of clam lickers living behind me.

How do I know? I saw them coming in today, kissing and cuddling. One of them was biggish and the other was this cute thing.

What a waste.

The problem was this- The fat one winked at me, as if to say, "I know you're looking."

Of course I'm looking. Not because you're a lesbian- I can see that anytime I fancy. I'm looking because I'm wondering what the fuck is actually going on in the house behind me.

I see a trail of women heading in- I'd suppose you're all fucking the unemployed, skinny geezer with no prospects, car or money, because that is what bogans do- But this is the first I've heard that he might be getting some three way action.

To make matters more interesting, when I was at work this other woman came in, who I'd met a few nights before.

"That other girl that I was in here with the other night- I fucked her. Then her friend came in and we had a threesome."

Fascinating- And she just volunteered this information. As you can imagine, asking someone their sexual proclivities isn't the first thing I venture into, nor should it be yours.

"How do you do? So tell me, how do you feel about three way action, in bondage gear, with a rubber chicken and a fat midget pissing on you?"

Must I kneel and beg God to strike me down and relieve me of this life that just becomes more confusing as the days pass? Or shall I just take the easy way out and take a packet of rat poison and chow down?

And finally, who wants a new post?

2006-05-25T04:26:00.000-07:00

Mein Herr.

By: Peemil.

I was trying to write an assignment today, which in part deals with the nature of community.

This is all I came up with.

Above: Run little man! Run!

2006-05-25T03:58:00.000-07:00

Great Goshen Batman!

By: Peemil.

For those of you reading Asiatown's blog, Vices we love, you'll know that he is currently residing somewhere in Poland- I couldn't be fucked going to find the name. God knows, it'll probably be one of those completely unpronounceable eastern European names like, "Viciousclitoralstimulationwithablockofice."

It seems though, that there are elements in Poland who have forgotten the mess caused by a particular group of fly-by-night blitzkriegers.

Above: Why didn't you hold the camera the other way? You're strange.

We here at Where are my socks? like to give advice, because we are always right, and when we are wrong- we are merely misguided.

So here is a means to turn that swastika frown upside down.

Above: Start by spray painting a big circle around it.

Above: Now paint across it like such.

Above: Do this and cry aloud- "I'm being a naughty boy Mr Goebbels!" (Spanking yourself is optional.)

Above: Purdy. Guess what it is yet?

Above: Give it a little bit of colour.

Above: Now add boobs- 'cause boobs are good.

Stick that in your pipe and smoke it you fascist dogs.

If you feel particularly energetic Asiatown, I suggest you whitewash the wall and begin all over again.

Above: Liberty has great knockers.

Update: Hot Israeli women with rifles.

2006-05-23T11:41:00.000-07:00

"I say John- Let's go for a ride."

By: Peemil.

So we're back to talking about this again are we?

"Bill and Hillary Clinton flew to Chicago together last month to deliver speeches a few hours and a few miles apart. And like any couple, they thought about having dinner at day's end. But life is not so simple when you are married to a Clinton."

"When the subject of Bill and Hillary Clinton comes up for many prominent Democrats these days, Topic A is the state of their marriage — and how the most dissected relationship in American life might affect Mrs. Clinton's possible bid for the presidency in 2008." Article.

Have you ever seen a marriage that functions correctly? In fact, have you ever seen a human relationship that actually works? I didn't think so.

Given time though, we'll travel into that well worn territory regarding their sex lives.

Just for future reference. I don't particularly care if Bill Clinton shacks up with a crack whore, and nor do I care if Hillary Clinton dons a pink tutu, nipple clamps, a strap on dildo, and engages in brutal sexual intercourse with numerable congressmen in the evening.

Although both of the above examples are extremely strange, it wouldn't bother me- because the circumstances of someone's sex life are inconsequential. Just like their marriage.

No one on the globe really understood that entire Clinton sex scandal. For the greater number of us, we felt Americans were being a little too hard on the man. Sure, his choice in women was extremely poor- Monica Lewinsky was a bizarre choice for a man with such power. However, for some strange reason, I'd do her in a heartbeat.

Many have theorised that this is because I'm quite strange and have a bizarre sexual need to put my dick where Clinton has. "Some sort of strange power sapping ritual," my brother remarked one day while we discussed this subject. This unfortunately extends to some hopeless want to fuck his wife too. God help me.

We all know that the real circumstances of that campaign was an outlandish smear campaign by some religious and right wing zealots, who ought have their heads bashed against the pavement, teeth first, in a vain attempt to make them see any possible sense.

Execution isn't good enough for these pitiful excuses. I propose that we herd them together and force them to live under their exclusive rules, so they can watch their society fall into a power grubbing theocracy, based on ignorance and an irrelevent old book, and where the BBQ is witches every Wednesday night.

If you can't see the painful irony here regarding the retraction of personal liberty, and a particular group's support of a President who doesn't seem to have a clue where the line between Church and State begins and ends, and who seems intent on withdrawing every liberty enshrined in the Constitution- than you ought take yourself out back, drink a gallon of gas and consume a lit match.

Returning to the subject at hand though. What bothered people the most about the entire Clinton scandal was the downright obscene moralism oozing from the States, mingled with the levels of smut and depravity not possible outside of the seventh level of hell, broadcast through the air and into every corner of the globe on a daily basis.

But hey? What do I care? I have to get my porn from somewhere.

America is truly a mystery. If we Australians found out that our Prime Minister was getting it on with his intern, we'd not only clap, whistle and cheer- we'd declare a public holiday.

Many have related this opinion to me through the years, and I have often wondered where it comes from.

Essentially, I believe it comes from people's belief that politicians ought to be scrutinized thoroughly in their actions which effect the nation- but discussing the extremely private matter of their sex life, and holding it up for public ridicule, is below the belt.

I have more concerns about a leader who starts wars for the sake of doing so, who tells huge fibs about public and foreign policy, and is a threat to the very Republic for which he represents, than one who is getting his dick sucked.

I think also, that people would just be glad to discover that our Prime Minister isn't a robot, and actually wants a bit of that furry bush.

And this my dear readers, is important. Knowing if the Prime Minister is a robot or not, makes a huge difference when deciding how much explosive to use when making a car bomb for use against him. The importance of knowing whether you need to pack the bomb with armour piercing shrapnel, over your everyday, nails and bits of metal- useful for softer targets- cannot be stressed enough.

But yet no one in the media has mentioned this. Which just goes to show you, that our media, and the society we live in, often completely misses the point, and gets tied up in panicked attacks over things that don't really matter.

I think it's a matter for all of us to look into. Our leaders have begun to display behaviours equivalent to those which you'd expect from robots. I believe this is a matter whose day in the public eye has come, and it is up to us, as citizens, to explore this idea and act accordingly.

Death to the droids of deceit!

Above: The Prime Minister.

2006-05-22T12:01:00.000-07:00

The squeaky bed gets the grease.

By: Peemil.

Crawling into bed last night around midnight after many hours at the grindstone, I looked forward to a couple of hours rest.

I turned on the bed side lamp, and got out my current reading, For the good of the cause, by Alexander Solzhenitsyn.

Of course, it has been mentioned in the comments section, that reading in bed is a sure sign that the beginning of the end of your sex life is imminent.

I'd counter, that it isn't the beginning of the end, but the end in itself.

As I lay engrossed in Soviet style shenanigans and talking to myself about various parts of the book- did you know that flap of skin under the chin of an oxen is called a "dewlap?" well, now you do- the neighbours decided to get their sex life going, again.

Listening to other people get it on is an intolerable curse. My reading should have been brisk, engrossed, and enjoyable. Eventually the book should have slipped from my hands as I finally went to sleep for a few hours.

Alas, the rhythmic thumping on the wall behind me steadily gained momentum and my reading became strained.

"It's not that I don't believe you. I suppose enthusiasm is natural, and a good thing too. But, the trouble is that in this country the word has become hackneyed," I read, trying my best to concentrate.

The window in my room shook with their thumping.

"And that's not all. They took a copy of the architect's plan and made a scale model of it. Then they carried it at the head of the May Day parade," I continued to read.

The low moans of a woman could be heard audibly now. The thumps on the wall were growing to a crescendo.

"A well built youth from the Komsomol Committe in a red-and-brown checked shirt, the one who had called Lidia..."

"What is that sound?" I thought.

Silence.

"Thank God. They're done. Must of shot the rocket off too soon," I muttered to myself with a chuckle.

I could hear them talking and giggling.

"Isn't that sweet? Pillow talk. That whore is your funeral asshole," I thought returning to my reading.

"...out of the teacher's room, said to her:"

"What the fuck!?!" I thought. "What is that sound? They're fucking doing it again. Christ all fucking mighty."

And so they were. The thumping, moaning and groaning had begun from exactly where it had left off.

And so it went on. Periodic bursts of sexual intercourse, short conversations, and then, a repeated process.

Like a tap that drips without rhythm, eventually the peaks and flows of this type of human behaviour is going to drive you absolutely ratty.

I mean, who the fuck talks to the bitches at intervals throughout it?

And what type of dizzy mole actually replies?

To be fair though, I gave them half an hour before I lost it.

Standing up on the bed, I pounded on the walls.

"Would you just do all of us a favour and fucking finish her off for fuck's sake!"

"I'm trying," was the reply.

"Not fucking hard enough. Get into the bitch."

More subdued now, I could quietly hear them murmur their orgasms and whisper.

Clapping, I bellowed, "Bravo! Bravo! Now- can we all just get back to our reading?"

"When he was wounded for the second time- that was in Transylvania- not only did his broken collar bone fail to heal properly, he also suffered severe shock. It had affected his hearing and his hands shook, so he always signed important papers in this manner..."

2006-05-21T04:19:00.000-07:00

More stuff Peemil thinks about.

By: Peemil.

1. It's not surprising that the Soviets marched over the Germans on the eastern front. A large group of people holding hand held rocket launchers amongst various other heavy weapons, and has been drinking most of the last few years, should be taken extremely seriously.

2. I wonder what Margaret Thatcher was like in the sack?

3. I'm going try to get the next woman I sleep with pregnant. She'll be really surprised when I bring home a rabbit, snap its neck, remove its innards and then inject her urine into its ovaries.

4. I think that if everyone started calling each other "slovenly dogs," the intellectual level of social discourse could be improved immeasurably.

5. "Meat isn't murder," I told the animal rights protester. "You know what murder is? It's abducting someone, beating them senseless, shooting them, and leaving them in a shallow grave. I for one, can't think of anything worse than eating my victims."

6. Female police officers are so uptight aren't they? They should be gracious for my offer to fuck them up the arse, in return for tearing up that ticket.

7. Sometimes when I see someone wearing a hat, I think they're telling me telepathically- "Look at me. I'm wearing a hat." I honestly don't care, and just want the voices to stop.

8. The real problem with sex, is not the act itself. It's trying to leave gracefully after wiping your dick on the curtains.

9. If I get into Heaven when I die, I don't want to be issued with a harp. Nor do I want to be given the same old white robes. What I'm really keen on, is a few beers, a comfortable sofa, some good tunes and a harem of young women with tight arses, who'll pleasure me orally till I beg to be sent to Hell.

10. I wonder if clowns ever look in the mirror when doing their make-up and think- "To hell with them! People are just going to have to accept me the way I am."

What I am sure of is this. The day a clown decides to forgo the make up and go on stage as themselves, is the day they bring a gun with them.

That is why you have to be so careful at the circus.

2006-05-20T22:17:00.000-07:00

Coors light is the tool of the devil.

By: The fingers on the keyboard.

It seems that a sad case in the States likes Coors light, but really hates putting out the garbage.

You know how some people, after they use something, just can't bear to throw it away. That might make sense if it's magazines or clothes. But what if it's empty beer cans? In astounding numbers?

When property manager Ryan Froerer got a call from a realtor last year to check on a townhouse, he knew something was up.

Ryan Froerer, Century 21: "Said it was the sickest thing he's ever seen. Just unimaginable that someone could live in that." Article.

Apparently the chap lived there for eight years, drank 24 cans a day, and couldn't part with one of them.

I know it is hard to say goodbye to an empty beer, but this is ridiculous.

Above: The "living" room.

Found via Boing Boing.

2006-05-20T12:51:00.000-07:00

OTA Weekend.

By: Igor the Donkey- Editor in Chief.

I know I haven't done this for a while, and when I have done it, it has been poorly executed. Not this time though.

Here is the drill. Send a trackback ping to this post, and I'll stick your article up.

It is a good way to get some of your articles circulating and read by others outside of your blog circle.

Because Haloscan isn't the chop, I have to manually put the articles in, which is done usually at the end of my day. Regardless, you'll still get five days on the front page, so give it a go.

Above: Something for a Sunday.

2006-05-20T11:59:00.000-07:00

Ask a Ninja.

By: The fingers on the keyboard.

2006-05-20T11:31:00.000-07:00

Three.

By: The fingers on the keyboard.

From the IT crowd.

I can't wait till the new series next year.

2006-05-20T03:14:00.000-07:00

Chilli and beer makes me happy.

By: The fingers on the keyboard.

Dear Peemil,

I've just been reading through the archives of this blog.

It's no wonder people think you're strange.

Yours,

The fingers on the keyboard.

Update: You people aren't real and I have no idea where I put the ladle.

2006-05-19T04:07:00.000-07:00

A 4/4 rhythm and a bic lighter.

By: Peemil.

Dear Marmot,

The Lord is merciful, and sends us such gracious justice.

While the boost to the numbers of mature age apprentices is modest, skilled migration is booming...[in Australia]. More than 50,000 people have arrived on temporary work visas during the past year alone. But in some cases, the hope of a new life has turned sour. In Western Australia, the 7:30 Report has uncovered the case of more than 50 Korean welders, who claim to have been misled about the jobs they would do and say their lives are in tatters. Transcript.

2006-05-18T11:49:00.000-07:00

I'll drag you to your grave.

By: The fingers on the keyboard.

This entire Kovco business has been a royal cock up hasn't it?

For our international readers, the story goes something like this.

An Australian soldier was killed in Iraq. As the story goes, as he was cleaning his pistol, it discharged, killing him.

My first reaction on hearing the news a few weeks ago, was that the soldier had killed himself. It made sense. Telling the public that an Australian soldier hadn't died in combat, but instead had decided to take his own life- isn't the best news to be giving a public who is questioning both the moral and ethical conundrum that comes from being a party to that ghastly quagmire that is Iraq, and who detest an Administration they see as corrupt, dangerous and led by a man who is a sickening example of ideology gone rampant.

President Bush is a man who walks with an arrogant swagger fed only by complete ignorance, has the intelligence of someone who requires a talking instruction manual to tie his shoes, and will most probably end his days surrounded by "yes" men, patting his back and telling him that he did a fantastic job.

It would be close to the truth to say, that if Bush is meandering through a 30% domestic approval rating, his international approval ratings are south of zero. I cannot think of one person I've met or know, that actually thinks Bush is essentially a good President, and is doing a slap up job.

However, it is not our place to tell the Americans how to run their country. God knows, the Americans really get pissed when foreigners start telling them how to run the show. Already though, somewhere in America, someone has stopped reading at the last paragraph and is heading down to the local port to board a ship and throw some cardboard cut outs of Steve Irwin and various other Australian imports into the sea.

But as you can appreciate, we live in a democracy- much like you do- and it is our right and privilege to question the nature of the world we live in. However, no one is questioning the general nature of the American-Australian alliance; it's just that no one can make heads or tails of what exactly your leaders are actually up to.

America is our "special friend-" which isn't meant to imply some bizarre homosexual prison sexual relationship. Most international citizens, are like I know some Americans to be. Completely enamoured with the ideal of America- immensely joyful when it works, and revolted beyond description when it is perverted.

It also helps if you appreciate that whatever that great country of yours does, affects us all. It isn't easy living on a planet with a giant who has periodic fits of rage, and seems to run around like a two year old on Colombian marching powder all the time.

If I could ask but this, I would be much ingratiated. Before I return to the original topic of our Australian serviceman in Iraq, would you Americans also be so kind, so as to sometimes get the joke. If I get any irate e-mails from someone in Ohio, telling me that the idea of a two year old on cocaine isn't amusing in the slightest- I'll personally go out, find a two year old, force feed them cocaine, set them lose in a toy store- or a mortar range- depending how I feel, video tape it, and post it on the Internet just to show you what a "crack" up that really would be.

As I was saying though. When this Australian soldier, who "accidentally" shot himself, came home in a coffin, his body was mixed up en route. To make matters worse, the Army refused to clarify the exact circumstances of his death, and have undertaken an investigation that will take around six months to complete. Just enough time, for everyone- except the family- to forget this little mishap.

This is politics of deceit at its finest. To compound the problem, a report detailing the entire fiasco was left behind by a brigadier on a CD in computer terminal at a Melbourne airport, and has subsequently found its way to the press.

Hilarious stuff. To confuse everything even further, the news of his death came near a public holiday in April called "Anzac Day," when Australians commemorate our war dead, who were all lost in wars of other's making. This made it impossible for the Government to quietly deal with it, move on to other politics, and continue to mind fuck the Australian public with its glowing reports on itself.

This Government need not worry though. Its power is unchallengable, given that it is facing an opposition that makes you want to bang your head repeatedly against the kitchen table while crying out to any entity merciful enough to listen.

You Americans must know what that feels like? Given the level of voter apathy in both our countries, caused by this "bite sized" media culture, where no one can read, or listen past the first paragraph, coupled with the death of intellectualism and the rise of an inwardly focused mass- who are more concerned with deriving cheap consumerist satisfaction out of their bargain Chinese made television, which spews only the clap trap of a distorted and warped reality for all to mimic- it truly is no wonder the bastards are getting away with so much.

In fact, I'll be surprised if any of you have got this far. If you have, leave a comment. Let's call it a scientific poll. Please, for the love of all that is righteous, prove me wrong.

To my thinking though, it seems that the Government has missed an important part of this entire bungle.

Given that the level of casualties in Afghanistan and Iraq have been relatively low, it is no wonder that the Army stuffed up the entire repatriation of the body.

The American repatriation system works extremely well in comparison, and this is because they've had what is essential to any good military- Practice.

Therefore, the Government should be placing the soldiers in Iraq in even greater danger. Killing more of them as it were, for the practice it affords.

And that is where our good friends, the Americans come in. We should be asking them for extra duties, volunteering our soldiers to enter some of the most dangerous streets in Baghdad, and finally, the Army needs to skip that entire course on weapons safety.

I mean, a dead soldier coming home is a lot cheaper than a live one returning. Think of the cost-benefit analysis! You don't have to go through the messy rigmarole of a hefty pension- you just throw the wife a war widow's pension and conveniently forget about them. You don't have to worry about paying the hospital expenses of veterans who seem to die with alarming frequency at a young age, and nor do you have to worry about their mental health once the army and the country is done with them.

And let's face it- By separating those who are going to live, from those who are going to die in combat, makes perfect sense given the Government's continual insistence that in all things, the market forces shall choose. The strong shall overcome, and the weak- well- they are best left to the scrapyard of history and society.

This is the type of firm handed government that would be perfect for the job. Results orientated, economy focused and forward looking. Why should future generations be burdened further?

It is so important to remain focused. Think economy, economy, economy and go, go, go! Sell everything off to the Chinese, tax everyone to the hilt, import thousands of slave labourers from overseas, and take away the jobs of thousand of Australians, all for your cold economic rationality.

Then go and build a class of arrogant pigs who preach the "Land of a Fair Go," while muttering "morons," sipping overpriced chardonnay on their obscenely priced property overlooking some peasant's hovels, and who fuck call girls who give "I could hump that arse till dawn, and still not be satisfied," a new meaning.

You pigs make me sick. May your incompetent, dishonest and arrogant corpses rot in the pits of Hades for an eternity. May you suffer the torture of one million forced circumcisions with a blunt box cutter, and have your tongues eaten by a billion maggots.

No one is asking you sons of whores to do anything more than be honest. If you, from the outset, were faithful and truthful, we'd could not but trust you. But you began a spiral of lies like every other ruling political party- And now you're all in too deep.

Drown under the weight of falsity. May every Australian politician, from both political party find themselves awoken tonight by the deathly cold hand of eternity, coming to harvest their meagre, black souls.

As for the Australian public? Hang your heads in shame. I've said it once, I'll say it again. These bastards are giving us a right shafting, and are donkey punching our submissive heads with debauched glee. There is no shame in getting angry with the political process. We do not politely ask our leaders for accountability. We demand it. Let us not forget who they are working for.

Failing that, the only thing left is the stench of failure that comes from shrugging our shoulders and pretending to either not notice or care, that will pervade our future generations, and leave a black mark against all our names.

2006-05-17T14:11:00.000-07:00

Missing: Two balls.

By: Peemil.

Above: Click on photo for video.

2006-05-17T04:16:00.000-07:00

What a great name for a girl.

By: Igor the Donkey- Editor in Chief.

We here at Where are my socks? have come into possession of an exclusive photo of Rory's newest girlfriend. We have also dug up a bizarre love letter that accompanies the photo.

In the public interest we have released these, not only to demonstrate the absolute depravity in which Rory lives, but also because, we really like doing this type of shit.

Dear Rory,

It seems like so long ago that you made my world shudder.

I lay in bed and my fingers grope down to my wet pussy, delighting in the knowledge that your cock was once there.

How does the time go so slowly everytime we are apart? It slows to a crawl, and I'm left bereft of the deep orgasmic emotion you fill me with.

I miss you my little "Rorydory."

Here is a little photo to keep you till the next time we meet.

Yours,

Sincerla.

Above: Brisbane girls.