Fast Six: Berlin Nights (I hate myself)

I was emailed a very exciting employment opportunity today. I responded ASAP because the global financial crisis has made it very difficult for me to find work.

I've attached the employer's name and email address in case there are others out there looking for work and growing dispirited by our shrinking job market. It's heartening to know at least that there are still people out there willing to offer jobs at a time when consumer confidence is nearing all-time lows.

You know it's a good potential job when there's a line of jibberish at the very bottom of the email, typically comprised of random words generated by extracting online classic novels available in .txt format.

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Hi! Our firm has found your CV on jobboard website and thought you might be a prospective employee.

Requirements :
- Location: Australia, New Zealand
- Residency or Work-Visa: Required
- Adult age - Education: High School/College Salary : 51,000 AUD/year+bonus.

For more information, please reply back with your contact details. 

Have a nice day.

About fifty blank lines inserted

Badly he turned round up, emptied his crevasse, spilled up his voyage, and unraveled all let them, the ordinary riches meaning innumerable thirty seconds. 

Jayme Fulton 
alejandrinawwwhi@yahoo.com 

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Dear Jayme 

Thank you for your email re: employment opportunities within your organization. I am an Australian citizen of adult age with a Bachelor's degree. 

As the job description is vague, I will outline what I am seeking in a job: 

 - A pimp who doesn't beat me for longer than two hours straight. I can take a pretty decent beating for an hour and a half and my father was always proud of that, but afterwards I end up crying like a little bitch in the foetal position. Customers don't like bitches who cry, unless they specifically ask for this beforehand. I can however cry on cue by remembering the time my legal guardian killed my puppy using kitchen skewers and bolt cutters when I left the screen door open. Scratches was in so many little pieces, I couldn't even get his head stuffed for my wall, let alone the whole body. However we don't live in a tent.

 - I prefer a place of employment rather than working on the go. My experiences have shown I am MUCH more likely to be fucked over by drug dealers on the street than when I go to an established junkie's house. Yes, I am much more likely to be kidnapped and tortured for weeks on end inside a dingy residential apartment, but I am usually on drugs the whole time and that's why I'm there in the first place so I can't complain. Street sellers tend to take your money, stab you and leave you to die in the gutter on the outskirts of town. It's even worse when they rape you because it's like YOU are paying THEM for sex, and I don't know about you but I prefer it the other way around.

 - I DON'T DO SIBLINGS FOR EXTRA PAY ANYMORE. The last time this happened my brother took all the cash and ran away with my boyfriend. They also took the coffee machine with them and I can't wake up and work properly in the morning without my caffeine hit.

 - I no longer assist in shipping migrant prostitutes into developed countries as sex slaves. I'm not sure if you know this, but this is illegal. I also consider it to be very annoying as I don't understand the "Ching Chong" talk that most of them speak. They also cry for weeks, sometimes months, on end and this is very annoying. Believe it or not, it's more annoying than the sound of a starving baby crying. Abortions are so expensive nowadays.

 - I absolutely ADORE Lot Lizards. I lived in a dumpster at a truck stop for two years once and it was literally the best time of my life. After sex and forced sodomy, truckers sometimes let me play with their CB radio. It's SO MUCH fun to talk to other truckers about fake traffic accidents and road closures. One time a guy was late delivering livestock because we detoured him out into the middle of nowhere. Ha ha, no one came to help him and he ended up eating live chickens and cattle until he died of Mad Cow Disease. He was patient zero. At least that's what we told the other truckers to scare them, lol. 

If you need any further information, my spam box is ready to receive your intel. 

Ps Maybe I should have asked this sooner but YOU ARE NOT A COP ARE YOU??????? 

Cheers, 
Your loyal future employee

Alice in Desiccant Land

My entries for Cracked.com's Photoplasty competition. Title: "Famous deaths of fictional characters."

If you're not first, you're second. Sometimes.

Contest title: Rejected covers for famous novels





You get to copy and paste the link because Google doesn't like Cracked.

http://www.cracked.com/photoplasty_251_23-rejected-covers-famous-books_p23/#2

Advice Column: Ask a Stuck-Up Bitch

Dear up-yourself bitch,
I have a problem and I hope you can help. Yesterday I used my husband’s laptop when he wasn’t at home. I decided to look at his internet history and discovered he’s been looking at gay porn. I have no idea what to think and I’m terrified of what this means. Please help, Stuck-up!
Sincerely,
Too upset for words

Dear TUFW,
Lol OMG that’s hilarious! Seriously, though, is it possible you got fat and gross and he’s not attracted to you anymore? Sometimes married women let themselves go. I don’t know why they do this, they have only themselves to blame. I would SO never let myself get fat!!! Maybe if you weren't fat he wouldn't have to look at guys?

Once when I went on holidays with Chrissy we were drinking and eating for three days straight, and I put on almost two kilos! I totally cried, even though I still looked hotter than girls who were skinnier than me. I went to my fave hairdresser to get my highlights redone and just generally have a little “me time”. No better person to focus on me than the country’s best hairdresser, right?? He does Dannie Minogue’s and Andrew G’s hair, you know... when he’s not hanging out with his bestie, yours truly <3>
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Dear stuck-up bitch,
I’m at a low point in my life and I’m not sure what to do. I have everything I want – a great girlfriend, supportive parents and I got into the course I wanted at uni - but I can’t shake this depressing feeling about my future. I sometimes feel anxious too.

I am particularly worried because my older brother has been diagnosed with schizophrenia and I think it's happening to me too. I’m wondering do you know of any good (read: very discreet) places that help people who fear they have schizophrenia?
Sincerely,
Very Worried

Dear VW,
You know what I hate? When people assume that because I’m hot, blonde and a female, I can’t be funny!

The other day, on facebook, I posted a picture of me looking silly and hot. Oh, and also in the photo was my fave gay pal, Michael. I wrote underneath the photo, “My friend’s making a silly face in this photo. He told me not to post it! ;)” It was SOOOO funny because he’d seen it right after the photo was taken and was like, “OMG do NOT post this I look terrible!!!!” lol!!!

Anyway, so then I wrote, “lol sorry just yankin’ ya chain hun” to show that it was a joke and not meant to be taken the wrong way. Because I’m hot, blonde and female, some jealous people think I’m a bitch and twist my words around.

In the end I just Photoshopped him out of the pic and re-uploaded it.

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Dear stuck-up bitch,
I finally decided to succumb to the trend and joined facebook. I wanted to add my boyfriend as “in a relationship” with me, but when he was setting my account he said it wouldn’t work. Something about him not having his relationship status showing on his account? Do you think this is a lie and he doesn’t want to admit to his friends that he’s with me, or is it a genuine complaint?
Any advice would be much appreciated – I am new to facebook!
Thanks,
Facebook failer

Dear FF,
Guys can be such douchebags!!! I got the photos back from my recent vacation to New York (a little place in the U.S... maybe you’ve heard of it? :) and I told my boyfriend to Photoshop them as usual and upload them for me. Anyway, he uploaded three photos where my eye colour was natural!!! I was like, “Hello, moron, EVERY one of the 2,000+ photos I have on facebook has me with blue eyes!” He’s changed my eye colour to blue in photos often enough, how could you fucking forget something so easy as that???

One time he came home drunk from after-work drinks when I was already in bed, and I heard him rooting around in the cupboard. I woke up and said, “what the fuck are you doing?” and then I realized he was pissing in my shoe closet! I beat the absolute shit out of him that night - I mean, I just had to.

I’m sure he had a lot of fun explaining his black eye at footie practice the next morning! ;P

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Dear stuck-up bitch,
I’m in my early 20s and I go out nightclubbing a lot. I always go with my best friend Sue and we’ve always had a lot of fun. Lately though she’s been getting drunk and confrontational when we go out. She was always a little feisty, but I’m talking about starting fights with guys and bouncers! It’s really making me uncomfortable and we’re being kicked out of clubs on a regular basis now.
I really think she has a drinking problem. Should I tell her?
Thanks a lot,
Fed Up

Dear FU,

OMG one time I was at this club and I’d just bought these amazing ecstasy tablets off my drug dealer (I should add this isn’t a dodgy drug dealer, in fact he’s the top dealer in Brisbane and very rich... everything in his house is Calvin Klein, Armani, even some Harrods etc). I went into the girl’s toilets (where I looked at myself in the mirror on no less than 30 occasions) and saw that my e’s were MISSING and I must have lost them!

I was already in a bad mood because my horoscope said I would be facing great challenges that night... right it was! (I hate being a Libra, but I’m definitely on the cusp of Virgo, which helps.) Anyway, later in the night, I found my pills sitting on the steps at the back of the club! In plain sight! No one had stolen them, I couldn’t believe it! After that I had the best time, and you can see from photos of that night that I was looking unbelievably hot.

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Got a problem? You bet you do! Post a comment below and I, The Stuck-Up Bitch, will totally write back. UPDATE: It has come to my attention that some of my facebook "friends" have tagged me in photos I'm not in!! Hello, don't ride my popularity coat-tails by falsely tagging me! I know I'm hot but this is called misrepresentation, people! You may get a genuine photo with me one day, but you'll have to stand in the queue! lol

Guide to helping a non-smoker buy your smokes

1. The first thing you need to be is out of smokes, or about to be out of smokes. You notice this when your non-smoking friend announces that they are going to the shops.

2. Ask your departing non-smoking friend to wait. Then, ask them to buy you some cigarettes. Say "fine," in an exasperated voice when they start to kick up a fuss. This will help by making them retort, "fine, what am I getting you?"

3. Tell your friend you don't have any cash and they'll have to use your card to pay for the smokes separately. Tell them your password is FART and it's a savings account.

4. Tell them the brand of the smokes, but be vague with other information. When your friend says, "isn't there a number? Don't I have to say 50s or 75s or something?" Scoff at them and tell them they won't be asked for a number.

5. Sit back at home and have a relaxing glass of wine when you think of your friend trying to decide what size pack to get you when the shop assistant says, "25s or 50s?"

6. When your friend gets home, tell them they got the wrong size smokes packet.

7. Ask them for your card and receipt. Glance at the receipt and say, "how much did it cost?" in a shocked voice and then say, "Well, I didn't know you were going to the rip-off smokes place."

8. Have a smoke.

Cameron has had so many different jobs

As a Namibian bonobo trainer

After fleeing Australia when he saw a spider in his bed, Cameron settled in Namibia where he became very active in researching the local bonobo community. Living amongst missionairies and dreaming of a fairer world, Cameron became attached to Kunu, a 2-year old male bonobo who had been abandoned by his mother.

Cameron taught Kunu over 200 lexigrams and over 600 sign language signals. However, Kunu would often answer questions such as "How is Kunu today?" or "What colour is the lemon?" with a swift "you, fucked" hand signal or simply give Cameron the finger. The gorilla had not been taught this behaviour, suggesting a higher level of ape intelligence than researchers had previously estimated.

Cameron eventually left the camp when a group of gorillas ganged up on him one night and short-sheeted his bed.

Morale officer, Vietnam

Put in charge of the 7th company, it took over 600 friendly-fire fatalities for the US army to realize that Cameron had no military training whatsoever and was teaching the troops to kill the wrong side.
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However, what his comrades did find in Cameron was a unique ability to boost morale. As one 7th Company officer noted, "No one could play the Venga Boys on guitar like Cameron."

Cameron's addictive guitar melodies inspired all around him and had the ability to rid one's soul of anger. Cameron alternated his nights going between the US and Vietcong camps, strumming out such diddies as "We like to party" and "We're going to Ibiza" until sunrise where the troops finally fell asleep, happy and sated.
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People who now live in Vietnam swear that at night you can still hear Cameron strumming from over the hills, the words "Boom Boom Boom Boom, let's go back to my room" playing over and over.
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Job of someone who goes to nice weddings

A few months ago Cameron came over late at night after a wedding. I said, “how was it?” and he said, “It was a very nice wedding.” I called in Shantelle and Kelvin and told them Cameron went to a nice wedding. Kelvin asked Cameron how the reception was, and he enthused, “It was really nice, too.” From across the room, I texted Cameron saying, “been to any nice weddings lately?” and he looked up at me and said, “Fuck off.”

The four of us talked about how nice weddings were, and how nice life was in general after a nice wedding, because you get to have a nice marriage. Cameron told me to fuck off. I told him that the synonyms for “nice” include pleasant, fine, lovely and polite. I added that he looked very pleasant and polite in his dishevelled suit. He told me to fuck off.

The next morning I woke him up by asking if the wedding the night before was nice and he told me to fuck off.

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Raver Cam

Nightclubs in Brisbane's Valley favour people who spend hours dressing up to look like a cartoon character. If you do not look like a rainbow threw up on you, you are not allowed in.
Ravers can dance for hours, in some instances for up to six days straight before succumbing to dehydration, renal failure or choking on a bright pink hair extension. In order to cut back on raver deaths, nightclubs have hired Cameron to show up at around 5am on the weekends and start dancing in the middle of the floor with glow sticks. Cameron's dancing is proven to clear a dance floor on 99.8% of occasions.
Raver-related deaths decreased by 1650% under Cameron's rule.

Film extra
After missing out on the lead male role in the hit film Mr and Mrs Smith, Cameron was given a role as tupperware container #2 alongside Angelina Jolie.
Cameron was Predator #6 in Alien vs. Predator: Requiem, featured above. According to onset sources, Cameron remained in character for the 6 months it took to shoot the film. He was eventually shot 13 times by L.A. policeman when he accidentally wrapped his tentacles around a 7/11 attendant when purchasing a Jolt cola. Fortunately the bullets missed every major tentacle.

The dentist
Cameron's role as a dentist never really took off after he failed to connect with today's youth. Many patients stopped visiting Cameron's dental practice because of his persistent "Is it safe?" joke, which is lost on today's generation as they have not seen Marathon Man.
In spite of the bad jokes, I found Cameron to be at least as competent as any other dentist I've been to. Sometimes I walk to the burnt-out skeleton of the Happy Days Dental Den and imagine Cameron and I waltzing out the front of the surgery in its heyday, two happy ghosts enjoying better times and wearing dental masks.

1940s Pin-up

When Cameron lost out to Greta Garbo in the lead role of the 1935 film Anna Karenina, the public breathed a collective sigh of relief. But there were brighter times ahead for this hour-glassed Goddess, and Cameron found solace as being a pin-up girl for gas stations all over the Midwestern US.

During WWII, Cameron did the USO Show circuit where he was a big hit with his sexy ping-pong strip shows. Under the stage name "Flirty Fannie", Cameron would dance in nothing but a full-length 1940s black rubber swimsuit, revealing a tantalising strip of nude ankle and a bit of face underneath a floral swimming cap. He would then call US soldiers up onto stage and play an aggressive game of ping-pong.

By the time Hitler had committed suicide, Cameron was undefeated in ping pong after 356 competitive on-stage rubber suit-wearing games.

How to dress like Cameron

I’ve had a lot of emails asking me about my friend Cameron, who likes lap dogs, and how one can dress like him.

I’ll level with you: dressing like Cameron is not easy. A meteorologist by day (and night when he has night shifts), at heart Cameron is a fashion aficionado of the highest order and has spent decades researching historical fashion in order to get the “right look”.
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Wait, I was talking about Prince. Regarding both the questions about dressing like him and the commitment to fashion.

I think the meteorologist bit is about Cameron, but it’s possible that Prince is quite good at predicting the weather, too. He wrote the song Purple Rain which I believe is about acid rain that can kill people and make their skin turn purple, like a bunch of lesions making love to aggressive acne.



Dressing like Cameron tips:

• Your hat is your best friend. The kind of best friend that you hang out with all the time until you get drunk one night and leave your mate passed out in the car with the windows up and no food, water or clean air. You decide to ignore him, go to bed and the next day check if your best friend is alright.

He’s not. He’s covered in car dirt and sleep drool and shattered glass after a passerby decides to throw a brick through the car window.

Caps, wherever possible, must be white. This shows the dirt and rips from shattered glass best. No one likes a person who is obviously wearing new clothes, as this is an indication of frivolity and wealth.

Cameron is not frivolous, except when it comes to spending money on his latest lap dog. He prefers Pomeranians, but he is branching out now into Lhasa Apsos.

• If your shirt doesn’t say something, who will? When you’re wearing a slogan on your shirt, it’s like you’re walking around constantly screaming out your message over and over again at people.

Shouting is the best way to get your point across, except with a shirt you get to save your vocal chords and people can stare at your chest.

You can wear an Ecko brand logo instead of actual words, which tells people you like Ecko clothing because of the rhinoceros picture on your shirt. Rhinoceroses kill more people each year than terrorists do and as such you look tough.

Unfortunately, rhinoceroses can be mistaken for other creatures. Cameron found this out on a plane trip from Alabama to Vancouver, when an old Southerner lurched drunkenly towards him and said, “That ain’t no damn unicorn, is it, boy?” When Cameron explained it was a rhino, the man said, “Oh, good. I thought you were a damn queer.”



• Wear baggy pants or shorts. Your legs are used for walking and they need room to breathe. Baggy, loose-fitting clothing reduces your chance of developing genital thrush.

This is especially true in the case of pantaloons, through as Christian Rudder pointed out, nothing says “beat the crap out of me” like these beacons of comfort:

You can reduce your chances of being beaten up by writing, “My other pantaloons are hardcore” in a glittery, swirling font across the bum of your pants.

• Never, ever, EVER go anywhere without a hand puppet. Sometimes absent-minded people will forget to look at the slogan or logo on your t-shirt or pantaloons, but a hand puppet thrust in the face is impossible to ignore.

Hand puppets are an ideal way of getting rid of unsavoury characters. When I went on a road trip through Mexico, I found the best way to block the constant bartering and begging was by communicating through my fist.

That’s right, I painted a woman’s eyes and lips on my cupped hand and would only speak to street people using my hand as a puppet. My hand puppet had a messed-up quasi-Spanish accent and was called Jennifer Lopez. (Thank you, Cartman.)

Remember: Jennifer Lopez hand puppets are like snakes. People are more afraid of them than Jennifer Lopez is of other people.

A side benefit is that hand puppets draw the attention of lapdogs, especially Pomeranian-Chihuahuas.

• Shoes must always be sneakers. Make sure they’re the type of sneakers that don’t get you into nightclubs*.

Don’t double-knot your shoelaces. A single knot is easier for a friend to lean over and swiftly undo. Your friend can then say, “I’ll keep doing this until you learn to use a double knot” and you can resist this notion for up to two decades.

Instead, let the shoelaces fall limply to the ground for your lap dog to chew on.

Did you know? The ends of your shoelaces are called AGLETS and are at the top of the food pyramid for small dogs.

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* Not being let into a nightclub is an honourable defeat, especially for your friends who secretly don't feel like clubbing anyway.

List of peroxide-haired guys who aren't douchebags: Part 1*

I have spent every year of the last five minutes intensively researching this topic. After extensive trawling, street interviews and turfing potential candidates that turned out to just be Swedish, I have come up with a comprehensive list of men who manage to peroxide their hair without being ostensible douchebags.



1. James Marsters / Spike from Buffy














2. John Simm / The Master


















* For Parts II and III, see the list provided in Part I.

You have failed to produce me a male heir for the last time, woman

Woman, it now be nigh ten months since our last infant came into this world, and I learn now from my royal page that you are, once again, with child. Let me speak frankly. Half of me is filled with trembling hope that you will at last fulfill your contractual obligation and provide me with a male heir, as your parents promised me before we were wedded.

The other half of me is already wondering whether our guillotine is still in good working order and which part of the front yard is best to display your head on a spike.

Please understand I would not use such frank language unless you had pushed me thus far through your persistent and inexplicable rebelliousness against giving me a beloved son.

Oh, how clear in my memory is the soul-destroying event that was the last birth! I arose feeling fitful that morning. I dined on my customary red wine and duck, and your absence at the other end of my 12-foot-long dinner table indicated that you were, in probability, betwixt labour pains and birthing the boy who will inherit my estate and fortunes when I pass on.

The absence of news from my man, Phillip, inclined me to believe that the boy had not yet come. The nervous glances between the footmen whilst I sipped broodingly on my excellent merlot signalled to me that you were probably in the midst of travail. I finished my duck. It was good.

Afterwards I paced the marble foyer of my mighty mansion, my leather shoes clacking impatiently on the marble floor, occasionally glancing down at the reflection in my shoe buckles over the expanse of my impressive stomach. I could see that my powdered wig was slightly askew, but I barely cared.

I became aware that I was not alone. Phillip hovered nervously in the doorway. “Be gone, fool!” I screamed, ashamed to be caught in a moment of reflection, and I am embarrassed to admit I threw my muff at him. He scampered out the door, and before it slammed shut I momentarily heard the echo of your self-indulgent birthing screams. Stoically, I awaited my fate with my bejewelled fingers clasping my waistcoat, longing for an answer from God which seemingly would never come.

After what seemed like centuries, your showy production came to an end. I turned to see the midwife tentatively open the door. “The mistress is well, my Lord,” she tittered, holding her face low. I marched past the stupid curtseying woman, my cloak flailing behind me as I strode decidedly towards your private chamber.

Entering your room, I saw in my periphery you in a state of decided disarray upon the bed, your chemise disgracefully covered in blood. My infant son lay swaddled in his crib, and – no! This was no son! I turned my eyes from this abomination and took in your scandalous figure in disgust, an expression which did not fade when our eyes met. I looked upon your maidservant (whom I have bedded, by the by, on no less than 30 occasions), and sneered. “My good Sir-” the impudent woman simpered, and I turned about on my heel and moved purposefully from the room.

I marched as far away from you as my legs could take me, returning to my foyer where the paintings of my father and grandfather stared down upon me in mockery. Suddenly, my knees failed me, and I fell to the ground. “WHY????!!!!” my tortured screams rang out, echoing throughout the house as dramatic orchestral music reached a crescendo, and scattering the birds on my estate into the sky. “WHY?!?!?!?!!”

I lay some moments on the ground in the foyer, not bothering to stop the tears which marked me as a broken man. My satin waistcoat felt more like a straightjacket, and the weight of my velvet cloak was heavy upon my person. And as I whimpered, “I’m sorry, father”, at the frowning grey-haired man in the painting above my fallen head, so help me God if I didn’t wish you and your devil’s spawn dead at that very moment, woman.

You can see, I trust, what a distasteful morning this fateful day was for me. I could barely gather the presence of mind to go shooting with the hounds that afternoon. I should also add that your antics that day saw me take down no more than five ducks – which is two below my average for a typical hunting party.

It must be clear even to a female that this cannot, will not, happen again. I will not be made a fool of. Are we clear on this, woman? I quite ruined my stockings on my tragic foyer fall that morning, and they are not the only items belonging to me that are ruined by your impudence that day.

I am not privy to the knowledge of why you continually refuse to give me a male heir who will carry on my line, fulfil my hopes and dreams, and keep my estates out of the hands of my scheming cousin. I consider it fruitless to inquire into the minds (if one is to call it that) of women. I know only that your intentions are evil.

That being said, understand this. Failure to produce a male heir this time round will not go unpunished. I already have made plans to have your rose garden removed and replaced with your skewered slut’s head. The choice is yours. You can have this, or give me my son and remain alive. You may even receive a brief nod in recognition of work well done after the boy is born. I will glance with apparent impassivity upon his newborn face, and you will bring him up whilst I retire to Bath to take the waters and mix in society.

Again, woman, the choice is entirely yours.


Sincerely,
Sir Ben Affleck
(To Lady Jennifer Garner)

If I was a truck driver

I would be the world’s best middle-aged truck driver. I would be that happy overweight middle-aged guy that smiles fondly but platonically at little kids who go past in cars making that sign to pull the horn. I’d do it, of course, and give them a nice wave by flicking my mole-ridden chubby-fingered hand out the window. (I think there would be a wedding ring on my hand, even though my wife Milly left me years ago for another man because I was never home.)

I would try to be that upbeat trucker that everyone loves. Of course the Trucker Me would be a more complex character than Actual Me, and there would be sadness behind my faded smiles at times. I would treat a select few to these windows into my secretly tortured soul. Dolores, my favourite waitress, would occasionally say, “There goes a troubled man” when I walk out of her diner, but to my fellow truckers I would be all smiles.

People wouldn’t know this about me, but sometimes when I’m on the open road alone I would pretend my truck is a motorcycle, making “Vroom! Vroom!” sounds whilst I pretended to make sudden turns with the steering wheel. (This is an example of my sense of humour. I would like to make little jokes sometimes.) However I wouldn’t actually make the steering wheel turn in this example because that would be dangerous. I like to have fun but there is a line.

Sometimes my route would take me past my sister’s house and I would feel a pang of guilt. I’d consider dropping in and then discard this idea. The longer I decide not to pay a visit, the worse the guilt will get. I would eventually go see her at Christmas and her husband Ronnie would answer the door. I’d say, “How is she?” and he’d say, “Pretty much the same” and I’d go up the rickety stairs to her room. Her bed would be surrounded by heart-monitoring equipment, IV lines and her catheter. Despite what Ronnie had said, she’d seem worse than she last was, and her laboured breathing would make me flush with mixed emotions. I’d say, “How are you, pet?” and she wouldn’t answer. I’d rattle on about things we did together when we were kids, till she would look at me with wet eyes and whisper, “You never come to see me anymore.” I would race out of the house, jump into my truck and start pounding the steering wheel in frustration. I would then accidentally hit the horn and a sharp, off-tone “bleeeeeep!” would emit. I would then drive away and a few minutes later realize I’d left her Christmas present in the car.

Later in the day it would be like nothing had happened and I would hang out at the base with the other guys. Joe would walk in and I’d say, “Decided to join us?” and he’d give me a sharp look and spit, “Think I’m finished, do ya? Bullshit! I’ve got five hours left.” I would offer a sympathetic nod and would join in on a game of pool with the fellas, all the time feeling that I didn’t fit in exactly and secretly wondering what the other truckers think of me.

I would be a nice trucker who would pick up hitch-hikers with absolutely no rapey thoughts at all. Whenever a fetching young lass would be on the side of the road, I would slowly pull over and kindly offer her a lift. She would hop in, showing a bit too much thigh under her short denim skirt, and I would pretend not to notice. I would even move slightly away in my seat so that she wouldn’t think I was coming onto her. I’d ask her about herself and she’d talk, hesitantly at first, but with more enthusiasm when she begins to see me as a safe father figure. She would ask me about my wedding ring and I would tell her about Milly, about how my life on the road destroyed her. I would seem so sad and alone that my female companion would look at me with pity, but also with new eyes. I would pull over to the side of the road and take a deep breath. I would not force her to do it, but we would probably kiss then.

Unfortunately she would be headed to the big city and I will return back to my small hometown, as it was not meant to be. She will be living as a beautiful corporate office worker in New York where she is successful and happy, but whenever she saw a truck or a truck driver she would think of me.

In the end I will be content. All I will need is my truck, the open road and my Alan Jackson tape. I don’t know why South Park makes fun of him. Alan Jackson is soulful, like me, but probably with less of a good sense of humour. I wish I could check out his trucks, though. I bet they’d be awesome.

Conversation with clipboard folder guy who just came to my door

Clipboard folder guy: Hi! How’s it going? We’re from Bridgestone. Now you probably know Bridgestone because of tyres, but many people don’t know that Bridgestone is about more than tyres. We’re going door to door in the local community and letting people know all about us. We’re located down near Park Road, Milton – you know Park Road? Well, we’re just off that road. We offer people a full-body car service for almost – well, almost nothing. We’re offering (rattling off long list of options)... for just $147 for the year. That usually costs around $730 for the year, but we’re giving a discount to the local community and I wanted to let you know in case you wanted to save money on your car.

Clipboard folder guy’s friend: (Silent, staring)

Karene: I don’t own a car.

Clipboard folder guy: That’s not your Toyota in the driveway?

Karene: No. It’s my father’s car, the purple one. The dogs are barking and I’m doing work at the moment-

Clipboard folder guy (eyebrows raised): The purple one?

Karene: Ahh, maroon, whatever. The green one belongs to my friend Cameron-

Clipboard folder guy: Well, if you don’t drive, you probably don’t have much use for our services! ---
Karene: That’s right.

Clipboard folder guy: What about your flatmate?

Karene: Flatmate?

Clipboard folder guy: Cameron.

Karene: He doesn’t live here.

Clipboard folder guy: Do you maybe want to go inside and get him and we can tell him about our offer?

Karene: Look.... no. His parents decide every decision that relates to his car, anyway. He goes to his parent’s car service people, all the time. It’s a family business, they’ve been going there for decades. He’s not going to all of a sudden decide to go with someone else... and he doesn’t even live out this way. So, no.

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Clipboard folder guy: You don’t want to go and ask him?

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Karene: .... No.
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Clipboard folder guy (cheesy smile gone, leaving): OK.

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Karene: Sorry about the barking dogs.

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Clipboard folder guy: (Walks away)

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Clipboard folder guy’s friend: ..............

What sharks are like

Sharks are like seacows but more stream-lined looking and with giant teeth. For this reason, they are impressive.

* When I was a little kid I was out on a speed boat with my Dad, way off the Gold Coast. He was fishing and I was at the other end of the boat. A shark started circling our boat and I thought, "If it leaps up and kills Dad, I will be next." Our geographical distance (at opposite end of the boat) also meant it could easily go for me first, but I hoped it wouldn't.

* Normally if you get into a fight with someone, you can punch them in the stomach or chest and crack their ribs. A shark will just mock you in this situation, as they don't have ribs. However, the joke's on them: as sharks have no rib cage, on land a shark's own weight can literally crush it". Drag the shark onto the shore and sit beside it, laughing, and "cheers" your victory with a tinnie.

* I asked my friend Cameron (the guy who likes lap dogs) what he would do if a shark tried to attack him. He said it wouldn't happen because he would just punch the cunt.

* Shark-tooth necklaces are MEGA fucked. For this reason, when you search google images for "shark tooth necklace" you'll instead get a picture of a hot Mila Kunis to offset the douchebaggery of these necklaces.
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* The average shark will kill something like one in every twenty humans. The next time you're at a football match, take a look around. Nine thousand people sitting around you will one day be eaten by a shark.

* Sharks like water. If you're in water, you might be near a shark. Don't think pools are safe, either. I saw this campy dated James Bond movie where they put him in a pool and released sharks. Being alone in a pool is bad idea. If you swim with a friend, the shark might go for them first.

* The documentary Sharkwater shows sharks in a positive light and humans in a negative light. If I was a shark, I'd buy a plane ticket to Asia, cut off people's arms and make Human Arm Soup.
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* In Jaws, there's a scene where the main guy is sitting reflectively at his kitchen table, his head resting on his stretched-out arms and staring off in a drunken stupour. After a while, the camera pans to the other end of the table and you realize he's not staring at nothing, he's staring at his dog, which is seated in the other chair. The dog is staring back at him. It's gay. When Cameron and I finally make an awesome movie, this scene will occur in a montage sequence in the middle.
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* Sharks take a long time to digest food, with unwanted items never making it past the stomach. In this case, the shark will vomit the food out. This means if you get swallowed whole by a shark, you can spew your way out. Try punching the shark's punching bag organ thingy in its throat to get its gag reflex going.

* Sharks can swim to speeds of up to 19km per hour, which is kind of disappointing. You probably beat this speed circling your Woolworths car park.

* A popular myth is that sharks can't get cancer. Scientists have now found out they can. Can you imagine how funny it would be if a shark got boob cancer?

My friend who went to Great Ocean Road

This is a photo of my friend who drove along Great Ocean Road in Victoria. She took a photo of the event so she could prove it to others and also so she could look at the photo in the future and say, "Oh, that's from when I went to Great Ocean Road."

My friend really enjoyed her trip along Great Ocean Road. This is evident in her bashful smile. She didn't stand too close to the edge so you can see from the photo she's not afraid of standing at that height. Her hand is sitting on her hip with her arm stuck out in a kind of self-conscious gesture and the wind is rippling her skirt. This describes both the weather conditions and human psychological experiences featured on Great Ocean Road.

The water at Great Ocean Road is blue, and even more blue when you touch it up in Photoshop. In this photo, my friend is holding her stomach in because she's worried she'll look like she has a gut in the photo. However, she is athletic and her body issues really come from nowhere. You can see her arm is muscly enough and her boobs are pretty decent, and not just for someone her age. She may have stuffed her bra on this day, however: I can have no way of knowing. It is possible she just has misquito tits and is lying to all of us.

My friend cut her hair short a few months prior to this photo being taken. In no way did this event correspond to a preparation ritual for the Great Ocean Road trip. She didn't cut her hair off owing to religious convictions or meaingful notions, she just cut her hair off because she felt like it. She says that her hair is more manageable shorter and when you get to her age, you can't be bothered by long hair.

On her road trip crossing the Great Ocean Road, my friend changed the radio station on no less than 23 occasions. Every third time she would express renewed disgust at being unable to catch a radio signal. Her husband, who was driving, grew sick of it and put a CD in. She said, "I don't want to listen to this," and he said, "I don't want to listen to you" and there was an uncomfortable silence for about 30 minutes until they reached a petrol station. In the petrol station, her husband made a joke about the price of Coke, and my friend kind of smiled but the atmosphere was still strained. On the way back home, my friend kept thinking, "Am I doing the right thing in being with this man?" and "I could not face the possibility of sleeping with him tonight. That's a bad sign." She thought of saying something, but then she found it easier to fall asleep in the front seat.

My friend really like Great Ocean Road in this picture. You should go there.

Billies vs Cannies: The Great Debate

Last night after I watched this awesome episode Cops, I got the munchies and decided to fry some eggs. The two yellow yolks were looking at me like two eyes, and I stared down at this trippy egg-face for like, two minutes. Then I was like, "fuck this staring contest" and went into my bedroom to have a smooth cannie.

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It was then that I saw something gold and glinting under my bedroom table. I bent down to pick it up and my sunnies fell off so I couldn't see too well, and anyway I was blazed out of my mind so my vision was kinda fucked. But this wasn't like the time I thought I saw Pat Rafter at the BP. The gold thing was actually there in real life. I picked it up and wouldn't you know it, it was that cone piece I lost in 2006.

I guess I should feel like a bit of a prick since I blamed Terry for losing it. Then again, fuck Terry. He won't read this. He has a computer but he doesn't know how to use the internet. That is, unless one of you cunts tell him I wrote this. If you ever want to get decent weed off me in the future, don't fucken tell him.

Where was I? Oh yeah. I found the cone piece and I thought, "Oh, yeah, that's back from when I used to own a bong." Back in the day I made this fucking wicked swirly-coloured bong at TAFE. It was like almost opaque glass with purples and greens (lol) and shit through it. I loved that bong so much, I was so pissed when Mum found it and chucked it out. Well, that's what she says. I reckon she and Dad are secretly smoking my shit behind my back. You'd have to be stoned to stay married, I reckon.

Anyway, it got me all thinking about the bongs I've had since I was a kid, and I felt kind of emotional. I remembered the first ever bong I had, made out of a honey container. I called it Honey. My mate's dog ripped the shit out of Honey when she was a 6 months old, so I punched the cunt in the face and ended up getting reported to the RSPCA. I was a bit messed up after this but I ended up buying a new bong from Jared's mate's shop in The Valley. Cory was this awesome bong in the shape of a G.I. Joe doll. Cory could really hit the shit hard and long and he lasted about six years until some stupid slutty chick pretended to make out with him at a party and dropped him. His head snapped off and she giggled, "ooh, I decapitated him," and I muttered, "I'll decapitate you, bitch," but I didn't because she was sorta hot.

After this I moved home again because I got fired from Pizza Planet because Jason is a prick. Mum was always up in my shit at this time of my life. "Matty, get a job." "Matty, your room smells funny." "Matty, you're not doing marijuana again, are you?" With the bitch breathing down my throat, I couldn't keep a bong in the house. I walked to the shops one night and I was dying for some weed. I was thinking, "what the fuck will I do?" and then I walked into the 7/11 and bought a can of coke. Outside, I punched two holes in the tinnie with my car keys and let the coke shit just spill out. The Indian dude at 7/11 came out, all like, "You can't do that here," and I was like, "Do fucken what? Drink my coke, mate?" and he just kept shaking his head/turban and saying, "You can't do that here." I told him to fuck off and lit that shit up as an awesome cannie-bong, right there in the Sevs carpark. Walking back home was like a dream, like I was on a travelator the whole way back.

That's when I startied with cannies, and I never looked back. I know bongs look awesome and shit, but think about it. Cannies are like raw metal, raw weed and your mouth. That shit goes straight into your lungs, hard and fast. It's like the weed's become some monster from Where The Wild Things Are and it's in your chest, eating hash brownies and banging its head against your lungs. Or it's maybe ripping at your lungs with a miniature brick and then just blowing weed smoke into the bloody wound. You FEEL it, you know?

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I've seen photos of me smoking a normal bong and even though I do look cool in those photos, I can tell you right now I wasn't as stoned back then. Not sure why, but billies just don't hit you as hard.

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I remember being at Ben Primer's 14th birthday party and you can see in one pic that by the end of the night I looked almost completely sober, and I'd had about 15 billies by then. That shit was fucked up, I remember. I smoked all my weed in one night and I had to trade my Mortal Kombat: Annihilation copy to get it. If I'd had a cannie, I would have been ripped straight away, like at Mica's party last year when I broke my wrist* trying to do a keg stand.

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I guess if someone put a gun to my head and said, "smoke one of these and one only, bitch", I'd choose a cannie over a billie. Billies get you stoned enough to draw pictures of your favourite metal band but a cannie will make you want to be a better person. Last week I had a cannie and wrote a letter to Eddie McGuire, telling him to fuck off. I've lost it now but when I find it I will definitely send it. Anyone know Channel 9's address or where the fuck I'm supposed to send it?

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* For those of you who are concerned about my broken wrist, thank you but it's all good. I don't need to go to a doctor because breaks heal themselves and weed is better than any painkillers the doctor can give you. Except for strong cold and flu tablets, but they're real tight cunts about that shit nowadays. No, Naomi, I didn't break my wrist from batting off. Steve, I'm not paying you for the keg since it fucked my wrist. Sorry, bro.