It makes you wonder how they remember to breathe.

Sometimes when I am reading the paper I expect a bunch of people to run up to me and shout "SURPRISE! You're on Candid Camera!" or some shit. This is because what I am reading is ridiculous, and appears to be a massive joke dreamed up by a bunch of Fairfax executives in order to shift more copies.

Last night I had one of those exeperiences.

The most read article on smh.com today is entitled "Romantic escape ends with ticket to nowehere." The opening sentence describes the 'unbelievable nightmare' of Jennifer Clarke. This nightmare consists of being stuck in Thailand. On honeymoon. I can glean one of two reasons for this being described in such terms:

1. Jennifer discovered her new husband Adam agreed to the marriage with the sole purpose of getting a trip to Thailand to drink buckets of cheap whiskey and pick up lady-boys named Cassandra.

2. Jennifer ate a pad thai that had been sitting in a bain marie for slightly longer than Australian food safety regulations would allow, hasn't passed a motion for a week and is now desperate to get home to drink 10 litres of Metamucil.

Jennifer also commented eloquently on a bunch of other Australians refusing to pay for the accommodation they had been staying in while waiting around in tropical, nightmarish Thailand: "They are saying its not their fault all this has happened, so why should they pay?". Hey geniuses. Its not the fault of the Thai hotel operators either.

In more breathless reporting about the plight of poor Aussie battlers stranded on holiday, we are informed of the tragic situation of Luke Kennedy. He had to sit in a hotel room and watch repeat Thai television shows. I'm uncertain of what a repeat Thai television show is exactly, but it certainly sounds horrific.

The best was saved for last however, with the sad story of Leisa Chaisty. When her travel agent failed to provide her and her associates with any help, Leisa turned to Dad. Dad told her to call the embassy. Oh, yeah. She must have forgotten that Sarah from STA has little to no contact with Thai protestors jamming up the airport. Or Thai Airways management trying to facilitate the return home of hundreds of distressed Australians journeying to resort islands in the hope of fleeing endless cries of "Same same but different" and "Orange juice 10 baht" and the like.

So when you sleep soundly in your bed tonight, spare a thought for poor Jennifer, stranded on a tropical island, forced to spend a few more nights with her husband Adam. Who likes boys a little TOO much.

Oh, the humanity.

Old People.

Greetings friends and associates.

Today's sermon will be on the subject of our elder friends in the community. Nanas, Pops, Amcas, Great Aunty Bettys and the like. I recently set my own personal record for oldest person I have ever met when I hung out with a friend's great grandpa, who has managed to stick around for over 100 years. Think about it. Dede has lived through 2 world wars, 28 Turkish Prime Ministers, the birth of television, the death of television which coincided with the birth of Big Brother, and the development of little sachets that include coffee, creamer and sugar in one convenient package. Dede has some interesting stories to tell. He has seen shit. He can remember when Turkish was written in Arabic script. He tells stories that sound like they came from arthouse European films shot in black and white awarded prizes in German film festivals. He did military service in Cannakale when Anzac troops were practically still on their way home.

This got me thinking. Thanks to facebook and the popularity of blogs and shit, where any retard (myself included) can record in minute detail every insignificant event in their lives, one hundred years from now people will know far too much about OUR history. The time has come people. Go find the oldest person you know and ask them stuff about when you weren't around. Ask them ANYTHING. You may get a whole bunch of Abe Simpson style nineteen dickety two stories, and amongst all that you may find a little bit of gold. Write it down. Tell your friends. Keep it alive people, cause these people aren't going to be around for too much longer and they have stuff to say.

Onions on belts. It was the style at the time.

Faster and smarter than you.

Regular readers will remember my last rant about censorship, and also my call to the turkish courts to censor my blog instead of youtube.

Friends, the unthinkable has happened. When I tried to access my blog mere minutes ago, a notice appeared informing me that access to this website has been blocked by the Diyarbakir 1st Criminal Court of Peace. No shit. I thought 6 people read this thing, but obviously someone in far eastern Turkey is listening.

So this post serves no purpose except to say - HA. HA. HA. We have ways and means to avoid your filters, fuckers. We have been sitting in our house all day long watching stuff on youtube. I can access my blog whenever I feel like it. You guys can try and ban whatever you like, but at the end of the day we are smarter, faster and better at the internet than you. Or, some people I know are anyway. I can sit here, type whatever the fuck I feel like and you can't do anything.

Suck on that.

Your Mum's got a dick and your father's jealous: Why Turks lead the world in swearing.

Lesson 1: Covering what you already know.

You don't know it yet, but you can swear in Turkish. That irreplaceable audible pause of the English language 'Ummmmm....' translates in Turkish as that irreplaceable word for female genitalia 'Cunt'. Awesome. Thousands of Australian backpackers, not content with offending the locals with drunken renditions of Men at Work, have unknowingly been talking about vag while checking out Sultana Met.

Lesson 2: The versatility of animals

Animals, in particular the donkey, feature widely in Turkish insults. An old favourite of anyone forced onto the barely controlled madeness of İstanbul roads is to refer to anyone and everyone else on the roads as an 'eşşoğlu eşek' - son of a donkey. Recently one of my friends, following 25 beers, announced to me proudly and in English that his grandfather was a donkey. İ guess he was trying to tell me that while he was an asshole, he was only a second generation asshole, and İ should take that into account.

Lesson 3: Profanities are not only versatile and shit in English.

İ always thought the shit hitting the fan was an admirable use of language. Everytime it is used, İ can actually see shit hitting a fan and spreading across a pristine room. İ also appreciate the application of shit to everyday situations, like the operation of a fan. Turks too, have used this principle. 'Kargalar bok yemeden' translates as 'before the crows start eating shit' - or, really fucking early. 'İki ucu boklu değnek' refers to 'a cane with shit on both ends' - a big problem with no solutions. Another phrase for a fucked up situation is the classic 'Göte giren şemsiye açılmaz' - 'An umbrella inserted in the ass will not open'. And how.

Insert here.

Censorshit - a plea to the Ankara 12th Criminal Court of Peace

Friends, its been a while, but lets just say that İ have been on a top secret mission for the government that may or may not have included slipping slow acting poison to the cast of High School Musical. Keep your eyes peeled to monitor my success.

Topic for the day is: shit that you didn't think you gave a flying fuck about until it is no longer there. AKA - Youtube: the gaping hole in my life.

So, İ relocated to Turkey for a variety of reasons. 1. The kebaps in Australia are an embarassment to slowly rotating meat everywhere. 2. With the exit of J-Ho and the entry of K-Rudd, 10 years of seething anger were replaced with the kind of bland boredom only experienced by viewers of that Raymond Show and eaters of English food. 3. İ got nothing more. Needless to say, all future blogs will be broadcast live, hectic and fooly sik from Türkiye.

Getting to the point. Turkey has recently joined such luminaries such as İran, Saudi Arabia, China and İndonesia in banning Youtube. İ no longer have access to clips of girls shitting in spas, fat guys dancing or Prime Ministers picking their noses. İ thought İ didn't need access to such clips. İ thought İ could survive with conversation, books and the occassional newspaper. Oh how wrong İ was. You see, youtube has given us a chance to look into the lives of every raving lunatic with the skills to upload a video. These raving lunatics are what make life interesting. These raving lunatics give us shit to talk about over a beer. These raving lunatics deserve their 3 minutes and 43 seconds of time to cry about Britney Spears, share footage of their housemate wasted or even, god forbid, make a video about how Atatürk was really a woman with a moustache who collected Veronicas memorabilia and wanted to give İstanbul back to the Greeks.

Hey Jerks: if you want to block something, block my ears from ever having to listen to Kid Rock. Block access to any site promoting High School Musical. Block my blog for the Atatürk comments. Jesus. The possibilities are endless. But please, give me back my youtube motherfuckers....

My brother shone a laser at me while I was watching television. Can I have him arrested?

How times have changed. At last check, the things I needed to fear seemed logical. The news gave me a good reason to fear them. Terrorists, because they will blow you up. Muslims, because they are terrorists. Boat people, because they may be Muslim. Drugs, cause they are bad. And possibly Muslim. The link hasn’t been proven yet, but I’m sure Miranda Devine’s people are working on it. No, this is the dawning of a new era. Fear no longer comes wrapped in a Yasser Arafat scarf (and thank Christ for that – walking around Glebe Markets on a Saturday morning would be panic inducing), but in less easy to recognise forms. Forms such as LAAAASER POIINTERS…..

That is correct. The weapon of choice for professors and men in middle management everywhere is now officially the top of the fear list. Last night a person was spotted shining a laser at an aircraft from a police helicopter. The helicopter FLEW TO HIS HOUSE, LANDED AND ARRESTED HIM. Now, stop me if I’m wrong. Perhaps laser pointers are a threat to life as we know it. Perhaps a big group people are planning to simultaneously use their lasers to point at the moon at the same time with the intent of blowing the moon up. Perhaps laser pointers are, in fact, Muslim. I’m just saying that I find it a little ridiculous that a helicopter would land to arrest a guy for shining a red dot at a plane. I thought helicopters were used in important police business, like chasing O.J Simpson or catching Colombian drug lords or arresting The Veronicas for raping my ears with their music. Priorities people. Get some.

< Beware.

Shitties. I mean, Cities.

It’s that time of year. For months overpaid, underemployed product and institution development top-down interpersonal solutions creators (aka ‘management consultants’ aka most useless profession since time immemorial) have been analysing data in an attempt to create the ‘Most Liveable Cities in the Entire World’ list. As usual, there are no real surprises. The top ten cities seem to give the impression that to be ‘liveable’ you must be expensive, white, and full of very tall, very boring people.

< Artist's Impression of Top 10 Cities
Top of the list was Zurich, which in 1973 was th


Sorry, I momentarily lost consciousness while typing that sentence. Back to it. Switzerland scored three cities in the top ten. In my mind, Switzerland is the K-Rudd of Europe. It's very bland, very Christian, tries to be everyone’s best friend and speaks Chinese. (Well. You get the point.) Once, JUST ONCE I’d love Switzerland to start taking sides. Stand up in their observer box at the U.N and call Sarkozy a cunt. Sell plutonium to Iran. Then sell it to Israel. Then tell Ahmedinijan that Olmert said his Mum was a screamer. That’s the kind of country I would want to see topping the list. Imagine that. A bunch of shithead Swiss running around, causing wars and then retiring to their liveable cities to enjoy the lack of traffic congestion and availability of banking services. But alas, the Swiss remain boring and on top. (Not in the sexual sense. Its all missionary for those animals.)

Now, I would like to point out an apparent typo in the list. Some halfwit at Mercer accidentally put Adelaide in at number 29. I rang them this morning to point, laugh and correct the oversight. You see, Paris is at number 33. Anyhoo, IT TURNS OUT THEY WERE SERIOUS. Oh, the humanity. They placed a paddock with a church and a cricket pitch over the city of lights, the unparalleled capital of fashion and cheese and edible gastropods….. Sigh. Keep in mind, these are the same people who got paid and spent months determining that Bagdad was, in fact, the bottom of the cities surveyed for personal safety. My 3 year old cousin, who thinks that Dora the Explorer is the Queen of Australia AND Swaziland could have told them that. Next year I vote for change. Top 50 Cities You Are Most Likely To Get A Root In. Top 50 Cities Ranked By Ease With Which You Contract Salmonella. Top 50 Cities For Ladyboys. Those lists, I need.

< Wacky Adelaide residents.

Dress-ups

One of my (many) pet hates is the method with which members of my own sex approach fancy dress parties. In my mind, a fancy dress party is an excuse to go as a carrot (orange t-shirt and jeans) or, an eggplant (purple t-shirt and jeans) or, perhaps a pumpkin (2 orange t-shirts layered for a bigger vegetable effect. Oh, and jeans.)

Sadly, this is not the case for many of the hundreds of girls I have seen at various events in my short but extensive 26 year partying career. I haven’t quite worked out the philosophy behind it yet, but I imagine this is what goes through a great number of minds:


Hmm... it's Sarah's Disney party this weekend. Maybe I'll go as Snow White.


Of course, cause Snow White was a crack whore who was pimped out by the Dwarves (midgets? people of short stature? must find that out for future pc posting) until a sugar daddy came and put her up in a mansion in Hollywood till she grew old, got botox and died from an overdose of Vicodin and No-Doze.

Oh my god! Pete's Goodies & Baddies 25th is on Saturday. I'll just go as a devil.



Millions of men are now wondering whether to hedge their bets and aim for hell, or gamble on the fact that God has EE boobs and cruises around heaven in a g-banger and heels.


Thank god the theme for Jacquie's party is back to school. I don't even have to think!



Hmmm... the problem is, I quite often see school girls cruising around like this. Might leave it alone for fear of making my brain explode.



Apparently there's like, no theme for the dress up. You just go as whatever - I so know what I'm going as.



Ahh, old faithful. The Nurse that Likes to Fuck.

You get my point. It's time for a vegetable revolution, starting right now.

Conspiracy Theory #1

At the gym this morning I was watching musicmax, which sometimes rocks my world and other times makes me want to stab the veronica's eyes out, give them new eyes, and then stab them out again. After a Celine song was followed by a Deltard song (she's just so... brave) I realised that we have all been the victim of an elaborate hoax.

Fact 1: Celine faded into obscurity about the same time that Deltard arrived on the scene.

Fact 2: They both sing like they have a dead bird lodged in their throats.

Fact 3: Deltard had Hodgkinson's Disease. In Canada, where Celine is from, 'Hodgkinsons' means 'Find young Australian host body with similar dead bird voice to inhabit and re-ignite career'*

So, my conspiracy theory this week is that Deltard is, in fact, being plagued by the parasitic Celine. Check photos above for confirmation. Have you ever seen them in the same place?



*may not be fact, but my french is terrible (or 'terible' as they say) so possibly fairly close to mark.

Lunch @ miracle

I know, I know. The name of this place should have alerted me to its greatness. After Annoying Younger Brother Who Earns Twice What I Do (AYBWETWID) alerted me that there was a big asi-yan supermarche ‘miracle’ under World Square yesterday, I had to go investigate. Bread top is the bakery attached to the supermarche that makes delicious things you haven’t even thought of. Twin Sausage Bun (two mini hot dogs wrapped in sweet dough), Triple Spring Onion (what appears to be the filling of a green dumpling mixed with cheese and spread over sweet dough). Mini Porkchop Bun (tiny bun with tiny, cute, fried pork bit in bun with lettuce.) Chicken and Mushroom Donut (imagine the awesomeness). Salmond Floss Bun (this looked like fried crunchy stuff on a bun. Who knows. I’m sure its amazing.)

I chose, on the advice of AYBWETWID, the BBQ pork bun, which was like a roll filled with sweet bbq pork and onions in a ridiculous sauce. It was $1.60, and it may have been the greatest thing to ever enter my mouth (insert blow job joke here.). It was warm, salty, sweet, oiniony, soft… (continue blow job joke)

Anyway. Enough with the graphic imagery. Go check this place out. I cant explain the greatness. You could get EVERYTHING in the whole place and it would still cost less than the price of a (don’t say it, don’t say it)… big mac.

Even better, it is attached to a supermarket than has about 10 aisles, 8 of which are stocked with various noodle brands and 2 of which consist of those bizarre asi-yan snack foods that have pictures of sailor moon and pandas on the front. Even better, I think that the deli section ONLY stocks pig in all its various cuts. No shit. There was a special on pig testicles. A magical animal indeed. I explored the world of miracle and left, due to extreme poverty, only purchasing a can of ‘zero sugar cream soda’. I wasn’t aware that there was a huge market out there for a diet drink that tastes like a caramel zooper-dooper, but now that I have tried it I appreciate the demand. And would like to thank miracle for opening my eyes.

The Awesomely Retarded World of Celebrities (1)

I do realise that the title of this series could easily be replaced by that of my 'Evolutionary Failures' series, but I digress.

Bogans across the planet have been in a flutter as the show that gave many women the courage to talk about their vaginas is released as a movie in a worldwide, Manolo wearing, stupid hat donning, Cosmopolitan drinking vagina fest. Ahh..... the Sex and the City movie, complete with witty tagline - "Get Carried Away". Get it? Cause the main character is called Carrie, see. And to get carried away is a phrase often us- ah, forget it. Rest assured, it is a clever pun that perfectly matches this clever movie's polka dot heels.

In case those among you have been distracted by, I don't know, the Middle East Peace Process or elections in Zimbabwe, the movie opened this week in New York. It has since emerged that Sarah Jessica Parker, the skinny filly (horse pun intended) who stars as Carrie, wore a dress to the premiere THAT SOMEONE ELSE WORE AT SOME OTHER PARTY AT SOME OTHER TIME. I know, I know. I'll give you a minute to recover from the shock.

Better now? When questioned about the sordid affair, SJP commented:

"What they did was so short-sighted. It's just unethical and disappointing that they would allow the dress to be worn again"

I'm not even going to comment on the irony of someone talking about the wearing of a dress as being short-shighted. Nup, I got bigger fish to fry. Unethical? 6 year old kids sewing shoes in a sweatshop 22 hours a day is unethical. Using a blue travel ten when you really need a red travel ten is unethical. Passing around half frozen dumplings at yum cha is unethical. But allowing a dress to be worn more than once? Sweaty, perhaps. Completely un-newsworthy, absolutely. But unethical? I fear not, my long nosed friend.

Lunch @ Asagao

So, keeping in mind I am heading back to a country that considers foreign food to be a kebap made with a different sauce, I am right into my Asian foodstuffs at the moment. Nevermind that a $20 sushi train bill could get be 40 kebaps and a drink when I get over there, I'm willing to sacrifice the cashola for some raw fish and noodur. This morning I spent approximately 98% of my working life deciding which variety of as-iaan to get. Pho almost had it - its a shitty day, so I was thinking about some city (shitty) house pho... steaming hot, full of noodur and bean sprouts... sex in a bowl. Two things stopped me. 1. I am a girl. It has been forced upon me that if I eat carbohydrates I will turn into a fatsowhale that will never be able to fit into overpriced jeans, therefore never attracting a mate, thus depriving the world of my progeny. 2. I had no one to go with.

As a result, I ended up at Asagao sushi train on Pitt Street with my good friend Wek. The problem with working next to Makato is that it destroys all other train experiences, the quality being as awesome as it is. So, I will preface this lunch review by saying Makoto = best, but in a ruining kind of way. We started with Miso, which was good but not misoey enough for my salty desires. Secondly, we got sashimi. Small was 15 clams - only salmon. It was sweeeeeet. Really good. Soy beans kind of sucked. Small serving, too cold and watery. I was all "Hey. These things cost you $2.50 a tonne. Dont spit in my cupcake and tell me its frosting." Finished off with those sushis wrapped in tofu & a sushi covered in plastic cheese (Weird, but in a Johnny Depp dressed as Edward Scissorhands kinda way. You know that it is fundamentally awesome, so you forgive the strangeness.).

All in all, 6/10. I would have gone 7 if I didn't know that Makoto is so much more kickass; and 5 if I wasn't trying to give them points for trying despite not being Makoto. Next time, its all about teriyaki chicken which the chick next to us got and looked like Johnny Depp covered in teriyaki sauce on a plate.

Evolutionary Failures (1)

Pips in mandarins are a failure on nature's behalf. There you are chewing through citrusy sweetness when BAM! A thousand tastless hard teeth suddenly interrupt the experience. FAIL.

And of course, there is the Murphy's Law of mandarin eating. While eating more than one mandarin, the last one you eat will be full of pips. If eating a mandarin with another person, your mandarin will be full of them while the other eater sits smugly back talking about the seedless mandarin revolution, and how glad they are to be alive in such a golden age. This person is not your friend. Spit pips at them.

Lunch @ Red Roll

Today's lunch was brought to you by Red Roll. In case you don't know, Red Roll is a chain that is based on those amazing roll stands in Vietnam. Except in Sydney, they cost $6.50 instead of 20c and instead of eating it on a stool 3 cm from the ground next to a 123 year old woman you have to eat it in a crowded food court next to a guy wearing a suit with kebab juice dripping down his chin. You get the idea - its a shit version of what you would be having in Ho Chi Minh City right now.

On today, this auspicious occasion where I am merely 13 days from finishing work, I celebrated with the adding of spring to rolls. Pre rolled roll your own viet spring rolls aka "these ones" (accompanied by rolling motion) or "restaurant qualities" (after my friend the divine miss c, who is the master). Anyhoo, I got bbq pork flavour accompanied by a thing of that brown tasty dipping sauce. Now, I dont want to complain, but the rolls at this place are clearly made with whitey in mind. A truly excellent viet spring roll should be delicious without sauce. The sauce should be a sweet extra on the side. Today's efforts - I think I must have ordered wrong - I thought I asked for spring rolls, but evidently I mistakenly asked for bubble wrap drowning in sauce.

4/10. Next time get the bread rolls. You dont win friends with srping rolls at this joint.

Welcome Back

So, it's been months since my first blog. And I admit, that was slightly lame to start off all keen , write one post, and then abandon my new chosen career. Well, fuck you, cause I do what I want.

But I'm back, and following inspiration from the greatest female blogger on the planet right now Jo-Blogs I have decided to re-enter and keep you up to date with various goings on.

In awesomely awesome news, I'm very happy about the existence of tribes in South America who have yet to make contact with the slowly festering disgrace that is Western Civillization. Watching a bunch of orange and black tribesmen try and shoot arrows at the big silver god bird sent to destroy their modest collection of huts was the highlight of my week. It was like Encino Man and Big Borther rolled into one. Except, instead of Brendan Fraser and annoying bogans it was REAL LIFE CAVE MEN who probably say ooga-booga and have never seen a picture of Britney Spears in their lives. I admit it. I’m jealous. Orange people in remote jungle have never had to listen to Tony Abbott or read anything written by Miranda Devine. Orange people in remote jungle will never know the murderous rage that comes with watching Jackie-Oy and Dickhole Phil. I want to be orange people. Give me a box of crampons and a kilo of Jamon and I’d be there tomorrow.

English Television

The English have made very few valid contributions to the advancement of our species. The Royal Family, English breakfast, shit weather, bad dentistry etc..

They can, however, do television. The following shows are English and they rock.

1. Airline - feral easyjet hosties get yelled at by French people while wearing fluro orange scrunchies. Drunk hooligans get ejected from flights. Slutty hosties pash on at cheap nightclubs in Gatwick. AWESOME.

2. Location, Location, Location - fat chick and guy with speech impediment find houses for anal newlyweds.

3. Relocation Relocation - fat chick and guy with speech impediment find TWO houses for anal newlyweds.

4. The Sooty Show - pedophile shares house with Bear, Dog and Panda. Dog has a squeaky nose. Hilarity ensues.