Friday, May 4, 2018
Congratulations, you did it, you put on a shirt today (please ignore this congratulations if you have instead put on some different form of top side of body practical clothing option. For YOUR personal congratulations please wait for the appropriate blog to reach your beautiful eyes shortly, or longly, depending on your top side of body clothing choice of choice).
But is it a good shirt? I don’t know. I can’t see it. But also, of course it is. Shirts are ace. I wear them frequently. Sometimes even when I’m asked instead to wear a spray of tiny cut up pieces of glass. Which is, at best, only my third favorite type of top side of body cover.
So let’s just brass tax this bad boy out down to the facts Jackson - shirts are awesome.
Yet. YET. Would this kick ass shirt your wearing have made it so close to the top if it had have taken on a different profession?
Probably, right? If you’re good at stuff you’re probably good at other stuff too. Like I’m good at writing random made up words which don’t fit the gulupital nature of the current sentence. So it stands to reason that I’d also be great at hiding giraffes under air conditioning vents, right? So I’ll probably just do that one day, and be honored for my contributions in helping giraffes live in homes without paying market rent.
Still, I’m here to tell you, it’s not ALWAYS the same deal with your shirts.
The point is, obviously, that before you reassign your shirt to be an airplane, here are some signs that this shirt in particular may, shock horror, make a BAD airplane.
1. None of the buttons hold the current Federal Aviation requirements in regards to jet-fuel.
2. The sunglasses dangling off the v-neck are NOT aviators.
3. You ask for a lift to the airport and the response is anything other than 'fuck off, it's my ONE day off'.
4. Less than 80% of its seats armrests host working headphone jacks.
5. If you spill poop on it, it doesn’t just suck it into the engine with a mighty force that seems to come from as deep as hell and then spray it all over the Atlantic.
6. It’s sixteen tones of geniusly crafted steel and advanced computer technology, but shaped more like a boat than a plane.
So there you go.
If you ended up with a good plane congrats! Kaboom.
If not bad luck, but at least be thankful you didn’t end up wearing a spray of tiny broken up pieces of glass, you got a shirt damn it, and shirts are ace!
Thursday, April 12, 2018
Hello lovely people. This is my/ our melbourne international comedy festival show. We like it. Audiences are having an absolute ball. The show is a beautiful explosion of diamond encrusted joy. But social media hates us. And has banned us. Our theory is that Zuckerberg was called a dickhead a lot at school. Anyways... this is us. Hopefully we’ve circumnavigated the algorithm of lack of genuine intelligence and/ or continued to fail :)
Saturday, January 27, 2018
Oh great Trump was in the news again today. Can you believe he did that thing he did? Yes THAT!
Now he’s going to show up in conversation, and I’ll have to talk about him. And oh yes, I just LOVE talking about Trump. Eye roll.
I was chatting about him with a family member last week and it lead to us getting into a fist fight, and now this family member has one human eye and one pig eye.
I mean he had the pig eye before the fight too, miracle surgery actually, but it’s hard to punch someone with a pig eye, because bacon smelling juice pops out with every blow, and you get that on your shirt, and next thing you know hamburgers are following you around saying ‘hey that’s mine dick’ and you’re like, ‘I didn’t steal your bacon, I swear’ and they’re like ‘then why do you smell of bacon’ and you’re like ‘because I punched a guy with a pig eye’ and the hamburger is like ‘really plausible dick, only an asshole would punch a pig eyed man!’
And he’s right. I don’t like punching anyone, but Trump just riles people up, and the thing was this family member and I agreed, Trumps ties are too long, depending on the day your referencing, sometimes he’s not even wearing ties, fuckin’ Trump. How is anyone supposed to have a civil in-depth discussion on male business fashion if he won’t even wear a too long tie everyday? Especially when you’re talking to someone who can’t show their sarcasm because they can’t physically eye roll with a pig eye! Fuck you Trump!
Now because of you I have a hamburger pacing up and down outside my house, and you call the cops and they just say ‘if he bites you, just bite him back’ and I’m like ‘yeah right, he doesn’t even have bacon, that’s not the most delicious type of burger!’
Thursday, January 25, 2018
Frankly I’m sick of the arguing.
I HATE arguing.
Plus it makes me sick.
And I HATE being sick.
So I’ll just settle it once and for all.
Which is a better term than ‘four all’.
Because what if you’re a three?
Aren’t you still part of ‘all’?
Here’s the point you all clamored here to read...
Flu rockets are BETTER than note pads made out of dried out baby wipes!
Yes they are.
YES they are.
And I’ll tell you why.
Don’t get me wrong.
Ha ha. Like I’d use a made up word.
So don’t fucking get me ‘wrong’ got it?
Because, look, ok, I get it.
I’m not a moron.
I know note pads are important. How else would notes be written down?
Except on all the other ways they can be written down.
Which number the many.
Possibly even the many, many.
Which is fun to say.
Almost as fun as mony, mony.
Which is a very different saying than money, money.
In that the fact is factual that ‘mony, mony’ includes up to, and as many as TWO words that don’t mean a thing, and therefore don’t exist.
And that’s something that MATTERS ok?
Because I just proved the existence of the non-existent.
So suck on that so called ‘science type sciency type types’.
You’ve been superseded.
My FAVORITE type of sceded.
And yeah. Baby wipes?
Dried out ones no less?
How poetically sad.
I won’t ignore that.
I CAN’T ignore it.
Do they even exist?
And if so, how come my ‘hearts for sale’ business never took off.
I mean we sold several dozen hearts. But was it worth the effort it took to have them donated to us by people who’d stumbled across them at drive-thru diners?
Probably not. Because there just aren’t enough of those any more.
And I hate being sad because of nostalgia.
It breaks my heart.
Rendering it worthless.
The point is.
Flu fucking rockets.
Those are two words I arbitrarily jammed together to start this essay, so I can argue some moronic crap.
Or three words if you count the ‘fucking’.
And who wouldn’t?
So yeah, that matters people.
And things that matter are important.
And importants is something I believe in.
In fact I often think that nothing is more importants than that!
Except for maybe REAL Flu Rockets.
Which I’m pretty sure exist.
And I’m pretty sure will one day be used in some arguably evil biochemical war, that just did not quite live up to its endemic like horror that we all feared.
I mean the flu freakin’ sucks and all.
And yeah it does kill, so don’t fucking underplay it.
But still, it’s not as bad as say, you know, a enphansema endaplay outbreak rocket.
I mean haven’t we already talked about words that aren’t real!
Who fucking cares!
Ps. This esssay was brought to you by - things that make sense.
Don’t you hate it?
Yes you do.
Who needs it?
You know what?
I think we just joined the same page.
How poetically beautiful.
WAY better than being sick with the flu!
Pps. These ramblings are brought to you by ‘editing’. How poetically sad.
Ppps. Ironic smile :)
Thursday, January 11, 2018
Today was an intriguing day everybody. Woo hoo.
Because, you see, I discovered the truth behind bottle caps!
“Woo hoo. Finally!” I hear you yell, in your beautiful throaty cheers right from your beautifully throaty thoughts.
But it gets even better.
This truth I’ve discovered was not just the mild truth. No way, no how, I discovered the spicy truth.
“Woo hoo. Fantastical” I hear you squeal, in your beautiful glass shattering whelp, right from your beautifully whelpy brains.
But it get’s even better.
This truth I discovered was not just not the mild truth but also not just the spicy truth, because the level of fire in this spice was super fiery and this fire came in a convenient saucy sauce.
“Woo hoo. Fantabulous” I hear you shriek, in that suddenly brain damagingly piecing way, right from your brain damagingly piecing brains.
You see this isn’t any kind of truth. No no no.
This is the kind of truth that if you drank a bottle of it, you’d want to hope you were filming it for you-tube, or elsewhere in the video sharing interwebs that could be considered similar, and you would damn hope that you’d get a lot of views for drinking that much fiery sauce of truth. And yet you decided to do it on a street corner? Are you mad? Good luck getting lots of views filming it from there. Unless it’s a super busy street corner. Which of course almost all are. God damn traffic!
This is the kind of truth that if you snorted a field of it, you’d want to hope aliens were watching you, readying to attack, only to think “hmmmm, those are some damn strong nostrils, that can snort up a whole field of ANYTHING, and seeing as we are aliens which are made of nothing but wafting freshly baked cookie clouds, maybe we should consider another day for the attack, perhaps when this bad ass motherfucker gets a cold, or at least is on a strict ‘no smelling cookie wafts diet’, which I heard actually is great for shifting weight, just as long as you don’t go near a mall where they have a freshly baked cookie kiosk, and why on earth would you ever visit a mall without one? My god, why on earth indeed. Let’s fuck off to a better planet, this one is fucked. Damn god damn dieters.
THIS is the kind of truth that if you ever even considered filling a pool with it, and then demonstrating your new found love of sitting in a sauna for so long, that you become so dehydrated that your skin become stiff like the skin of a pig that’s been basted over a fire pit for six months, because intruders came and stole the pants of all those at the luau and everyone is starving, but way too self-conscious to eat in front of a group with no pants, and so everyone is desperately attempting to bully their leg hairs into growing into the shape of perfect shorts, and then hope to pretend to be a top half human, bottom half monkey, that’s shaved it’s legs below the knee, in hope of passing itself off as a top half human, first half of bottom half monkey, and bottom half of bottom half human, so it can eat some fucking pig without anyone looking at it weird, and then you hope to take that disgusting dehydrated thick rash you claim is your skin, and dive in and with plans to soak it in said pool, hoping it would then suck up all that sweet, sweet liquid and you could finally be credited with discovering a new way of cramming liquid into a body, and finally one which is dominated by something other than some gross orifice sucking shit up? But are you crazy? As if the lifeguard will let you dive in? There is a clear ‘no diving sign’; do you really think you can get past that kind of epic security? God damn fucking god damn rule sticklers.
“Woo hoo. Fanfuckutabalicous” I hear you bellow, right from the depths of some hollow part of your body which is so seriously deep that you should be worried that your beautiful brain is on tour down there, I mean we all like to see our brains go on tour from time to time, but stay safe please.
That’s right. The bottle cap truth has been found. By me. Right here. Right now. In all it’s glory.
So yeah, BOTTLE CAPS, guess what…
So yeah, BOTTLE CAPS, guess what…
The truth is, that it turns out, that they go best on… bottles!
Woo hoo. Fabulociticy.
Don’t you just love it when things make perfect sense!