Monday, November 29, 2021

And now, finally, reasons why "The Sangriham" is a bad name for a Sandwich

 There's a lot of good names for sandwiches out there. 

- The Ruben 

- The Club

- The BLT 

- The BLAT

- The BLAT but replace the T with a G please - what "G" sir? - I don't care, I just want to hear you say BLAG, ha ha "Blaaaaggg". 

- The Meatball Sub 

- The Number 2

These are sandwich names that have lived on in folklore, been referenced in great films, been referenced in mediocre films, and possibly even television shows (I'm not sure, I only researched films for this blog). 

We love these sandwich names. And for good reason, they are GREAT sandwich names. Solid, rich, descriptive, and sometimes, with some minor adjustments to ingredients, HILARIOUS. 

But then, oh yes... then... along comes.... The Sangriham. 


Oh it seems like a good sandwich name... at first. It starts with "the" which is PERFECT. It sounds fun, sophisticated, epic but also accessible, regal yet also a tad like an old motel which has seen better days in a town which has seen better decades. It burst onto the stage, and the stage seemed crafted for it's arrival. 

"I'll have The Sangriham", people imagined characters in films saying. Mediocre films AND great ones, and possibly even TV shows, although we didn't research that. 

"Sorry we're out of The Sangriham" we imaged the reply, in gritty dark dramas. Or "Great choice, coming right up" in witty, possibly New York or San Francisco based romantic comedies. 

Did that happen though? No it didn't. Why? Because, sadly, it turned out The Sangriham was a BAD name for a sandwich. Some even say "really" bad. 

And now finally the reasons why it is a bad name, (or as some say "really" bad) are to be revealed, exclusively here. 

The Sangriham

1. The name sort of hints that the sandwich may have ham in it. But does it? Yes. It's an optional extra. Well fuck you, I don't LIKE ham dicks. 

2. Is there just one single The Sangriham on earth? Nope. Fuck you, I wanted an exclusive. 

3. "Where's my mummy?" 

"Um, I don't know Maam, why do you ask?" 

"Well I'm not going to asks for a The Sangriham, am I. The grammar is AWFUL". 

4. Or is it the "word order" rather than the "grammar". 

5. Fuck, now that I think about it I don't think me actually knows what grammar actually is? It's not spelling, it's not punctuation, or is it both of those things? 

6. And why do people care, it's all just words. 

7. And dots and dashes and shit. 

8. Plus - dot? How the fuck did the dot get to be the "and that's final" punctuation. "I'm not going to buy a bucket of sand ever again period. They have them for free at the beach. If you bring your own bucket". Being a sentence with prime use of both the word "period" and it's punctuation representative the dot, to represent the phrase "and that's final". 

9. Fuck that - dot does not deserve this power. 

10. I mean what is a dot? Is it like the point of an arrow. Because that's the scary bit of an arrow, and I am FOR removing that. 

11. Now, "A pointless arrow", now that's a killer name for a sandwich. It's witty AND it makes you think. 

12. "The Sangriham" on the other hand would be an awesome name for a building. Possibly one where people gather. "I'll see you at The Sangriham" would be something people would say. Then they would discuss specifics, like time, dress code, and possibly details about the other people whom may be gathering there. Hell Yes! 

And lastly because. 

13. The Mustard was passed use by date. Yuck. 

Well I think we've answered this one. 

- Someone should name a building The Sangriham, with a sandwich shop, which sells a sandwich called A Pointless Arrow, and with IN date mustard. 

- Fuck off dots! 

- Blag - ha ha! 

The surprising truth about being mistaken for a beaver

Well I think it goes without saying, it's pretty dang nice to be back here, at the blog, on the blog, and for those of us who are not here, (perhaps they are over there, out the back or maybe even somewhere in the  elsewhere zone), I think we can be sure, they too are happy, to be here. 

It's nice. It's nice to be chosen to write this blog that I created. It's nice. 

I'll tell ya what is probably NOT nice though... being mistaken for a Beaver. 

Consider this: 

"Hey Beaver..." 

"Who me?"

"Yeah you, the beaver" 

"Oh sorry, I am not a beaver, I'm actually an adult human-being. Plus we are here in Australia, a country with no beavers" 

"What about at the zoo?" 

"You have me there pal - and it is definitely nice to be reminded occasionally that swift assumptions can often be wrong and harmful to my OWN self - in terms of the way they make me foolish - or worse swift to judge - or worse still something worse, like maybe a thorn in the toe, or even a toe in the thorn, no one ever thinks about it from the thorns point of view -

    'Hi I'm a thorn'

    'Here, go in a toe' 

    'What... a TOE? I can't get a rib? A kidney? Even an ankle? Give me an ankle at least man, I can't go home for Christmas and tell mum and dad I ended up as a fucking toe thorn!"

"Yeah, that's AWFUL sounding - so I thank you" 

"No, I thank YOU beaver man" 

Nope - see, I proved myself wrong. Being mistaken for a beaver is clearly actually the pathway to great learning, and is therefore great for humanity, and should in fact be the cornerstone of the educational system from now on. 

Well I think we've answered this one. 

- Being mistaken for a beaver is rad. 

- Being a thorn in a toe is fucking awful. 

- And being here on the blog is nice, even if we're not here at all but in the elsewhere zone, it's just great that that is some how also here. 

Help Save Education - Mistake an adult human for one of these TODAY 

Ps. This might be a gopher, I can't tell the difference. 

Friday, November 26, 2021

Hollywood finally explained!

Welcome to the fanatical, 

This is the blog where we’ve discovered that blogs are awesome -  and this one in particular is both awesome AND deep down in a steadfast march towards one MILLION reads, something we’d like to achieve so we could say 

“We’ve had a million reads, ACE”. 

Sometimes on the blog we check in on that quest! 

And other Times we don’t even mention the quest! 

 Which creates suspense. 

“Will it be mentioned?”

“Not sure pal” 

“Oooohhh suspenseful” 

Is how we imagine conversations about this take place. 

Sometimes we wonder if we’ll one day be invited to participate in one of these conversations, or perhaps even be sent a free ticket to a dramatic recreation of one of those conversations repurposed as a play! 

Perhaps a play full of intrigue, humor and drama that’s sure to set the avant-garde underground theater movement into full joyful hysterical glee! For finally the 21st century will have produced a play that fits nicely alongside Artaud, Bracht, Shepard and that one guy that did that thing with the banana that were not supposed to talk about publicly, only in basement coffee shops filled with intellectuals and drunks that can’t get up the stairs. 

But we have not yet been to that play yet. Which means that it hasn’t happened yet OR our tickets got lost in the mail. Which one is it? We don’t know ….


“Which one is it?”

“Not sure pal” 

“Ohhhh suspenseful” 

Is how that conversation just went down in the office. 

It was a nice change from wondering if Greg, in the legal department, brought in lunch or will be going out. 

“Which one is it?” 

“He brought it, he always brings it pal”

“Well that’s not suspenseful at ALL” 

Is how that game goes on. 

It’s not a very fun one. 

Luckily we have the old “ one MILLION reads” thing to entertain us these days. Something we’d like to achieve, because we’d get to say “we’ve had a million read, ace”. 

But what number are we up to today?

We’re on our phones and don’t know how to check. Sorry. 

“But will we find out tomorrow?”

“Maybe, or maybe the next day pal”

“Oooh suspenseful”. 

Is how the conversation just happened on the moon. 

But are they moon humans or moon aliens? 

We may never know…

The End


Ps. Wait. So that character on the show Entourage was an actor who called himself “drama”? Oh come on man, that’s silly, you can’t create any suspense that way. 

“Hey Drama I heard you got a new role, what is it comedy? Avant-garde? Drama? 

“It’s drama pal” 

“Ok, do you mean you got cast in a drama, or are you telling me your name again?”

“I don’t know pal, take your pick?”

“Ok, I take it back, the suspense right now is REAL” 

“Ok, great, maybe you stould turn this conversation into a play?” 

“That’s a great idea, should it be a comedy? Avant-garde? Drama?”


“Again, is that your advice, or are you just telling me your name again”


“Ok, I think maybe it’s the second one. Hmmm, you know what, I’ll just make it a avant-garde” 


The End 

Is how that conversation would go down. 

Pps. Oh fuck, on Entourage the character  Drama ends up as a cartoon character called Johnny Banana! This exact exchange must have happened which gave rise to that show within the show! I finally understand how TV is made. Woo hoo! 

Ppps. The number is at 9 hundred something something something. One million here we come! Ace. 

Pppps. If you want more information on the inner workings of Hollywood and/or the show Entourage , please leave your questions in the comments 

Pppps. I wonder what people will ask? 

Ppppps. Ooooh, suspenseful 

Thursday, November 25, 2021

The Society - A poem


I own a shirt 

Mine's red 

Which makes me the BEST 

Or at least better than folks who don't own a red shirt 

At least during the game "who owns the most red shirts" 

In other circles 

Such as down at the Red Shirt Society of Red Shirt Owners 

I often don't even finish in the top five best 

When it comes to red shirt owners 

Which sucks because at the Society, anyone who fails to finish in the top five 

Has to give their red shirts to the top five winners

Which is a rule that I think, 

And this might just be me, 

But I think makes it hard to crown a variety of top five most red shirt owners 

Over time 

And I didn't join the Red Shirt Society of Red Shirt Owners to AVOID variety 

I'll you THAT! 

I might make a complaint at the next "How to keep everything the same" meeting. 

Oh no no, 

At the Societies Annual "wear a red shirt, variety sucks" ball. 

OORRRR. yes yes yes 

I'll raise it next weekend at the  "No Variety, EVER, if you're looking for Variety fuck off somewhere else, cause you ain't getting it here" Sadie Hawkins Dance! 


Variety, here we come! 

The End 

Update: They didn't go for it. They actually told me to fuck off. 

It's ok though, I've joined a NEW Society. 

The Variety Society of Variety and other sorts Of Variety Society 


The uniform is BLUE! 

Wednesday, November 24, 2021

I'm talking Birds, but not just any kind, but ones that can FLY - A poem

Tilley was looking at a bird.

He was jealous of birds.

You see Birds could fly. 

At least some of them. 

And you see those were the ones that Tilley was jealous of. 

And you see, also, Tilley couldn’t fly.

Also Tilley couldn’t walk well, on account of his Rugby career resulting in many leg injuries over the years .

To be more specific he’d sustained six leg breaks, two snapped cruciate knee ligaments, three rotted out fibulas, and worst of all one nasty ingrown toenail, all over the course of four painful years.

He did score three tries too. And make literally dozens of tackles. Although for some reason those seemed to impress less people in the pub.

The “some reason” being that that stat is genuinely not very impressive.

So for Tilley, the thought of flying seemed like a dream.

Which was why he was jealous of the birds.

Also he was jealous of their feathers, they reminded him of tickling, tee he he.

But the flying was the real desire.

A wish he'd wished for at every wishing well he'd seen since before he even noticed the developing second fibular rot.

And now.

In this moment.

As he looked at this bird. 

Which COULD fly.

And with Tilley's desire and jealousy bubbling like a wishing well being boiled from a volcano below it (ultimately melting all those coins, what a waste. Who the hell digs a wishing well without first getting a full geological study done?)

This wish miraculously came true.

Tilley could suddenly fly like an eagle, that had eaten an angel, that had been conceived in the jet-stream of bee.

'Wow, ace' he thought as he soured over a majestic river leading to a beautiful deserted beach, 'this is going to make it easier to get to the Cathedral every afternoon to tell God off for never, ever, ever, EVER letting anything good happen to me, WAY easier' he thought.

'Suck on that God, you dick!' He screamed as flew like a dream over the ocean and watched a pod of orcas swim by a previously undiscovered reef which was so vibrant it made the Great Barrier look like squished cockroach. And was somehow now owned by him.

"I mean seriously, NOTHING good, EVER?" He screamed at god. 

Meanwhile the wife of the poor guy who'd sadly passed on. (Which is a nice way of saying "died"), and through his generous organ and other parts donation, had provided Tilley with TWO fresh fibulas, sat at home forlorn while STILL awaiting her thank-you card.

She was soon giggling though.

Her new beau was ticking her with a feather.

He'd just plucked it from her pet bird which had just died.

But she didn't know that yet, so our ending remains cheerful.

Cheerful as a bee sitting proud on-top a bronzed eagle sculpted from melted coins, with a smile on its face, as it watches his bee mate sucking pollen from flowers, totally unaware that two angels are fornicating in its wake.


Tuesday, November 23, 2021

The High Profile Position In The Vending Machine

Welcome to the fleeting forever expansion fantastical,

This is the blog where sometimes I post silly short stories, silly poems and other outpourings of silly silliness, and other other times we're focusing on the fact that by some miracle this blog has nearly one million reads!

This is something which I’d like to have, because then I could say stuff like “I’ve had a million reads… cool”

And I’d like to be able to say that. 

Because that seems rad. 

And being "rad" was all l aspired to be in my entire life back when I rode skateboards in my tweens in the late 80s. 

And the 80s are now themselves considered rad again

So it's total dang fate man!

Today on the count to a million we check in on how the count to a million is coming along.

Today’s stats say - It’s coming along slowly.

Which is RAD, cause I love slow things! Yay.

Consider these things that are slow…
  • Tortoises
  • Turtles
  • Other torti
  • Tonka Trucks
  • Tanya in HR in her handling of your request for Tostito brand chips to be given a more high profile position in the vending machine
  • Treadmills
  • The music of Tangerine Dreams 
  • The wait for a change of underpants when you are waiting in a portaloo
  • That one movie that was slow but really profound, 
  • Tuesdays

Now consider these things which are not slow:

  • Space ships
  • Cool cars
  • Shit cars with good engines 
  • Shit cars with shit engines dropped off cliffs 
  • Different music by Tangerine Dreams (particularly the faster songs)
  • The city of Toronto’s summer night life
  • Sky diving out of a cool car falling out of a space ship (soundtrack by Tangerine Dreams, particular the cool faster songs)

Which list is more cool? 

The second one obviously- it has the word "cool" in it THREE times. 

Plus the other list seemed to suggest you’d poo'd your pants (you hadn’t actually, you’d actually got your undies ripped when you saved a child from a BEAR! You personally fought it off, ripping your underpants in the process, but then, in a moment of inspiration and glory, you said “hey bear, why are we fighting?” and started a dialogue, which ended up solving 83% of all current bear/ human disagreements- in fact you solved bear/ human relations so brilliantly that the Bear even demanded to buy you a new pair of underpants; that’s why the wait is so slow, the first three stores he went to were sold out due to pre-hibernation stocktake sales)! 

And how do we KNOW that those "not slow" things are more cool than the things that ARE slow - because we COMPARED them to the slow things, and they compared favorably! 

So I think we've answered this one today. 

- Slow things equal rad things. 
- Because of how not slow things compare to them. 
- "How" being - favorably. 
- The count to the million reads is going along swimmingly (a slow sport)
- You personally are... Bear interrelationally BADASS!


Sunday, November 21, 2021

Like a Lump – and/ or I like mine in my neck


    It started innocently enough.

    It was yesterday afternoon, and I was about to leave to meet some people. 

     “Honey, I’m going to neck a coffee and then leave”, I said to my partner with the tired urgency of someone needing to leave, but also innocently, so the first sentence still makes sense. 

     “Ok” she replied. She was in the shower at the time. Which is irrelevant to the story. But some of you will have now pictured this in your minds. Which was not my intention at all. But I can’t remove this section now, because if I know this fact I possibly will lose my air of innocence, and I like air. 

     I was not going to take that of course. “Ok”, what was that? My statement was just “ok”. I’m not ok with “ok”; I need MORE than “ok”! And when I need more than ok, and all I get is "ok", I do what is REQUIRED. I break out into song. 

     “How do you like your coffee, I like mine in my neck” I sang. The lyrics were a clever reference to my earlier statement about necking a coffee, and the melody came out almost fully formed. 

     “How do you like YOUR coffee – I like MINE in my NECK”, I repeated the line, this time taking the almost fully formed melody, and finishing it’s formation into Beatlesq brilliance, and with guaranteed earworm POWER. 

     “Okay” my partner replied this time. I had gotten my more than "ok". 

     It had begun. 

     And once it had begun it could not be stopped - like a pebble thrown into a vast bottomless void – it mattered not that it was merely a pebble – this fucker was flying. 

    I could not stop singing it. It was catchy. It was interesting. It was absurd yet relatable. It was smart yet silly. It was the type of song that men wanted to be, and women wanted to be with. 

     Soon, it took on a life of it’s own. 

    Sailors would sing it while sailing. Bakers would sing it while baking. And candlestick makers would sing it in the car – they couldn’t sing it at work – for the air of the song exhaling from their lungs could totally fuck up the smooth excellence of a candlestick. This is why the profession has mostly died out – too many of it’s practitioners held their breathes to fatality, trying to get the PERFECT candlestick, others just got headaches and quit to become actuaries. 

    Of course once the song exploded, so too did the misinterpretations of the lyrics. 

    Coffee sales soared. So too did neck sales. 

     Some, in a fit of fresh “throat action” popularity, took up Mongolian throat singing. 

    Sadly, others tried to actually get coffee into their necks. 

    And with this, of course came the side businesses trying to cash in on the phenomenon.

    Some weeks people reported that they couldn’t go for a pee in a dark dirty alley without Russian mob figures coming out of the shadows saying “you vant neck couffee – I got beans of coffee, unswallable”. 

    Other weeks people reported that they couldn’t have sex in dark dirty alleys without smelling pee for some reason, and without Scottish mob figures coming out of the shadows saying “put away your wee willy, I have throat beans lass, you cannae swallow them”. 

    Other weeks people reported that the regional mob stereotypes should clean up their acts, AND their alleys. 

    The song’s peak had yet to hit though. It’s influence peaked one summer afternoon, when people, in a Seinfeldesq eating snickers with a knife and fork style, began inserting their coffee directly into their neck. An act that, for some reason, REALLY made Elaine in particular mad.

    She claimed the very act of slicing open ones neck and popping coffee beans in the slot made some men “unsponge worthy”. 

    So, like so many song inspired fads of the past, hit songs such as… 

     “Do the hoola hoop” 

     “It’s ear waggle time, who likes to waggle, me me me” and 

     “I don’t like Mondays, this Monday I am going to push over this bridge, oh dang it’s too heavy, I guess I’ll just go to work”. 

    Sticking coffee in your neck died out. 

    It lives on though. 

    In direct contrast to that last sentence. 

    Yes it survives, on nostalgia radio stations, - in neck coffee shops – and on the floors of candlestick maker factories, where passed out candlestick makers have oxygen starvation dreams – dreams of a better world, dreams of a world where neck coffee still lives on, which is much like this world now, but just a few weeks earlier when it was still riotously popular. 

    Ps. My partner is not in the shower anymore, so stop thinking about it ya sickos. 


A bowl full of reckoning

“I reckon” the words flipped from my mouth like a flip phone flipping off a flipping diving board set up over some pool, or perhaps the ocean, or maybe even a large bowl of soup, set up for some sort of soup diving competition, possibly facilitated by some sort of radio station, prompting even the least cynical among us to cry “if it’s on the radio, how do we even know they’re diving into soup? That might just be broth dang it, and broth aint yet soup!”

“I reckon” it felt good. Warm. Boney. A tad hydraulic. I couldn’t help but say it again. A few times. Out loud. Letting the meat of the word saunter off my tongue into the sprogets of the machine.

“I reckon”

“Oh YOU reckon”

“I sure do reckon”

“Oh say, you reckoning over there”

“I reckon I am”

The last few had elevated me. I was suddenly a British aristocrat. Sounding all British. And aristocatty.

I knew the words that were to follow were bound to be profound. For that was the exact point I had uncovered. In that moment. At that time in history. I had reckoned something, “I reckon everything said after an “I reckon” is worth paying attention to” I reckoned.

It was just a theory for now. But it felt good. As good as a soft beaker of gumption hopping into a merry field of furry friends, possibly gathering to discuss an uprising, or possibly just feasting on daisies, or possibly doing both, for who among us has not conspired to rise up while munching on the sweet petals of earths most yellow centered flower?

I needed to test the theory out. I would say “I reckon” one more time. Then I would let the next words tumble out like a gymnast on tumble day, or frankly anyone on tumble day, frankly gymnasts should piss off, they get to tumble every day, it's our turn now you bendy bastards!

“I reckon” the anticipation was like a fox, not in any particular situation, just being all fucking foxy.

“I reckon the reckoning will be FULL of people reckoning stuff!” I said, calmly, and with the passion of a jet plane’s afterbirth. I imagined how it may go down.

“What’s all that fire shit falling out of the sky?” someone may ask.

“Oh I reckon that there fire is some sort of comet” a reply may come, with folksy southern curiosity.

“Oh ya reckon do ya?” would come the challenge from a neighbor, possibly one who loved to challenge stuff, or perhaps one who had never challenged nothing in his entire life, and saw the sky on fire and thought “fuck it, it’s now or never”.

“Yeah I do reckon!”

“Well I reckon you’re full of shit. That there sky is clearly just clouds with red food coloring in them, probably from some sort of prank by some dang kids!”

“I reckon you’ll regret it if you call MY kids ‘dang’ just one more time!”

“Well I reckon your kids ARE dang – but I also reckon that’s a good thing. My kids are dipshits, and that’s a hella lot worse than dang”

“Well I’ll be, I reckon you’re on to something there. Plus I reckon 'better' is like smooth tasty butter”.

“I reckon you are definitely onto something there good neighbor – I’ll take one croissant please, slathered in better?”

“Not butter sir?”

“No need, better is like butter”

“Not in this fucking patisserie it aint, you fucking dipshit!”


            Is how I reckon the rest of that exchange would probably go. 

Yep, the reckoning sure is going to be rad. Catered too apparently! Well at least the patisserie will be open. Yay. I hope they sell daisies, that middle yellow stuff might be the best tasting yellow on earth!


The End


Ps. The fox is still being Foxy. Oooooh baby. 

Pps. Fucking radio stations and their charlatan broth/ soup fake outs, no WONDER its basically a dead medium. 

Friday, November 19, 2021

Circling The Wharf

So hello, and welcome to the blog.

For those of you new here, I figure I should introduce myself and the blog.


First off – what is a blog?

A blog is – the most single most important art form in the world, outside of maybe chalk drawings in front of wharfs - but only maybe - because those win points for irony - but lose points for lastability, which is the type of ability few even think about.  


And I’ll tell ya something, I think about the things that few people think about A LOT!


By which I mean - I think about the fact that there are things that few think about - I do not think about all those individual things, because I just don’t have the time man, I would LOVE to have the time, and I have tried to MAKE the time, 


I’ve tried all sorts of ways of making the time, such as: 


-       Scheduling

-      Inventing time extending devices powered by the sun

-      Inventing time extending devices powered by the moon

-       Inventing time extending devices powered by the time I thought I was staring at the moon but it turned out to be the sun and my eyes caught fire, and when I went to put them out in the local public pool I found out that having your eyes being on fire is FROWNED upon in some circles.

-       Those circles being round ones.

-       Also I recently found out square circles aren’t even considered circles in some circles.

-       I’d like to join a circle of intellectuals who consider ANY shaped circle to be a circle.

-       But I just can’t find one. And I have looked, god knows I have looked!

-       Looking being something I do with my eyes.

-       Oh shit that reminds me, I never put out my eye fire, aaaagghhhhha aagghhhhha agghhhhh, please please please someone hand me some water.

-       Thank you.

-       That felt good.

-       I appreciate it.

-       Want to join my isosceles triangle shaped social circle?

-       What do you mean ‘That’s not a circle’?

-       Oh fuck you dick. I wish I’d NEVER put my eye fires out with your water, I hate you I hate you, we should schedule a make up meeting.


Sorry I got distracted, that happens here. You’ll get used to it.


Second off – who am I?

I’m Dave Dang Tieck, writer, poet, miscreant, marsupial acknowledger, and all round silly nonsense joy bug monster.


I have lots of fun thoughts. I write them down sometimes. Sometimes I do it here.


Come and play. Comment. Ask me questions. Here some example questions I recommend

- Um what?

- ????

- What????


Those are just off the top of my head, so image what you could come up with by using your whole head. Frankly the top bit might be the WORST bit to come up with stuff off. I recommend coming up with stuff off your sinuses, you’ll come off smart AND breathe better.


In summation

- This is a blog

- Blogs are the best art form in the world.

- If your eyes are currently on fire then join my Isosceles Circle Club – we have FREE WATER! 

(This wharf has had six chalks drawings on it - not ONE lasted. So sad. Still - blogs for the win!)

(Million read watch - 987484!)