Something was wrong

There was a log on the fire. 

A wooden log.

That's the first thing that made me think something was wrong. 

The second thing was that the fire was in the living room.

On a table. 

A wooden table. 

We were already at two things that made me think something was wrong. 

But thinking is not knowing. 

The third thing that made me think that something might be wrong was that there were seventeen people around the fire chanting 'kill the resident, kill the resident, kill the resident'.

Seventeen adult people.

Which is the oldest category of people around.

Unless you count sub-classes.

The forth thing that made me think something may be wrong was that I WAS the resident.

Now I know what you're thinking.

'You didn't know that you were a resident before you heard that?'

Also 

'You noticed the log on the fire before you noticed the seventeen chanters?'

Well I have a powerful response to that. 

The fifth thing that made me think something was wrong was that I observed that my noticing things was a little off. 

Wayward even. 

The sixth thing that made me think something was wrong was that if I observed that my noticing things was tad off, wayward even, then clearly my observation skills were as strong as ever, so perhaps I was being a little judgmental of my own skills. 

There was ambiguity. Ambiguity isn't knowing. Why feel bad when the thing you are feeling bad about isn't even definitely true?

The seventh thing that made me think something was wrong was that there was a noose hanging from the rafters.  With three bloody slain goats hanging around it with the blood dripping into a giant pit in the shape of pentagram. 

'Seriously you noticed the log before you noticed that'? I hear you asking. 

Well I have a powerful response to that. 

The eighth thing that made me think something was wrong was that the fire had given off smoke, and some of that had gotten into my eyes, which were now a tad watery! Which although was unpleasant, was a bit of a relief as it was another sign that there was a chance that while my noticing skills were a tad askew, wayward even, my observational skills were still potentially fine. 

Less of a relief however was that I now had eight things that made me think something was wrong. I have a stern rule in my life 'while thinking is not knowing, if there are eight signs of something, then it's ok to get worried and/ or excited, depending on the nature of the thing in question'. 

I don't like getting worried so I chose to get excited! So I joined the chanting, and we hung a rat which was also a resident. It was tough because they have little necks. But his final words were pretty inspiring: 

'I'm ready to go, all the cheese is melted anyway, and I prefer mine raw'.

So it all worked out in the end. Other than my half my house burning down, and them all leaving it to me to clean up the pentagram. But on the plus side, goat and rat kababs for everyone! With MELTED cheese!

 

Naked girl watching Dave

Around four and a half years ago my best mate Goshie was facing a horrifically disgusting reality. He was turning thirty. Oh god, the repulsion.

He was obviously not looking forward to it at all, seeing as it’s basically the worst day of your life up until then, so to ease the pain he decided that on this particular day he needed to be partaking in his passion, land based game rock fishing. He booked himself a long trip in some of the best land based game fishing spots in the world in Northern Australia, and set of on an adventure of fish pulse stopping, and thirty forgetting fun.

Then he broke his ankle.

This may sound weird, but in rock fishing you NEED your ankle, you are standing on uneven ground all day fighting fish the size of a human that zig and zag in every direction including left, yes LEFT, and left, from memory was one of the two directions he had the most trouble moving.

He had his mate literally piggyback him to the ledge and back a couple of times, a considerable feat on its own (wait did I just unintentionally make a quip about my mates weight?) but he was in too much pain, physical and emotional. So he gave up on the fishing and instead tried to drown his sorrows the only way he could in a remote coastal place where everything even slightly entertaining required the ability to walk, that’s right, he sat around drinking beer all day.

Then he got gout.

In drinking you NEED not to have gout, because it’s some weird disease that Mother Nature coughed up where your body can handle this amount of alcohol normally, but because your injured in your foot somewhere (I believe it has to be the foot) it purposely attacks that injury in a cruel and painful way. It’s Mothers Natures way of trying to get given a really nasty word associated with her (cunt) because she feels like she is way more badass than her reputation states.

Goshie was unhappy, and was forced against all his desires to come home early, in fact as it worked out he flew in on the very morning of his thirtieth eve, a broken man, in the ankle, in the heart, and diseasingly (a word that absolutely should exist, why does everyone have to be ‘riddled’ with disease, rather than ‘broken diseasingly’ you break your arm, you break your toaster, why not your diseasinglyness?)

As his best friend of nearly twenties years it was up to me to save the day. I had one afternoon to throw him the best thirtieth birthday party he could imagine, with absolutely no time to prepare or really think about at all, and knowing half his best mates were still in the North fishing.

There was only one thing for it; I had to get him a pony.

No wait, this is 30, not 28; I had to get him a stripper.

I made a few phone calls, only getting a start well into the afternoon when I discovered he was in town, and rallied a few boys, and found a stripper company willing to send me ‘whatever they could scrape up’.

A few hours later the boys and I sat around talking, drinking a few beers, and trying to have fun, when abruptly the buzzer rang, someone was at the door. I ran down stairs, met a surprisingly cute girl, paid her in advance in cash, then ushered her in to the utterly shocked Goshie.

Ten minutes later she stuck a lollypop in her vagina and then in his mouth. We still have it today! It hangs in a zip lock bag from my wall mounted CD rack and is a proud reminder of a fun night. It’s oozed a bit into the corner, and if you fondle it you will discover a texture that is unlike anything on earth, and that’s cool.

Four years later a backpacker from England who was staying in the weird hostel I call my living room every summer offered to eat it for a hundred dollars, and after we enthusiastically threw cash into a pile filling it to a hundred in mere moments, we all looked at each other with the same look in our eyes ‘seriously dudes, that is part of what makes this home such a wonderful home, we can’t lose that now, merely to watch some dude humiliated and probably being broken diseasingly’ and we pulled our money back out and said out loud ‘this place is a weird utopia, lets not destroy that, and did you guys all also think “broken diseasingly?” because that’s awesome, we all just independently coined a phrase, how magic is that lollypop!’ Also, now that we think about it, the cure to gonorrhea is probably in that bag.

Four months after the day the lollypop entered our hallowed lives and it was my own personal thirtieth birthday, I was broken emotionally, not physically or diseasingly, but being broken emotionally is horrible.

My best mate Goshie of more than twenty years knew it was up to him to save the day. He made a few phone calls, and as much as he tried to hide it, I knew what was coming, and I was ushered into past the hillness with a stripper of my own humiliating me on my own floor. I didn’t get a lollipop in the mouth or my pubes burned with a candle (as Goshie also copped) but I had plenty of stuff done to me with my clothes pulled off and beads taken out of her vagina and rubbed all over my face and my body covered in shaving cream rubbed all over me from her huge fake, scarred boobs. The point was though, two make a pattern, and a pattern in this household create a house rule:

If a person is living in my humble abode when they pass the magic age of thirty, they must, I repeat must, be subjected to a stripper.

This rule, one of many in this household, has had various reactions. Most protest ‘I don’t actually want a stripper guys’ is often cried
‘It’s not for you, you idiot, it is for the guys to watch you humiliated, you don’t get a say’ is boasted back.

One guy, the formable man known as the Green, protested years in advance, and then moved out just before his thirtieth, and now is getting married and is refusing to have a bucks party or even a best man, so NO strippers, ‘It’s not for you, you idiot, it is for the guys to watch you humiliated, what are you, broken diseasingly?’

Greenie escaped, but he was going to be the only one. The rule couldn’t possibly be hand carved into stone until a third took place, and thankfully the awesome ‘The Vibe’, the newest roommate to our crazy world, turned thirty this past Monday.

By the way – Fun Fact: A shocking 33% of teenagers think you can get HIV from kissing! You can only get it from sex with monkeys, or licking newspaper ink, you idiots.

The Vibe new this was coming. We had been talking about it since he first moved in, and had fought through numerous amounts of protesting, and a small amount of trying to figure out a day it could take place where we could have a big bunch of boys and no one particularly religious (or female) would be in the house.

Last week the clouds aligned, and it was the day that would end at midnight with him turning thirty (a horrible, despicable day). We had tried to fire up the boys by telling them that if we had enough coming, and contributing cash, then we’d get a lesbian double act. We spent a couple of fun days looking up all the websites showing the ‘we promise they’re real’ pictures of the girls, and we began our count down of making fun and salivating (mostly making fun – are you going to get a lollypop The Vibe?)

Game day arrived. We still hadn’t gotten any concrete numbers of revelers, which means we still hadn’t made any bookings, and as the crucial hour arrived our numbers seemed pathetically small. Ok, no lesbian double, but we need to order.

I decided to do this online, both because I hate calling up to order pizza, let alone to ask for a girl to come and violate herself, and also because I kind of liked the idea that I could order a girl the way I order a book from Amazon.com. A couple of us sat around, tried to think about what the birthday boy would most be attracted to, and then mostly just thought about what we would most like, and a little while later we had made our order with our top three choices just waiting to hear back with who they were sending us.

So we waited.

And waited.

And ordered and ate pizza.

Then waited.

We had heard nothing. Holy crap. I went against my shyness and called the company up. I got yelled at for trying to order online on the same day, and then meekly complained back that the website should be designed to say that rather than take my order and give me back a conformation, and she barely apologized, but all around it was a fucking disaster. People were due to arrive in an hour or two and we had nothing organized. Holy crap.

We scrambled on the net. I called up another and they had no one. Then, masking my shyness by trying to tell another mate of mine how cool it was to order up a strip strip, I handed him another number and he called up, they said they had someone and it was all booked in, with a request for a curvy blonde. Phew.

The boys began to arrive. We sat around drinking beer, and eating pizza. A couple of girls joined in and we allowed them to, to fill up the numbers, and one housemate tried to get us to not tell his girlfriend what was going on, a façade overthrown by the stadium nature of the way we had set up the furniture, and in the end she joined in too.

The time had arrived. We got the call and me and another mate went to meet her at her van. She grabbed the attention of the eye immediately, wearing a tiny skirt, tight little top, and only after running the eyes up and down her body a couple of times did we noticed her face and the got the real sense of being worn out by drugs and hard living. We also noticed that she was a petite brunette rather than curvy blonde, and having looked on the website further I am now pretty sure she is the only girl that’s on the roster that actually works there.

She climbed out of the van with the line ‘Oh damn I forgot to put panties on’. I walked though the lobby thinking ‘I wish the floor was made of glass’ before ‘oh wait, I don’t need a mirror, she’ll be jamming that thing in my face in a couple of minutes. In the elevator she asked us for drugs and told us a drug anecdote, and told us over and over she had to drag herself out of bed to do this (it was 8pm when we called) I wanted to judge, but look who we were in this transaction.

Now having a stripper in your apartment is a weird thing for a guy. As men we spend 90% of our time trying to get clothes off a girl or imagining what it would have looked like if we had not inevitably failed. Now you have a girl you know is taking it off. It’s like a spending years studying to become a pilot and then discovering you can fly like superman. It just snaps a weird place in the brain, the part where you hold morals, and a great respect for women, and where you remember all your internet passwords.

She went in back to get ready (put on panties – seriously that was all she had to do to get ready), this may sound weird but in stripping you don’t need panties, then she downed a shot of scotch she had requested, put on her music and began.

I won’t give too detailed a description of what happened, that’s not what this blog was about, but here are some bullet points.

- She made jokes about being shy and nervous
- She danced a bit, but mostly on the ground with her showing off her flexibility
- She grinded with the birthday boy as she took off her clothes and had him motor boat her
- She then got very naked
- Made sure everyone got to see what a vagina looks like when the girl has her legs behind her head
- She asked everyone in the room if they had any drugs she could have with her eyes
- She asked everyone in the room if they had any drugs she could have with her vagina (way more vocal that eyes)
- She nicknamed a guy ‘wolfman’
- She made sure to play up to not just the birthday boy, but the sexual deviants, the dude she would choose to have sex with out of all of us, the dude trying to stay in the shadows, and a dude she only saw in an acid flashback
- The then pummeled herself with a dildo, then got birthday boy to do it, then got the dude she would have sex with out of all of us do it
- She ignored a guy clearly taking mental pictures to masturbate to later
- The she abruptly stopped in a shy, awkward way
- She asked for a round of applause
- She went into the kitchen and poached some eggs that she ate with her butt crack

That last one is a lie, but all in all it was a beautiful sight, of course. She did have an amazing body. Yet truth be told it is very much not a sexual thing. It’s more like the Northern Lights over Alaska, beautiful yes, but also clouded by your brain not being able to quite comprehend what you’re looking at.

Also it’s hilarious. You are seeing your friends do things to a naked women that you never thought you’d see, and in front of room of people, and in a couple of examples in front of their girlfriends. It’s hilarious like a bad horror movie; it’s too surreal to take seriously so instead you take it humorously.

After she finished, and as she put on her clothes she asked who painted the pictures on my walls. It is I, and as she walked over to some of them to look at closer she told me about a few of her artistic endeavors as well. She has a passion for painting dead rock stars, something I found immensely cool. She told me an awesome story about how she knew someone who worked at the hotel where Michael Hutchinson of INXS accidently killed himself in a horrible masturbation accident, and how she had pulled a favor to go photograph the room where it happened, and while doing so her Ipod shuffle randomly played an INXS song, and half way through it got stuck. Spooky.

Having bonded over art I gave her a signed copy of my book, something these days I do quite a lot, but there is a weird closeness you feel for someone who has just performed something so intimate in front of you. It reminded me of the first acting scenes I did where my character was in love with my scene partner and how that even in a short time the acted feeling bled into the real me. It’s weird, and warm, and nice, and totally explains to me why so many co-stars end up dating but in a way that doesn’t last. As we chatted one of my other friends came and gave her his business card with the explanation ‘if you ever want to hang out?’

She had a bit of a read from my book, and realizing that my book is titled ‘Losing my virginity 52 times’ she felt the courage to ask ‘was one of them doing it in the butt’ then over the next few minutes she made several out loud confessions to me that she’d never had ‘anything in the butt, not even a finger’.

Her time was up, I walked her out, and in the elevator she again told me she’d never had anything in her butt, only this time (in my imagination) not so much saying it, but asking if I could do it to her. Then the prematurely worn out bits of her face started singing to me ‘you can do her in the butt for some drugs, you can do her in the butt for some drugs’ over and over to the tune of ‘she’ll be coming around the mountain when she comes’.

I walked her to her van, said goodbye, and then stayed up with some of the boys till sunrise as we welcomed a new friend into the over-our-best zone of being thirty, by playing each other all of our favorite songs. It was really nice, and somber, and sad, but at least we didn’t have the pain of knowing people wanted to see us naked so bad they’d pay us. I just wish we now had a new souvenir lollypop on the wall, that way we could allow a backpacker to eat it.

This is how to fly

It’s pilot season in America – the time when networks and cable TV stations in the United States decide what new shows will go into production for at least one episode, and also when the casting for said shows happen.

Now when times are shit the sitcom responds, and as we speak apparently times are shit (I’ve been partying and drinking too hard to know if ‘apparently’ means ‘friggin’) (Probably note. Friggin isn’t really a word).

As new sitcoms are likely to be amongst the most popular new shows to at least get a pilot there is something that we must all accept.

It’s time to talk tokens.

Every sitcom has at least one token character. A character who is chosen clearly to represent a different point of view, or minority group, or personality type from the ‘normal’ citizen.

Over the years there have been many, many from the geniusly named ‘Token Black’ from ‘South Park’. To token successfully sluty men like ‘Barney’ from ‘How I met your mother’, ‘Joey’ from ‘Friends’, or even ‘Seinfeld’ from ‘Seinfeld’.

There have been token fat guys, token bitch wives, and over and over and over token characters so stupid you know they couldn’t survive the real world like ‘Woody’ from Cheers, ‘Homer’ from the Simpsons, and the four girls from ‘Sex in the City’.

Yet there is one token we have so far been cruely denied.

It’s time for the token crazy Australian.

Writers, producers, and network executives, please take into account the things you get with a token Australian such as myself:

Hard work – It’s only the seventh of this decade and I have already blogged ONCE in the past two months!

Good with animals – I lived with a girl with a cat for a year, and I loved the little cutie kitty, awwwww kitties. I miss the kitty. Can someone give me a cuddle please. Anyone. Don’t make me cuddle my pillow again….. Come here pillow, pillow, pillow…..

A real man – Nothing is as tough and manly as an Aussie, get this I went for a bush walk last week, and when I got mud on my shoes I was all like ‘It’s ok, I can put them in the washing machine, but still, (tear, tear, tear, tear) I hope my poor shoes are ok’

Please note: Tear as in tear from my eyes while crying, not as in tear a piece of paper, I mean really, who takes a piece of paper bushwalking?

Consider this:

No Australian has ever been president of the United States of America, so we’re not weighed down from the burden of being the leader of the free world.

No Australian has ever been the Grammy award winner for best new artist more than three consecutive times, so we’re not weighed down from the pressure of finding new ways to bribe Grammy judges year after year.

And

No Australian has ever walked on the moon, so we’re not weighed down by the knowledge of weightlessness.

Coincidence?......

Yes.

Yet a happy coincidence!

I mean shouldn’t all coincidences be happy, if you can’t find joy in coincidence then you may as well jump out of a building at the exact same time as a car with a mattress on the ceiling is driving by right before it crashes into a ‘I hate coincidences’ meeting.

Please note: If you run one of these meetings there is a car about to hit you, RUUUUNNN!!!

Still not convinced?

Seriously you’re not convinced even after than coercive coincidence covenant?

Ok, well what about this

In Australia it is ILLEGAL to murder someone! That’s right. This means, if you assume all laws are always obeyed, as I do, you’ll know that your token Aussie will not be a murderer.

Please note: Unless he has visited the Congo where it is legal to murder someone for lustfully looking at your goat.

Please note 2: There are no goats in the Congo; the lions ate them all.

Please note 3: It is legal to murder a man for watching a lion eat your goat, what you’re too pussy to stand up to a lion to save a goat? What kind of man are you?

Please note 4: Ha ha you’re a pussy and so is the lion in some places where pussy is slang for cat and where this also works when the cat is a huge African jungle leader.

Please note 5: That slang does not work in Australia; we respect lions WAY too much for that.

Please note 6: There is no jungle in Africa, suck on that lions, you’re king of an area you never even get to visit, you fucking pussys. (Unless you count the jungle that makes up basically all of the Congo, but counting's never fun).

Please note 7: The deadliest thing in Australia is: everything – GET ME AWAY FROM THIS, I’m going to DIIIIIEEEEEE!!!!!

Clearly the lesson is if you are responsible for the creation of a new sitcom this pilot season and you would like it to be successful, and/or include an unusual ‘token’, and/or not be all like check it out lets make fun of the pillow cuddler but not in a way that employs him - then please include a token crazy Australian.

Please note: I hate to like bring this up and all, but um, like, you know, I’m kind of a crazy Australian and all, so, um, like, um, you know, I’d be like good in your show in that if you give me a chance. If you hire me I promise to protect your entire goat-herd that you keep in the Congo

Please note 2: You have a goat-herd in the Congo? That’s fucking cool. Maybe your show could have a token Congoean goat too!!!