Suit Dude

71 year old Indian Jazz Pianist

Wed, 12 Aug 2009 11:53:35 GMT

Yes, I know - the title of this post sounds like the set-up to a bad joke, but in this case, it's straight on the money.

In 1984 I was a 16 year-old kid and had a part time job working at a long-gone music store called Palings on Pitt Street. This was back in the days before Pitt Street even had a mall. Christ I'm old.

I worked in the rock section, selling guitars, amps and synths. The brass and woodwind section was managed by a guy called Andrew Speight who must have been in his early twenties at the time and has long since moved to the States and earned a reputation as a seriously good saxophonist.

One afternoon in late 84 as we were closing up, Andrew asked if I wanted to go for a beer at a place close by called Centrepoint Tavern. I told him I was underage and he said, "No problem, the bar staff are all friends of mine, I'll take care of it".

So we closed our sections, left work and wandered a hundred metres up the road and walked into the place.

He introduced me to the resident pianist/vocalist. To be specific, I was introduced to "Cec Dorsey". My first thoughts were "'Cec Dorsey'? Bullshit - that's a stage-name if I've ever heard one", simply because the guy loooked like he'd crawled out of the Ganges after a hard day sacrificing Tree-Frogs to Krishna or whatever the hell it is that hard-core Indian guys do.

Within five minutes of that meeting, I no longer gave a damn what he called himself.

Cec played jazz piano, and Cec played beautifully. I'd never heard jazz played live before and Andrew and I stayed there listening to the guy until closing time. From that day onwards I was a jazz fan and if you know me, you'll know that I still am.

Cec and I got on very well. I loved (but couldn't play) his jazz work, and he loved (but couldn't play) the Jimi Hendrix material I was immersed in at the time. We spent a lot of time together and of course I learned far more from him than he ever learned from me.

We lost touch for about ten years, but I'm happy to say that in the last few months we've started hanging out again.

He's an old man now and doesn't get out that much anymore, but still he managed to make the journey over to my place about a month back to catch up, do a little cooking and spend the afternoon playing some music.

I beefed up my home studio last November when I turned 40. I now have a 200 track digital studio in my study and on the day Cec turned up I realised I had someone with some real talent within range of my microphone.

I always liked Cec's version of "Unforgettable" by Nat King Cole, so I asked if he'd play it for me.

He nailed it on the first take like a true pro,

And for those of you who are even remotely curious, here it is (click on the "free-user" option to download it):

http://rapidshare.com/files/266528859/Cec_Dorsey.mp3

He's 71 now, so of course his voice is a little frail, but sweet Jesus, he still sounds wonderful.

And you know what? After all these years I've still never asked him what his "real" name is. When you can play like this, you can call yourself whatever you damn well want.

I love this man to death.

SD

I'll make this Succinct ...

Fri, 15 May 2009 09:36:06 GMT

The problem with Socialist Governments is this:

They eventually run out of everyone else's money.

SD

The Most Imaginative Comedy Skit ever Recorded

Fri, 20 Mar 2009 09:21:41 GMT

According to me - for what that's worth.

And incidentally, the part of Charles Manson is played by a very young Ben Stiller.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z5IrRe2F7qY

SD

Spare the Rod and Frag the Fish

Thu, 12 Mar 2009 08:23:46 GMT

A friend of mine who works in the legal profession made a short post this afternoon in which she related the following tidbit of info:

So, my building and most of Phillip Street, including the entire Court building was evacuated just before lunch over a bomb threat.

Accordingly to SMH, it was a fishing tackle box accidentally left behind by a forgetful fisherman.

The post made me immediately recall a great part of my childhood, so I sent the following response:

Mind you, if it was the sort of fishing equipment that my friends and I used to use when we were 13 years old, then evacuating the building was exactly the right thing to do.

When I was a kid, I counted myself lucky that my parents owned a house that backed on to the Georges River. If I was bored and it took my fancy, it would take me no more than five minutes to go from lazing around the house to cruising about on the river in an eight foot aluminum boat with a 4.5 horsepower engine.

I kept company with a group of about eight kids, all of whom owned similar boats and at least once a month , winter or summer, we'd cruise along all 30 kilometres of the Georges River, from Liverpool Weir to Botany Bay, looking for new places to pitch tents and set up campsites.

Boat license? Screw that - it was the early eighties and no one batted an eyelid over a bunch of kids cruising about a river.

The areas that we discovered were always isolated islands or generally inaccessible parts of national parks.

Now when we set up a campsite - we well and truly Set Up A Fucking Campsite.

My tightly-knit, aquatic convoy of pubescent deviants weren't satisfied with merely building a campfire and pitching tents. Oh no, too easy.

Once we'd identified a suitable spot, we'd go into hardcore, military mode and begin our plan of attack. We'd set out at six in the morning, our boats loaded not only with with tents, deckchairs, hammocks and provisions, but shovels, picks, rakes and fucking lawnmowers.

We'd spend the entire morning landscaping the campsite until it met with out satisfaction.

Those guys on "Backyard Blitz"? Bunch of pussies. We were hardcore, little SOBs.

Once we'd set up shop, then it was time to relax, laze about in hammocks, do a little underage drinking around a campfire and enjoy a spot of fishing.

There was nothing more satisfying then cooking a fish you'd caught and prepared yourself while sitting around a campfire at night with a bunch of like-minded juvenile delinquents. Good times.

We used to fish the traditional way, with rods and hooks and lots of sitting on a riverbank and waiting. Until one day, my buddy Peter watched a film that showed a bunch of Vietnam-era soldiers using hand grenades to catch fish.

Their method was simple and effective - toss a grenade in the water, wait for the inevitable Ka-Boom and within thirty seconds a bunch of freshly tenderised, stunned fish would float to the surface, just waiting to be scooped up with a net.

We listened to Peter's story. We were 13 years old. Our eyes widened as though we'd just stumbled upon the meaning of life.

13 year-old boys just love to Blow Shit Up. We're stupid like that.

In these days of anti-terrorism laws I'm reluctant to post our recipe for home-made grenades on the intertubez, but let's just say it involved jam jars, chlorine and a couple of readily available chemicals.

And they worked. Holy shit, they worked. Looking back, it's a wonder we all escaped unscathed, alive and intact.

Our method was simple - toss the 'nades in the water and FIND COVER IMMEDIATELY.

Chemicals? Four Dollars.
Jam Jars? Free.
Getting to scream "FIRE IN THE HOLE" like it actually meant something?

Beyond priceless.

Still to this day, whenever I hear the term "stunned mullet", it brings back an irreplacable set of childhood memories.

SD

September 11th Remembered

Wed, 10 Sep 2008 10:05:33 GMT

Good evening people,

I posted this entry last year. I'll probably post it again next year. I have nothing further to add to it. I feel now as I felt then.

September 11th Remembered - 2007

As you get older, the very nature of time seems to change a little.

There are some things you've experienced recently that seem to have happened a lifetime ago, and others that you know will always remain fresh. Today I arrived at the realisation that September the 11th is always going to be a fresh one for me.

I noticed it late yesterday when it dawned on me that the sixth anniversary was coming up. There was a reason for it.

The reason has a name, and I'll get to her in a minute.

In late 2001 I was living in London, partying in Brixton and happily working for a private Funds Management Firm in the City of London.

I loved my work. I was lucky enough to be employed by one of the few remaining private investment firms whose name still commanded a little respect within the barrow-boy dominated late 90s and early 2000's.

My boss was a 55 year-old, five foot, two-inch high Scotsman with the surname, "Savage".

And let me tell you something - he was.

That bastard had been known to reduce grown men to tears within fifteen minutes of a boardroom meeting. He was valued by the Senior Partners because he most definitely:

Did. Not. Suffer. Fools. Gladly.

The Scotsman wasn't naturally belligerent, he'd give anyone the time of day until something stupid tumbled out of their mouths - then all bets and gloves were off. I personally watched him cut bullshit-artist-salesmen and morons down to size on no fewer than five occasions and let me tell you this - it was awesome. Completely fucking awesome.

Somewhat like a drill-sergeant, he was as much loved as he was feared. He single-handedly built up his team over the course of three years and to this day I count myself lucky that he decided to keep me around because, as he put it, "you stand up to me when you're right and you make me laugh, you stupid Aussie bastard".

There were five of us in addition to Mr Savage.

Andrew - a quiet South Londoner who only opened his mouth when he felt we'd got it all wrong and needed to be "pictured in". He was never wrong when he opened his mouth, so we always listened.

Mike - One of the afore-mentioned "barrow-boys". He never closed his fucking mouth but at least he was entertaining.

William - one of the "Eton boys". Savage would have fired him in a heart-beat if his father hadn't been a senior partner. He was the quintessential chinless, in-bred dickhead (and as I found out later, his father moved him to a less influential position).

Mari - the youngest member of the team who had really earned the job after a long internship.

And me.

We got on well. We shared a few years worth of meetings, arguments and triumphs. We even shared in the little things like break-ups, births and marriages. We went to Brick Lane once a month for lunch and unlike any other people I've worked with, we looked forward to seeing one another on weekends on the odd occasion. After six years, Mike and I are still in contact.

After years of that sort of crap I guess we considered ourselves a team.

Mari had just been married in July of that year to a fund manager at a rival bank. She copped all of the ribbing we gave her with good-humour, and she in turn, inflicted every detail of her wedding planning on us as revenge.

Mari: Guess what we're serving at the reception?
Mike: Don't 'ave to. I've 'eard ev'ry detail 'bout ev'ry fucking ingredient. Why? Because that's all you've bloody well spoken 'bout for the last week, girl. Do some frigging work for a change.
Mari:
Mike:
Mari: We're serving Salmon, followed by ...
Mike: ARRRRRGGGHHH!!!!

It went on like that for months. Quite happily.

Mari went on a month's vacation for her honeymoon, returned with a ridiculous tan and life returned to normal.

Until her husband flew to New York on September the 10th. He had a meeting the next day with Cantor Fitzgerald on the 102nd floor of WTC1.

And I won't spin this out - he died.

We used to have TV screens everywhere in our workplace. They were constantly tuned to Bloomberg, Reuters and CNN. Anyone could pick up a pair of headphones and listen to the audio that accompanied any station in case there was something they needed to pay attention to. At about three o'clock that day, everyone was wearing headphones and watching CNN.

Everyone except Mari. She was on the phone trying to get through to her husband, but never did.

My boss, the drill sergeant from hell couldn't have been more like a father to her that afternoon. He took her downstairs, hailed a cab and took her back to her parent's house, a couple of hundred kilometres away. We never saw her again.

I hear she's doing well, and after a year off work she more or less picked up where she left off, but she aged quite a great deal in a short amount of time.

So here we are six years later and it still seems to have happened yesterday - and I still have the suit jacket that she cried on, although I've never worn it since.

Everytime this anniversary rolls around, I'm left with vivid memories of watching a young woman go through something that should never have happened, and I'm still angry about it.

What made it worse is when I heard some knee-jerk anti-american statement coming from the mouth of a twenty-something kid this morning. He was young enough to view 911 as remotely as he'd view Pearl Harbour.

"Yanks deserved it. Cut them down a notch, didn't it?"

This was from some twenty-year-old kid who thought that espousing an anti-american stance was an acceptable way to gain some cred at a lunch I attended today.

I gently told him the story of Mari and waited for it to sink in. Everyone around us watched as he turned red and realised what a career-limiting move he'd just made.

Then I gently told him to get out of my sight.

And then, more than ever, I was grateful that I'd worked for the Scotsman.
You were right Mr Savage, I was learning more from you than I ever realised.

Suit Dude

How to tell when you've hit Middle-Age

Thu, 31 Jul 2008 11:15:39 GMT

This afternoon I received a phone call on my mobile, and immediately dropped into hushed-tones and moved to a quiet area to continue the call.

It was a call from a guy I've never met, about the purchase of a rare, black substance that I needed flown in from Tasmania.

My workmates would have heard comments along the lines of, "so how was the harvest this year?" and "Can you ship me fifty grams?".

I sealed the deal (for a stupid amount of money) and I should receive it via the reception desk tomorrow ..

Yeah, I've just scored myself some serious, A-Grade truffle-action, bitches ...

SD

and, yes I know - cocaine would have been cheaper this year.

"Pet goth girl on leash thrown off bus"

Thu, 24 Jan 2008 08:14:54 GMT

Good evening people,

No, I'm not kidding; the title for this post was taken directly from a Sydney Morning Herald article that appeared in this afternoon's edition.

The article opened with:

"A bus company has apologised to a girl who is led around on a leash by her boyfriend and describes herself as a human pet after one of its drivers threw her off a bus".

So far so good.

"We have spoken to the driver who has talked about health and safety," a spokesman said. "Should she be attached to a chain and something happens on the bus, that could be dangerous. All we are saying is that she is very welcome to use the buses but not when she is on her lead."

All good and well I say, and in this instance I agree with the bus company.

Other people's pets are a nuisance at the best of times - you've been there and you know what I'm talking about. When we visit their houses we're often forced (out of politeness) to anthropomorphise along with the their owners:

"Yes, she really is adorable when she tries to communicate" we say, when what we really mean is this:

"that mangy, ugly fucking aging thing is frotting against my leg again - the moment you turn your back I'm going to thump her and say she slipped".

There is only one good reason for someone to take a pet goth onto public transport, and that's if the owner is handicapped and in need of a Seeing-Eye-Goth.

The Guide-Goths association has a long and proud history in this country, and for decades has trained baby-gothlets from birth to help the emotionally-impaired safely navigate through a world of cripplingly beautiful sunsets, bad 80s synth-pop and sycophantic editorials about Heath Ledger's supposed fucking "genius".

They are also trained in alerting us to the presence of James Blunt CDs by bursting into tears and adopting the foetal position.

I would be lost without my Seeing-Eye-Goth, but as an emotionally-impaired person, I would like to remind people not to bother her when she is working:

1: Do not offer a Seeing-Eye-Goth pats or "hugs" while it is on duty; this will cause it to seize up and become immobilised in a negative-feedback-loop that will cause it to avoid its duties.

2: Don't offer "squeeees" either. That's a whole different world of fucking hurt. Moreso for the owner.

3: And for the love of God, don't comment on its myopia. Not unless you're trying to get me killed. And you don't want that, do you?

Do you? Do you?

Send me Hugs,

Suit Dude

Writing Fanmail to Down's Syndrome Kids

Tue, 15 Jan 2008 09:36:51 GMT

Good evening people,

This weekend, at the ripe old age of 39, I wrote my first piece of gushing fanmail - and I sent it to a guy with Down's Syndrome who stars in a series of videos entitled, "Retarded Policeman".

Read that sentence again if you need to, because I assure you it's all true.

His name is Josh Perry, aka "Ponceman", and he and his brother have produced a number of vids that are without doubt, the funniest 90 second shorts I've seen in the last year.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I humbly present Josh Perry in "Retarded Policeman - Episode 3". Watch this before you read any further:

He's a comedic genius - and I almost squealed like a little girl when he responded to my fan mail this afternoon thanking me for my letter and support:

"your funny also and thank you"

That's all there was to it - but I didn't need more than that. The guy has Down's Syndrome so I didn't expect a reply to rival War and Peace in length.

Now it seems that a lot of people who suffer from a surfeit of knee-jerk political correctness posted a batch of ill-considered negative comments in response to Josh's video. They claimed it was exploitative, evil, unfunny and on par with raping kittens.

Josh himself posted this 30 second response:

This guy is a genuine, bona fide inspiration to us all, and that's what the gist of my drooling, gibbering piece of fanmail to him was about. Seriously, I gushed like a pubescent 12 year old girl with a crush on Justin Timberlake.

Far too often on LJ, I'll come across attention-seeking posts from people who are unnecessarily wallowing in their own misery and blaming it on their parents, their partner, their friends, their priest or the fucking Energiser Bunny. You know exactly what I'm talking about. Those sorts of posts should all be entitled "I'm Feeling Insecure (again), so Please send me Hugs and tell me I'm Popular".

Consider a guy like Josh. Josh was born with Down's Syndrome, so if he wanted, he really could justify blaming the world and bitching about it like a little kid with a scraped knee - But he doesn't, does he?

He's taken what he's been given and he's run with it.

And he's one seriously talented, bitchin' Down's Syndrome Motherfucker.

Suit Dude

911 Remembered

Tue, 11 Sep 2007 09:43:51 GMT

As you get older, the very nature of time seems to change a little.

There are some things you've experienced recently that seem to have happened a lifetime ago, and others that you know will always remain fresh. Today I arrived at the realisation that September the 11th is always going to be a fresh one for me.

I noticed it late yesterday when it dawned on me that the sixth anniversary was coming up. There was a reason for it.

The reason has a name, and I'll get to her in a minute.

In late 2001 I was living in London, partying in Brixton and happily working for a private Funds Management Firm in the City of London.

I loved my work. I was lucky enough to be employed by one of the few remaining private investment firms whose name still commanded a little respect within the barrow-boy dominated late 90s and early 2000's.

My boss was a 55 year-old, five foot, two-inch high Scotsman with the surname, "Savage".

And let me tell you something - he was.

That bastard had been known to reduce grown men to tears within fifteen minutes of a boardroom meeting. He was valued by the Senior Partners because he most definitely:

Did. Not. Suffer. Fools. Gladly.

The Scotsman wasn't naturally belligerent, he'd give anyone the time of day until something stupid tumbled out of their mouths - then all bets and gloves were off. I personally watched him cut bullshit-artist-salesmen and morons down to size on no fewer than five occasions and let me tell you this - it was awesome. Completely fucking awesome.

Somewhat like a drill-sergeant, he was as much loved as he was feared. He single-handedly built up his team over the course of three years and to this day I count myself lucky that he decided to keep me around because, as he put it, "you stand up to me when you're right and you make me laugh, you stupid Aussie bastard".

There were five of us in addition to Mr Savage.

Andrew - a quiet South Londoner who only opened his mouth when he felt we'd got it all wrong and needed to be "pictured in". He was never wrong when he opened his mouth, so we always listened.

Mike - One of the afore-mentioned "barrow-boys". He never closed his fucking mouth but at least he was entertaining.

William - one of the "Eton boys". Savage would have fired him in a heart-beat if his father hadn't been a senior partner. He was the quintessential chinless, in-bred dickhead (and as I found out later, his father moved him to a less influential position).

Mari - the youngest member of the team who had really earned the job after a long internship.

And me.

We got on well. We shared a few years worth of meetings, arguments and triumphs. We even shared in the little things like break-ups, births and marriages. We went to Brick Lane once a month for lunch and unlike any other people I've worked with, we looked forward to seeing one another on weekends on the odd occasion. After six years, Mike and I are still in contact.

After years of that sort of crap I guess we considered ourselves a team.

Mari had just been married in July of that year to a fund manager at a rival bank. She copped all of the ribbing we gave her with good-humour, and she in turn, inflicted every detail of her wedding planning on us as revenge.

Mari: Guess what we're serving at the reception?
Mike: Don't 'ave to. I've 'eard ev'ry detail 'bout ev'ry fucking ingredient. Why? Because that's all you've bloody well spoken 'bout for the last week, girl. Do some frigging work for a change.
Mari:
Mike:
Mari: We're serving Salmon, followed by ...
Mike: ARRRRRGGGHHH!!!!

It went on like that for months. Quite happily.

Mari went on a month's vacation for her honeymoon, returned with a ridiculous tan and life returned to normal.

Until her husband flew to New York on September the 10th. He had a meeting the next day with Cantor Fitzgerald on the 102nd floor of WTC1.

And I won't spin this out - he died.

We used to have TV screens everywhere in our workplace. They were constantly tuned to Bloomberg, Reuters and CNN. Anyone could pick up a pair of headphones and listen to the audio that accompanied any station in case there was something they needed to pay attention to. At about three o'clock that day, everyone was wearing headphones and watching CNN.

Everyone except Mari. She was on the phone trying to get through to her husband, but never did.

My boss, the drill sergeant from hell couldn't have been more like a father to her that afternoon. He took her downstairs, hailed a cab and took her back to her parent's house, a couple of hundred kilometres away. We never saw her again.

I hear she's doing well, and after a year off work she more or less picked up where she left off, but she aged quite a great deal in a short amount of time.

So here we are six years later and it still seems to have happened yesterday - and I still have the suit jacket that she cried on, although I've never worn it since.

Everytime this anniversary rolls around, I'm left with vivid memories of watching a young woman go through something that should never have happened, and I'm still angry about it.

What made it worse is when I heard some knee-jerk anti-american statement coming from the mouth of a twenty-something kid this morning. He was young enough to view 911 as remotely as he'd view Pearl Harbour.

"Yanks deserved it. Cut them down a notch, didn't it?"

This was from some twenty-year-old kid who thought that espousing an anti-american stance was an acceptable way to gain some cred at a lunch I attended today.

I gently told him the story of Mari and waited for it to sink in. Everyone around us watched as he turned red and realised what a career-limiting move he'd just made.

Then I gently told him to get out of my sight.

And then, more than ever, I was grateful that I'd worked for the Scotsman.
You were right Mr Savage, I was learning more from you than I ever realised.

Suit Dude

Snack for Thought

Thu, 18 Jan 2007 02:36:19 GMT

Leading British writer on terrorism and Islamism Martin Amis, in The Independent, on Western apologists:

QUESTION: What is the most depressing thing about Britain you have observed in recent times? And the best?

Amis: The most depressing thing was the sight of middle-class white demonstrators, last August, waddling around under placards saying, We Are All Hezbollah Now. Well, make the most of being Hezbollah while you can. As its leader, Hasan Nasrallah, famously advised the West: "We don't want anything from you. We just want to eliminate you."

Similarly, when I went on (BBC television program) Question Time the other week, a woman in the audience, her voice quavering with self-righteousness, presented the following argument: since it was America that supported Osama bin Laden when he was fighting the Russians, the US armed forces, in response to September 11, "should be dropping bombs on themselves". And the audience applauded. It is quite an achievement.

People of liberal sympathies, stupefied by relativism, have become the apologists for a creedal wave that is racist, misogynist, homophobic, imperialist and genocidal. To put it another way, they are up the arse of those that want them dead.

Goddamn Lazy Journalists

Mon, 04 Sep 2006 08:32:45 GMT

Again, journos have missed the obvious headline for a man who just couldn't understand what an insufferable dork he truly was:

"Irwin Resistant to Verbal Barbs - Marine Life Steps In"

SD

Suit Dude's Guide to Not Writing like an Asshat

Wed, 14 Dec 2005 02:43:23 GMT

There is a common mistake that I see made regularly on LJ, so I'd like to take some time out to post a small lesson in the hope that people will take it to heart. When you're posting on the Intraweb, people will judge you by your ability to spell and punctuate correctly.

Don't bitch about it. Just accept it as truth and deal with it.

It involves two simple words that a disturbing number of people tend to swap around like toddlers at Gary Glitter's house.

The words in question are "lose" and "loose".

These words are called "homonyms". This is because people will call you a fag and laugh at you if you misuse them.

The only gay person I know that reads this journal is my friend Jeremy. He's had a classical education so he already knows how to spell properly. Don't out-fag the faggots, people.

Let's test your ability by presenting you with a couple of multiple choice questions. Fill in the blanks:

Question 1

"My name is Billy and I'm seven years old. My uncle, Gary Glitter, has just invited me to his house-warming party. I hope he doesn't think I'm ________ ".

A: Lose
B: Loose
C: Angry at him for gatecrashing my slumber-party

Answer: B.

Question 2

"My name is Mike and I'm an F.B.I Agent. I've just been monitoring Gary's party thanks to the hidden microphone I placed on Billy. I think I'm gonna _______ my lunch".

A: Lose
B: Loose
C: Stop surfing kiddy-porn when I really should be eating

Answer: A

Don't worry, there's nothing wrong with your internet connection. That temporary slowdown was the F.B.I. adding you to their database for reading a page which includes the words "kiddy-porn". Sucks to be you.

So there you have it - simple huh?

The word "loose" should only be used when referring to something that is somewhat messy and no longer tight, like Billy for instance.

"Lose" on the other hand, should only be used when referring to something you've lost, like your memory of third-grade which is where people should have learned the fucking difference in the first place. I guess they shouldn't have been wearing walkmans and listening to Gary Glitter that day.

Stay tuned people. Next week we'll be putting "to" and "too" together.

SD
suit_dude@walla.com

Terra Cronullis

Sun, 11 Dec 2005 23:40:10 GMT

It's time to rewrite the national anthem kids:

Cronulla's thugs, let us rejoice,
For we are dumb and twee
We've golden tans and panel vans,
We wear brown shirts by sea.
Our sands abound with vapid gits,
No brains or swimming togs,
We'll make front-page with beer-fuelled rage,
But can't tell cops from wogs.

We're so damn thick (we're fully sick),
We can't tell cops from wogs.

SD
suit_dude@walla.com

Me Go Bang-Bang

Thu, 24 Nov 2005 02:38:24 GMT

Last night my partner (the gorgeous miss_porcelain) made a post that referenced my love of computer gaming. Before any of you leap to the wrong conclusion, let's get something straight - I'm into first person shooters. Under no circumstances will you ever find me wearing green tights and poncing around a virtual world while pretending I'm a fucking pixie. Spending hours searching for the Lost Dagger of the Unicorn-Scrotum while making girly noises is not my cup of mead.

Neither is mead. Mead is for pansy, nancy-fags who don't like scotch. If you have an opinion to the contrary don't bother posting it. Not unless you want another orifice to pour your mead into.

I can sum up the primary reason for my love of online gaming in one simple sentence. It's not, "the graphics are cool" or "I find it relaxing", it's this: "I love to slap the shit out of 12 year-olds".

And who doesn't? They're irritating, they have poorly developed political opinions and worst of all, the little fuckers can't spell for shit. Just like Kim Beazley.

Shut up.

I am pleased that technology has afforded me a legal outlet for this passion as I'd otherwise have to wear an electronic ankle bracelet. And that really clashes with a Hugo Boss double-breasted number.

It's very easy to spot the twelve year-olds when you're online and blowing the crap out of things. The most telling clue is a name that suggests testosterone on overdrive; names like "Death Assassin" and "Lord of Pain" are good indicators that you're tracking the right prey.

Because I do not wish to be mistaken for a 12 year-old whilst online, I have given myself a name of the most macho, muscle-laden variety I could come up with. Let's see if you can pick my online alias out of the following lineup:

A: ThunderGod
B: CertainDeath
C: FistofFury
D: A Large Purple Buttplug

Have you worked it out or do you need to ask the fucking audience?

The 12 year-olds tend to irritate me even more when they use what's referred to as the online "chat" function. This allows them to transmit their words of wisdom to everyone else who is online while they're playing. This often results in exchanges similar to this:

Death Assassin: hoow old is evry1 hear? im 11 :)
BloodThirst: me 12
LordPain: im 14
A Large Purple ButtPlug: I'm 37. Could you little bastards shut up until you learn to spell properly? You're giving me a fucking headache.
PowerDude: uur not 37
A Large Purple ButtPlug: I assure you I am. I can punctuate for a start so that should have been a dead giveaway.
SoldierOfDeath: thats older then my mum
A Large Purple ButtPlug: And she gives a lousy blowjob.
SoldierOfDeath: im gunna kill u if i see u
A Large Purple ButtPlug: Kid, the only thing you'll say is, "do you want fries with that?".

Ahh, don't you just love the free exchange of ideas between generations?

And my parents want to know why I've never had kids. Jesus.

The only 12 year-olds I'll ever like come with a groovy black label.

SD
suit_dude@walla.com

Hmm ...

Tue, 30 Aug 2005 22:18:58 GMT

So John Brogden has been taken to hospital after an apparent suicide bid; he seems to have suffered self-inflicted knife-wounds and The Sydney Morning Herald had this to say:

"He was found at his Pittwater electorate office some time before 11pm with self-inflicted stab wounds."

Once again a journalist missed a fabulous opportunity for black humour. They should have ran the article with the following headline:

"Brogden Takes Final Stab at Leadership"

God, I'm such an asshole.

SD

Do The Math

Wed, 17 Aug 2005 00:32:48 GMT

I like crime shows. Apparently I'm not alone in this as production houses by the dozen are turning out new shows every week.

Of all of these new shows my favourite is CSI:New York. This is because it stars Gary Sinise in the lead role and simply put, Gary Sinise is my favourite kind of bad-ass - intelligent, understated and menacing. The fact that the bastard can really act doesn't hurt either.

Unfortunately, after twenty or so episodes, even CSI:New York has lost its lustre. Even with the best actors, something so formulaic can become old very quickly.

Studios are nearing the bottom of the barrel when it comes to fresh ideas by the looks of things and are trying to introduce fresh slants on the same old formula.

This week for example, I watched the premiere of a new series called "Numb3rs" that portrays a brilliant, young, sexy mathematician that solves crime. This premise is about as realistic as "brilliant young communist solves Russia's economic problems with the help of a cabbage and a crack-team of Kenny Rogers fans", only less credible.

Even the name was enough to piss me off. It must be hip and uber-elite because it has a number 3 in place of the letter "e". How's that for "edgy" and "rad", kiddies?

It might have been edgy and rad in 1996 (well, actually it wouldn't but let's just pretend that we're all retards for a moment), but in 2005 it just screams "desperate to suck in the under-twenty-fives demographic".

If you've ever met real mathematicians you know that they're the sort of people you just want to stab repeatedly with a sharp stick.

What's worse is that this show will probably spawn a whole new franchise, just as the original CSI produced CSI:Miami and CSI: New York. Sometime in the near future, we can probably look forward to the following Numb3rs spin-offs:

Numb3rs: Mount Druitt
A brilliant mathematician uses complex equations to keep the fridge stocked with tinnies at his next unsuccessful wife-swapping party.

Numb3rs: Oxford Street
A brilliant mathematician attempts to socialise at a nightclub. Gets stabbed repeatedly with sharp stick.

Numb3rs: Gaza Strip
Both the Israeli and the Palestinian soccer-teams get shitfaced in an Irish bar with unlimited access to small arms and ammunition (this has nothing to do with mathematics, but come on, you know it would kick ass).

Numb3rs: Jamaica
No one does much of anything as they're all too busy rolling numb3rs and listening to Bob Marl3y.

If we've sunk this low then I think we need a few new ideas to revive the flagging crime show genre. As is typical of shows of late, we need to replace the archetypal square-jawed hero with a tragically flawed figure who overcomes his demons and limitations to save the day. Here are my suggestions:

1: Garbage collector with six fingers and a magical hare-lip solves crime.

2: Retarded guinea pig with cerebral palsy and the gift of clairvoyance solves crime.

3: Richard Gere develops cerebral palsy after finding a dead clairvoyant in his garbage while searching for guinea pigs.

Okay, okay, the real crime here was me recycling that old Richard Gere joke, but you get the drift.

I think it's time I started reading again.

SD
suit_dude@walla.com

Newtown Hoedown

Fri, 12 Aug 2005 00:01:04 GMT

Like most Newtown residents, I have no difficulty with taking much of what I see with a grain of salt.

If you want to get so many piercings that homeless people will be tempted to kidnap and sell you for scrap metal than be my guest. Likewise, if you wish to have your head surgically altered to resemble Picasso's cubist period then go for it. I probably won't even notice.

Yes, I'm a tolerant, live-and-let-live kind of guy and like to think that I can take anyone I meet at face value, regardless of age, lifestyle-choice or capacity to be recognised as human.

But I do have one gripe to make - all these mincing homosexuals have really ruined the local gay bar.

Like most tolerant, heterosexual men, I appreciate a good gay bar. It's a place where I can enjoy the company of other tolerant, heterosexual men while confirming our status as open minded members of a cosmopolitan society. But nothing screws that up faster than having some whining, nancy-faggot sing Kylie Minogue songs two feet from your head.

Where do these people get off? Actually, that's another gripe, they tend to get off in pairs about two feet from me when I'm trying to play pinball in an openly tolerant way. For Christ's sake, if I wanted to see two men chewing one another's tongues out I'd have stayed home and watched "Philadelphia". I expect a better standard of behaviour in a gay bar and these bog-trotters are just lowering the tone.

SD
suit_dude@walla.com

An Open Letter to Osama Bin Laden

Tue, 09 Aug 2005 00:08:23 GMT

Dear Mr Bin Laden,

Firstly, let me state that I was surprised to find you've been reading my journal. I was even more surprised to find that you're actually living in Mosman, but considering the size of the cheque you enclosed with your offer of employment, consider your secret safe.

I don't know what possessed you to offer me the position of al-Qaeda Spin-Doctor, but hell, the number of zeroes on the cheque was enticing enough. I'll buy my own western secular democracy when we've finished the job.

I'm going to talk candidly here, I think you deserve that much so be warned that you probably won't like a lot of what I have to say, so just go ahead and slap a fatwa on my decadent western butt right here and now. Seriously, don't even think about it, just throw me upstream and call me Salman.

There are a number of things that I think you're organisation has wrong, firstly, let's take a look at your Marketing and Publicity department.

Who the hell told you it was a good idea to knock down the twin towers as your opening act? Seriously, which idiot suggested that? As a closing number it would have worked a treat but nooo, you had to go and play your trump card from the word go. Didn't you realise that everything that followed would look rather ho-hum by comparison?

Fire the guy, send him back.

Okay, now let's look at your speechwriters. It's probably a good idea to employ a decent advertising firm to help get your message across to the west. I know you considered it something of a coup to get the writing team from the Middle-East's favourite sitcom, "Everybody Loves Allah", but the humour doesn't travel buddy.

I know, I know, all that "death to the infidel", "wrath of God" and "My, you look sexy in that potato sack" is hysterical if you're a native arabic speaker but the west thinks you're being serious. It's like hiring Charles Manson as the entertainment for your six year-old's birthday party. What? No, it's not a good idea and I don't think he's available. I don't care how many six-year-olds you have, they're not expendable.

Ok, now let's look at something I think you're going to have a tough time with. This will be something you'll need to mull over for a while, but trust me, it's important. Let's look at how to capture the women's vote.

Yeah, I hate to be the one to break it to you, but women in the west are actually allowed to attend polling booths without their husbands. Steady yourself buddy, it gets worse. They can do this in broad daylight while wearing make-up, and revealing clothes that show their ankles.

Yes I know, those polling booths are merely the tip of the iceberg when it comes to hotbeds of depravity. You see, we also have these things called "schools" (where all the Salman spawn). Oh man, you should really get down to a school if you're after some hot camel-on-camel-toe action. I'll explain that one later.

You're on the right track with your current smokescreen-strategy though. George W. Bush is an idiot, and right now the whole "America as the Great Satan" schtick is working, young people in particular are becoming so sympathetic towards radical Islam that they're ignoring all the tricky parts of the sell, like lack of women's rights to education or free thought. Let's keep the ball rolling on that one.

If we keep that part up we'll have the coalition out by December and bingo - we can have the new and improved Taliban version 2 back in power by January.

Now, about this entire "The Jew is evil and must be killed" business. Bad PR move buddy, it's been done before and it backfired. Might I suggest modifying it to something most of us can relate to like, "Billy Crystal is evil and must be killed" (you may as well go for Woody Allen too - he hasn't been funny since 1979). You have to get people on board before you go for the jugular. Whip them up into an anti-Billy Crystal bloodlust and then slip in something like "and all his relatives and friends while we're at it". See, it's simple really isn't it?

Ok, now for some housekeeping. The Taliban had a rule about no music. I've heard middle-eastern music. Good rule. Keep it.

Lastly, I think it's time to rebrand your organisation. The name itself "al-Qaeda". Hmm, it has to go - let's replace it with something more western-friendly. You need a name that'll tap into the west's love for the underdog and the larrikin. That's a ten percent rise in approval ratings right there pal.

Hang on, I've got it. From now on you call yourselves "Al'Grasby".

SD
suit_dude@walla.com

Suit Dude's Jewish Chicken Soup

Tue, 26 Jul 2005 04:49:13 GMT

My friend Diabolique posted an entry today in which she voiced her need for the healing powers of a good soup. Seeing that there are still quite a few weeks of winter to go, I have decided to post the following recipe that Miss P and myself swear by.

I seek neither money nor accolades for posting this one. I'm just a caring, sharing, 90's sort of right-wing capitalist. Shut up.

I'm about to break sworn secrecy and give you guys the following recipe that was handed to my Jewish buddy Graham by his grandmother. Oy Vey.

I've altered it to make it easier for us gentiles, and why shouldn't I? It's not as though a crack team of swat-trained rabbis is going to burst through your window and kick your butt for not using chicken-frames is it?

Don't even ask what a chicken-frame is - you neither need, nor do you want to know. If you do know what a chicken-frame is then you're already Jewish, you gave me this recipe and your name is probably Graham. Stop reading everything I write buddy, you're creeping me out.

Okay, here we go.

Ingredients:

1.5 litres of Campbells Liquid Chicken Stock
6 Chicken Drumsticks (as opposed to, say, "yak drumsticks")
5 carrots
4 sticks of celery
5 cloves of garlic
Freshly ground black pepper
Secret Ingredient (to be revealed in the directions)
1 two litre box of chardonnay

Preparation and Cooking time: 2 Hours

Directions:

Get a really big fucking pot. The sort that you could cook your own head in. You don't own one though do you? This is because you're reading this on LJ and statistically speaking, you're probably a male in your mid-twenties; the only pot you own was bought on credit last week because you're on the dole. And you finished all of it yesterday while watching "Judge Judy".

This is where the wine comes in:

Open it. Pour yourself a big glass and drink it in one go. Refill it. Walk next door to your neighbor's house, knock on the door and offer them a glass of wine in exchange for the use of a large pot. They will politely refuse and give you the pot simply to get you off their doorstep. No one likes being woken at two am by a drunken sick hippie.

Pour the 1.5 litres of Chicken Stock into the pot and slowly bring it to a high simmer. Resist the urge to turn the gas up to ten because you're frozen from walking barefoot outside at two in the morning while half-pissed on cheap chardonnay. Let it simmer.

Remove all the skin from the chicken drumsticks and add them to the pot just as they are, bones and all. Put the skin aside - we'll think of a fun use for that later.

Chop the garlic, carrots and the celery as finely as possible. Use a razor-blade if possible. Don't lie, there's one on your coffee-table. Put it away when you're finished just in case the neighbors call the cops on your scary ass first thing in the morning. Add the slivers to the pot.

Scull another glass of cheap, shitty chardonnay. You're worth it.

Now it's time for the secret ingredient, drumroll please ...

Ginger. Yes, you read that correctly. Take a huge knob of ginger the size of your thumb and cut it as finely as possible. You remember what a thumb is, right? It's what you had to use to get to the Byron Bay Blues Festival last year because you spent all your money subscribing to www.judge-judy/nudiepics/fapfapfap.com

Add the ginger to the pot and go nuts grinding fresh black-pepper into it. Don't use anything other than black-pepper you've ground yourself - nothing else works.

Don't add any salt, there's already enough in the chicken stock. Too much salt is incredibly bad for you and will probably give you ... hang on ..., yeah, knock yourself out, throw in a shitload of salt.

Ignore the last bad joke about the salt and pour some more chardonnay.

Let the whole pot simmer for the next hour and a half and finish the booze - nothing says "hearty appetite" more than "Jessus (hic), I'm so pisshed I'm lostt in my own kitschen".

After ninety minutes of simmering, the chicken will have melted off the bones and almost disintegrated. Remove the bones from the pot, add some more black pepper and give it a good stir.

Serve with freshly baked, buttery bread rolls and enjoy.

Now grab the bowl of chicken skin and turn "Judge Judy" back on. Dispose of chicken skins immediately afterwards and then seek therapy.

Bon Appetit,

SD
suit_dude@walla.com

Home, Home with the Mange

Wed, 06 Jul 2005 05:56:54 GMT

Recently I began another contract here in the CBD of Sydney. This has numerous advantages: it takes me thirty minutes to get from my front door to my desk of a morning, I am completely spoiled for choice at lunch and I get to sprawl naked in Hyde Park reading my poetry to Japanese tourists. Konichiwa.

I am fiercely proud of my status as a Sydney-sider and thus can find very few disadvantages to heading here every day - apart from the costs incurred from translating all those restraining orders.

There are a number of areas where Sydney could lift its game however. I have noticed a major increase in the number of homeless people and beggars in my beloved Harbour City of late.

I have genuine sympathy for those who are homeless because of mental illness (except when they're vomiting on my shoes) but I have nothing but extreme contempt for otherwise healthy, capable people who shuck the gullible out of their spare change when they could be working. There's no excuse for this sort of bullshit - get a job you schmucks, and if you want real sympathy get a job in middle-management - then you'll know all about suffering.

There's no reason for anyone to be homeless or hungry in this city; we have plenty of soup kitchens, charities and government programs to ensure that no one truly dies of starvation or frostbite.

Those who are genuinely homeless tend to be incapable of taking advantage of these programs primarily because of schizophrenia. Sometimes I am truly saddened by the sight of these people.

The rest of the time they just crack me up beyond belief.

Don't worry, I'm the one who's going to go to Hell for this - you're just reading it, remember?

The building I currently work in has its own mentally ill mascot. He lives near the ventilation and maintenance corridor (which acts as a natural windbreak). He is around sixty, appears to have last bathed in 1998, wears filthy clothing and mutters incomprehensibly in a deep voice. He's either a derelict or a death-metal vocalist, but I'll put good money on "derelict".

I have true sympathy and concern for this poor man and wish only that society would treat him with the quiet respect and gentle dignity he deserves. I call him "Captain Happy".

Normally he divides his time between basking in the sun like an over-fertilised sunflower and jumping on imaginary bugs. It's good to have a routine. It builds character.

Today I left a little earlier for lunch than usual, (I spied a large group of tourists in the park from my window) and noticed Captain Happy doing something quite out of character: he was writing in a journal.

I don't know about you, but for the last hour I have been speculating on the contents of Captain Happy's diary. I imagine it would read along the lines of this:

Day 2374:

Invasion of Earth going according to plan. No sign yet of reinforcements.
Found half a ham-sandwich.

Day 2376

Cockroaches on corner of Market and King Street late in presenting weekly tithes. Have cut the heads off two of their young as a reminder not to be late next week. Currently wearing heads as nipple-tassels. Very fetching.

Day 2378

Found other half of ham sandwich. Still good.

Day 2379

Weather seems to be improving. Not as cold as it was last night.
Trousers seem lumpier.

This is how my mind works when I see a derelict scratching away in an old exercise book. Yes, I know - sucks to be me.

SD
suit_dude@walla.com

HeadButt

Mon, 04 Jul 2005 00:45:48 GMT

Last year I wrote an entry detailing how my girlfriend’s head was attempting to kill me – obviously her head has thus far been unsuccessful and I had since come to believe that it had given up on the notion that I was the spawn of Satan and needed to be eradicated.

Christ I can be gullible sometimes. Alright, most times. Shut up.

In a way, I was correct, her head had given up the fight, but not the war. It had merely decided to retire and was biding its time, meticulously searching for a fitting successor to continue the battle.

It found one – sometime this morning, another part of Miss P's body was appointed Executive in Chief of the Suit Dude Eradication Program.

In short, I was awoken at four thirty this morning in the following fashion:

SD: Zzzzzzz (snore) zzzzzzz (snore) zzzz - Mmmph?! OW! What the? ... JESUS CHRIST, YOU JUST SAT ON MY FRIGGING HEAD!

Miss P: Huh?

SD: WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?

MP: It’s your fault – what are you doing on this side of the bed?

SD: Holding my skull together with my bare hands. OW! What do you think I was doing? I was sleeping for fuck’s sake!

MP: You shouldn’t be here!

SD: I know, I should be in casualty getting my friggin’ head glued back together. OW!

MP: I didn't want to turn the light on in case you woke up.

SD: So you use my head as trampoline?

We bantered on lovingly in this fashion for a while before I realised that no permanent damage had been done - except to one of my fantasies about being awoken by Miss P in a particular way. That one’s soooo dead in the water now.

I love Miss P dearly and despite this morning’s events I still hold her butt in the highest regard, but from now on I sleep in a helmet.

SD

Attack of The Green Weenies

Wed, 15 Jun 2005 01:54:00 GMT

I’ve had way too much espresso this morning. There is nothing unusual about this, as I count espresso among the five main food groups. The other four are :cappuccino, short blacks, Marlboro Red and DeBortoli Merlot. Shut up.

Either way, I’m a little wound up today. The source of this was a couple of eighteen year old hippies at Town Hall station who looked at me and a bunch of other suited dudes this morning and uttered the incredibly original line “what a bunch of reprobate sheep, man”. Yeah, we’re reprobates, Reprobates with jobs.

One thing I found interesting about them was the fact that they were carrying those new, green, environmentally friendly shopping bags. Let’s call them “Green Weenie Bags” (GWBs).

Green Weenie Bags – they’re hip, they’re new and guess what? They're made from non-biodegradable plastic, the very worst kind there is. Did you know that most of those evil “plastic” bags in supermarkets (my local IGA for example), are made from fully biodegradable nitro-cellulose? That’s right, a lot of the “plastic bags” that supermarkets give away for free actually do break down - usually after direct contact with groceries, ensuring that my oranges go spilling like jaffas onto Enmore Road. The Green Weenie bags however, are non-biodegradable. Those bastards will still be on the planet long after you and I have been recycled.

Oh, and check the tags people, they’re all made in China. We’re sending even more money offshore. Well done.

But hey, regular supermarket bags aren’t large and green and they don’t help the carrier advertise their false sense of environmentally-conscious superiority do they?

This is the problem with affluent westerners – and yes, if you’re reading this on your “computer” via your “broadband internet connection” then that makes you an affluent westerner by global standards. No, I don’t care that you may happen to be a struggling second year arts student worrying where your next Marilyn Manson CD is coming from, or how you’re going to fund next year’s “Save the Socialist Aardvarks” March, you’re an affluent westerner. One with too much time on your hands – get a job, and while you’re at it, leave the goddamn aardvarks alone, you’re creeping them out.

This is the problem with affluent westerners, especially the ones who count themselves as superior and eco-friendly. We’re all seeking a “quick fix” when it comes to difficult issues. It’s so easy to buy a big green plastic bag and pat yourself on the back. Look hard at the packaging of the products you’re putting into it. How much bleached paper, ink and plastic cover the cheezles and mars bars bought by your average greenie after one too many hits on the bong?

But hey, you’re putting them into a big green non-biodegradable plastic bag. It’s green, so it must be okay, right?

By the same token, it’s much easier to sing along to a Midnight Oil song about the environment then it is to enter politics and actually do something about it - a fact that’s only just begun to dawn on Peter Garret. I’m ecstatic that he’s entered politics, it was the only way to shut him up. Either way, it’s nice to see he’s finally assumed the Official title of “Member”.

Seriously, does anyone even listen to Midnight Oil anymore? I was dragged along to one of their concerts by an idiot hippie girlfriend in the late eighties and my ears were ringing for days. The only reason for something to be that loud is to make up for its lack of substance. My head’s spinning thinking of the amount of electricity just used by the bass-player that evening. 80% of Australian electricity is still produced by burning coal. That’s means that Midnight Oil produced 200,000 tonnes of greenhouse gases that night to send their message of environmental consciousness to three hundred drunken idiots at Bankstown Sports club. All of whom drove home smashed in souped-up V8 panel vans.

So what do you do if you really want to make a difference to the environment? Vote for the Greens?

Politicians with green credentials tend to create new government departments to implement bold new initiatives. Boldly designed to do one thing - get them re-elected (The Aardvark Protection Act for example). The problem with government departments however, is that they’re incredibly inefficient at doing anything other than organising their next rostered-day-off and then calling in sick. For God’s sake, these guys can’t even get you to work on time – do you really trust them with even more of your money?

The last politician I remember that got the trains to run on time also really, really pissed off my Jewish buddy Graham’s grandparents back in the forties. Yeah, let’s give guys like him even more of our money.

Australians like to think that we're at the forefront of environmentally conscious nations, we do things like use dopey green plastic bags and buying products with the words "eco-friendly" in the title. But guess what? Australia accounts for only 1.5% of all the world's greenhouse gas emissions.

We could all use nothing but environmentally friendly products (even ones that actually work) and it wouldn't make a shred of difference. By the same token, we could all drive clapped out leaded-petrol guzzling monster-trucks twenty hours a day and it wouldn't make any significant difference to global warming either.

Not. One. Shred.

So what can we do? Well, as a nation, we can't do a damn thing about global warming. Australia could ratify the Kyoto treaty tomorrow or go on a huge anti-environmental bender and guess what? No difference either way. Zilch. Nada.

But there is something we can do that'll have a solid and immediate impact on the immediate quality of our environment, and it's something that Australians do lead the world in. The only problem is, that like everything else that actually makes a real difference, it involves real effort, from individuals, not government departments.

It's called "Clean-Up Australia Day". Unfortunately it's not so popular among eighteen year old hippies as it involves something called "work". It's far easier for them (and let's be honest, much more fun) to march against a government's stance on the Kyoto protocol than it is to head to a public park and clean the damn thing up.

Most participants in "Clean Up Australia Day" tend to be reprobate, mortgage-owning sheep who like the idea of their property prices increasing.

If this morning’s eco-weenies really want to improve the environment, they need to start small. Here are a few tips to get them going.

Noise Pollution: When you’re sitting next to me on public transport, listening to Midnight Oil on your iPod, turn the fucking thing down.

Air Quality: And try not to fart while you’re at it (lay off the cheezles and mars bars).

Air Pollution: For Christ’s sake, take a shower, wash off the patchouli oil and stop smoking those damn clove cigarettes (hey, why don’t we give everyone who smuggles those things back from Bali a twenty year sentence? That’d be fun).

Visual Pollution: Take off the "Capitalism Sucks" T-Shirt. You know, that one that you bought in a shop in a transaction that involved money.

And seriously guys, ditch the GreenWeenie Bags, if you're environmentally conscious and against capitalism, express it by choosing not to buy. To be more specific - stop buying into such bullshit, even if you do get it wholesale.

SD

Begorrah Begone

Fri, 18 Mar 2005 02:54:22 GMT

Yesterday I celebrated St Patrick's Day and my Irish heritage in true Irish fashion. To be more specific, it completely slipped my mind, I forgot all about the damn thing and spent the evening stone-cold sober.

In order to make up for this, I'll be highjacking next week's "Palestine Day" by investing in some fertilizer, visiting my Jewish buddy Graham and blowing myself to tiny pieces in his kitchen. I'll also be singing, "It's a long way to Tipperary" in Yiddish.

Chief Demon's Report: Progress on new circle of hell for suit_dude - 60% complete.

Like most people who don't actually live in Ireland, I become tearfully nostalgic for ye olde country on St Patrick's Day. Shut up. What I actually do is drink a bucket of Jameson's Whiskey while devising ways of bombing the English Backpacker's Hostel in Bondi.

Chief Demon's Report: Progress on new circle of hell for suit_dude - 65% complete. Keep it up asshole.

Okay, Okay - I don't really do any of those things but I do usually take some time to drink a Guinness and offer quiet thanks for my Irish roots. I can trace my musical ability back to my dearly departed grandmother. She began to teach me piano from the age of six. Like most boys of that age, I loved my nanna dearly and looked forward to the hours we would spend of an evening sitting at the piano while she sculled glass after glass of cheap sherry and taught me Winnie Atwell boogie-woogie bass lines. Damn that girl could play, and to this day I remember everything she taught me. Which is why I play piano like a paralytic sixty-five year old woman.

My grandmother was overflowing with that chief Irish trait that made her the most beloved of all my relatives - alcoholism. She was the biggest lush this side of Oliver Reed and could have easily kicked his ass in a fistfight before drinking him under the table.

Her love for the grape and all its derivatives was legendary in our family, even by Irish standards.

When she passed away, my father and his siblings spent hours going through her house to prepare for its sale. They were amazed at the amount of booze stashed away in all types of hiding places; not that she was hiding her habit, she'd just run out of shelf space. She was a genius; if my grandmother had taught subterfuge in Alcatraz then each inmate could have safely hidden a few 44 gallon drums of contraband in his cell without any fear of detection.

This was a woman who converted a packet of OMO washing powder into a makeshift wine-cask so she could refill her glass if she ever woke up in the laundry. I was a cub-scout when I was a kid and she taught me the true meaning of "Be Prepared".

She died two months to the day after her husband passed away from cancer. Upon hearing this news, my friends gathered round me to offer condolences for the passing of a poor woman who just couldn't live without her beloved husband.

Two words: namely, "Bull" and "Shit" come to mind.

This was a woman who upon hearing of her husband's death rejoiced, grabbed another sherry and began singing "Ding Dong the Witch is Dead". She'd hated the cantankerous old bastard but like a true catholic would never consider divorce.

She went out in a fashion truly befitting one of God's unique creatures. No, it was not peacefully in her sleep - she trashed a Mercedes in a firey explosion while doing one hundred and twenty on the Great Western Highway. Schwarzenegger had nothing on my grandmother.

So Happy St Patrick's Day, Nanna. You're still with us and you're still just as beloved. Keep the piano warm for me.

And keep that Oliver Reed bastard away from my barstool.

SD

If You Drive It They Will Come

Fri, 04 Mar 2005 01:34:30 GMT

What is it about public transport that makes certain people want to masturbate?

Over the years I have encountered this phenomenon an unfortunate number of times. By "an unfortunate number of times" I specifically mean "any number greater than zero". There are a disturbing number of people who seem to succumb to bus-lust and for some reason I seem to have run into quite a few of them. I've just been in the wrong place at the right time and still they keep on coming. So to speak.

I don't know about you, but buying a bus ticket, finding a seat and staring at a paperback has never really inspired me to get down and dirty with my bad-self. For some people however, these events are merely the first in the chain that leads them to the inevitable conclusion of "wow, what a perfect time to rub one off".

I first came across this phenomenon at the age of twenty. I was waiting for a bus during rush hour and was annoyed upon boarding to discover that there were zero seats. Sydney had been hit by a goddawful thunderstorm which meant that traffic was gridlocked and I had an hour of standing to look forward to. An hour with someone's armpit pressed into my face while I tried to stay upright.

Then I saw the holy grail. A seat. A spare seat next to a respectably dressed guy of about 60. I threw myself into it and started reading. About thirty seconds into the journey I began to notice a faint rhythmic sound. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed that he was stroking the plastic bag that was balanced upon his lap.

To be more accurate, he had his dick in the bag and was beating it like a bored gorilla.

Within 0.5 seconds the seat beside him was vacant again. I went home and had a very long shower. I sandpapered off two layers of skin and had a sudden urge to watch Doris Day movies.

Things couldn't get worse than that right?

Wrong.

In London one morning I was treated to another show. Only this time I was fortunate enough to share the experience with a few hundred of my fellow commuters.

I used to work in Soho. This involved getting off the tube at Tottenham Court Road tube station and walking down an eighty metre pedestrian-tunnel to reach Oxford Street. This tunnel was frequently lined with derelicts and let me tell you, London derelicts are a breed apart. These guys are hardy, can knock back a can of paint for breakfast and still spend two hours arguing politics with a phone booth. I once saw one holding a sign while begging that read, "why lie - it's for booze".

This particular morning I was doing the standard commuter trick of walking through the tunnel while reading my newspaper. Again, out of the corner of my eye I noticed a steaming (yes it was winter) river of urine snaking it's way down the floor's incline. My eyes followed the river to its source.

My eyes should really fucking know better than that.

Our hero was a standard London-Issue Derelict. There is no gracious way of describing what I saw so I'll just hold my breath and type away. He was lying semi-comatose on some luxurious cardboard sheeting and had remarkably managed to remove his dick from his trousers in order to piss on the floor. He was obviously a more sophisticated type of meths-man.

Perhaps a little too sophisticated for our crowd of London commuters. I can't even begin to imagine what went through his mind at the time but I'd imagine it was something along the lines of,

"wow, what a perfect time to rub one off".

It's all rather logical I guess. There he was, in his own bedroom with his dick in his hand.

Cardboard Sheeting: Free
Can of Breakfast Paint: 2.99
The shocked expression of a hundred commuters: Priceless.

Even women it seems can succumb to this urge. Another afternoon not terribly far from the same tunnel I heard a woman in front of me nervously say to her children, "Don't look at the scary lady kids". Of course I immediately looked around for the scary lady.

If my eyes keep pulling this sort of stunt on me I'm going to rip the bastards out.

The lady was about fifty and the lady was scary. The lady had her skirt pulled up around her waist and was, ahem ... "flicking the bean" while sitting on a public bench. I don't think she noticed me screaming.

If I see that sort of thing one more time in my life, it'll be me buying a can of breakfast paint at 8:00 in the morning.

Of course, then I'll have to find some way of amusing myself.

SD

And the Winner is ...

Wed, 16 Feb 2005 11:04:06 GMT

I have decided to take it upon myself to hand out an award this evening. An award for the "funniest fucking response ever posted to my journal entries".

Those of you that love the english language will automatically understand and appreciate the sheer literary power of the winning entry.

It is concise.
It uses language to suckerpunch the reader.
And, above all, it's really fucking funny.

Diabolique posted the following gem in response to an entry I made last December about Yuletide gatherings. She was speaking about how wonderful things usually are at her family get-togethers until they inevitably turn sour:

Midnight fucking mass. Cruel and unusual punishment. Singing, whiskey/sherry drinking Irish grandmothers (or in my case, my Dear Old Dad, who is fond of a flagon or 12). Christmas movies. These things are all the devil.

Listening to music, floating about my sisters craptastic pool, beer in hand, shootin' the shit with my nieces and nephews (most of 'em grown up) however, getting nicely toasted and also sunburnt, is a hell of a lot nicer.

Until some cunt gets ratarsed on goon and starts The Traditional Kennedy Family Christmas Shitfight [banshee wailing optional].

Does any line ever get better than that? I think not. Look at the masterful command of words: "cunt", "ratarsed" and "goon" in such close proximity to one another.

Diabolique, I salute you.

SD