By Zeus! Moles are fucking useless wastes of space; send us your stories and opinions about them being shit, would you.

Before heading out for a night on the town with my girlfriends I asked my Mere Mole’s opinion on my outfit. “Looks fine to me,” he shrugged indifferently before turning back to the television. Imagine my horror when my gal pals later pointed out that I was wearing a Nazi SS uniform and I recalled that my MM’s eyes were vestigial organs phased out by natural selection and therefore his opinions on visual stimuli were essentially meaningless. Needless to say the drinks were on me that night – quite literally!

Ms. Robyn Cock

Being a keen amateur cook I asked my MM what I should make for the church fundraiser. He eagerly recommended a dish of underground invertebrates such as grubs and earthworms, paralysed by saliva and served raw. I readily took his advice as I am a Satanist.

Mrs. Judith Wobbegong

For the hundredth time, I asked my Mere Mole to clean the guttering around the house and he reluctantly waddled outside to perform his duty. When he’d still not returned over an hour later I went outside and discovered to my dismay that he was dead and being eaten by magpies and the gutters were still filthy.

Mrs. Bernadette Cunt

When my MM heard that Will and Jada Smith were divorcing he exclaimed that he “Couldn’t believe his ears!” I quickly put him in his place by reminding him that he had none.

Mrs. Dotty Scum

My Mere Mole has always been quite proud of his genus (Scaptochirus moschatus) and was boasting at length of the fact at a dinner party with some friends. After dinner we turned on the television to see a report that his species had been declared a pest by the Chinese Government and would be subject to extensive eradication. I’ve never seen him change the channel faster! Moles! Can’t live with them (as they live underground), can’t live without them (as they are vermin)!

Ms. Amanda Quartz-Schist Subgrade


Life Think #85: Dad.exe

July 21, 2011

I posit that for many baby boomer dads the 1990s were a time akin to the 1980s AIDS epidemic for the gay community. But, rather than battling some scourge which attacked one’s immune system, what fathers of the 90s combated were computer viruses.

At least that’s how I remember my dad during those years: cold evenings huddled in front of the computer, monitoring stuttering green progress bars and ominously ever-upward-ticking red numerals; middle-of-the-night lamplight phone calls to other dads, smouldering cigarette pincered between trembling digits (“I hear you have software, man. AVG? Norton? I need it bad, man. I’m fucked, I’m totally fucked.”); mysterious men of German extraction that would disappear into the computer room with my father for hours on end, eventually emerging with bloodshot eyes and far less respect for my father than when they’d entered.

To these afflicted men the sound of a connecting dial-up modem was an anticipatory scream of pain. At barbeques they would clandestinely compare their symptoms – deleted photos, the absence of the “It’s now safe to turn off your computer” text when shutting down, repeated displaying of the “It’s now safe to turn off your computer” text when launching Netscape Navigator, and of course the blue screen of death. One of my strongest recollections is returning from school to find my dad shrieking Scottishly into the phone at the receptionist from Terry Anthony Computers (our family ISP to this day) “Ask Jeeves? Fuck Jeeves!”

This was a long way from the heady, carefree days of the 1980s, when dads would freely swap 5¼-inch floppy disks full of pirated Commodore 64 and Amiga software with their trusted work colleagues. Some games still came out on cassette tape, for God’s sake. “Oh, by the way, Andrew,” these dads would say winkingly to my father (In the Scottish tradition, I am eponymously named after my father – his own personal self-titled concept album if you will), “I put a little something extra on that disk you may enjoy. Don’t let the kids play it.”

They were of course referring to the blocky graphics of C64 Strip Poker, a game I defeated at nine years of age, finding it somewhat disappointing that the nipples of my alarmingly magenta opponent were made up of no more than four brown pixels (they were square). It was a pyrrhic victory, for I had more than once been rendered entirely nude by that orthogonal card-whiz harpy. I wholly blame this game for the subsequently tardy loss of my virginity.

When 1994 rolled around those days of simple virtue were long gone. So my dad, as most dads did in those days out of pure desperation, turned for solace to the only person that could not reject him: the 19-year-old Harvey Norman sales clerk. These young poet-warriors spoke in specs and were the high priests to Generation Dad, reluctantly taking confessions on browser history and virus scan logs. More than once I recall my father collapsing at the feet of one of these pimply-faced, greasy-haired messiahs, gripping at their unironed, oversized Beare & Ley shirtfronts and begging for help. These wiry young men seemingly held a secret knowledge that my father coveted. To him 486 was just the year that Roman rule in Gaul ended with their defeat at Soissons, but to the Harvey Norman salesboy, it was the computational answer to my father’s prayers.

And so a pattern emerged: computers that eventually seized up with virii, like a tinman with insufficient oil, would be secretly dumped in the basement, one after the other. First the 286, then the 486, the 586, quickly followed by an ill-gotten i586 (a pox upon its random access memory), the Pentium II and III were all unceremoniously dumped on the dirt-floored cellar (along with my collection of Hypercolor t-shirts). I imagine a group of archaeologists two thousand years hence stumbling across the area under the ruins of my parent’s house and claiming they had found the location of some ancient robot battleground.

I should confess at this point, or rather, I should have confessed at the start of this article, that it was actually *I* that was the source of the majority of viruses that plagued my father’s life. Back then (in 1995) I was an aspiring young archivist and thought it would be smart to download everything on the internet, just in case the whole internet thing, you know, didn’t work out. Upon the collapse of the internet age (which I anticipated would occur around the year 2000 with the defeat of Al Gore), people would be forced to visit me like some antediluvian keeper of sacred scrolls and whisper in reverential tones “It is said that ye have the whole of the internet on thine computer, o wise one? I beseech thee to permit me to view the animated gif of the dancing baby from Ally McBeal, if only for the briefest of moments, mi lord.”

Much as AIDS medications have improved markedly in the past two decades, so has computer security. Nowadays, my father is lucky to get one or two viruses a year. You would think this would make him extremely happy, but the sad truth is, as I watch him dutifully uploading photos of his trip to Tasmania, amending the screen display properties or aimlessly shifting icons around his desktop, I see emptiness in his pale blue eyes. Like Superman without Lex Luthor, or Samuel L. Jackson in that shitty M. Night Shyamalan movie, he ultimately misses those viral nemeses of yesteryear. They – despite costing him thousands in both time and money, weeks upon weeks of stress and sleepless nights – they gave his life a purpose that his wife and children were never really able to provide.

At least that’s what I tell myself as I deliberately download malware and Trojan horses to his computer when he is out of the room. * For my dad the next two months will be an eventful restoration of those turbulent days back in 1994. Once again, he will feel alive. I chuckle as I think of the poor, now 35-year-old, Harvey Norman sales clerk. That bastard doesn’t know what’s coming.

You’re welcome, dad … you’re welcome.

* Note: Shortly after typing this sentence the author came to the realisation that in taking the aids/computer viruses analogy to its illogical conclusion he seemed to accidentally imply that the gay community somehow missed aids and that they should be deliberately infected as a means of giving their lives purpose. Therefore it should be assumed by the reader that the metaphor ends somewhere around the use of the phrase “ancient robot battleground”.

I am no climate change crusader, but I do try my best to limit my personal emissions (despite what my friends say about my flatulence lol) and I am also constantly encouraging people to get abortions (they’re the Tazos of the 2010s imho).

That said, I get it. I understand that everything we do, except possibly sleeping, is going to have a negative impact on the environment. That’s why people with chronic fatigue are the unsung heroes of climate change (“unsung” because they are too lazy probably). While I entirely support the cause, I do think campaigners should seriously reconsider the use of this banner:

It looks like they are demanding acquiescence to a happy cartoon Hitler. Perhaps I’m missing the subtext?

Little power point Hitler,
Hungry for some power.
Short fuse during a Blitzkrieg
And had a two-minute shower.

Sorry, I have Poetourette’s Syndrome (it’s rare). So when I stumbled across this item on the Sydney Morning Herald website this morning I almost choked on my incredulity (the skeptic’s cornflakes):

Let me get this straight. You are encouraging your readers to sit on their personal computers, which spit a kilogram of carbon into the atmosphere every 16 hours, and LITERALLY WATCH A LIVE STREAM OF MELTING ICE?

I mean honestly: what the fuck? It’s a self-contained metaphor for human illogicality. It’s completely obscene, positively ghastly. Their unmitigated gall is…wait a second. What’s this little morsel?

A four and a half minute video about how Clover Moore feels naked without her choker? Well…that…that just sounds intriguing…if you’ll excuse me, I’m sure the planet won’t mind taking this one for the team.

*Click image below to enlarge image below to enlarge image*

Like many self-made men, I got to where I am today using my instincts and powerful photographic memory (and a train). Not that this has been of great assistance as all of my memories are composed like a Myspace photograph, meaning my recollections are in sepia and shot from above to hide my double chin and show off my cleavage.

Further: as a child I required glasses, which I did not receive until well after they were necessary, meaning my boyhood remembrances have all the fidelity of a photograph taken with an iPhone 2G which has been dropped in a haunted toilet in an abandoned nightclub by a recently-relieved DJ on multivitamins.

(Tragic sidenote: as I could not read the blackboard for most of primary school, much of my early learning was done in the 10 seconds before and after recess and lunch when I exited the classroom and passed near enough to the front of class to read my teacher’s writing. And what became of that poor little myopic boy? you ask. Reader, I married him.)

So I’m not going to pretend the following is entirely accurate. But Jamie Croft does exist and he was my friend and he has a Wikipedia page and he’s worked with Josh Quong Tart (yes, of those Quong Tarts).

Make a list of all persons you have harmed, and be willing to make amends to them all (Alcoholic Anonymous – Step Eight).

OMG it’s in italics so I have to do it. Quickly! Come with me down my memory lane, won’t you!? Yes, I know it’s poorly lit. Let’s skip and hold hands! No, my pants always look like this; it’s the way they’re cut, there’s extra material around the front. Sorry about the broken glass and bins and that shrieking cat over there. They’re metaphors! Hey! Can you smell this cough medicine; I think it might have gone off?

My mother (Age 0)
When I was born I attempted to leave the womb feet first with the umbilical chord around my neck in what I assume was a protest of the unjust imprisonment of Angela Davis. To my embarrassment, I later learned from the doctor that she had been exonerated a decade earlier (in my defence, I was really into cerebral hypoxia at the time, which was a big trend in my mother’s womb during the early 1980s). This caused my mother great physical and emotional distress (the birth I mean, not my poor grasp of history).
Atonement: Phone call every 3 weeks or so.

St George Dragon and St. Andrew’s Preschool Class of 1985 (Age 3)
We played a game called “What’s the account number, Mr. Dragon?” which was clearly a plagiarised version of “What’s the Time, Mr. Wolf?” (I said nothing out of politeness, except to point out to the more credulous children how unlikely it was for a bank account number to consist of a single digit). This was followed by a little sing song – “Puff the Magic Dragon”, in keeping with the day’s theme (marijuana). At one point during the song I chased a pigeon (I despised birds for reasons unfathomable) which landed on an overhead wire, where it became entangled and electrocuted. It decomposed on the wire over our preschool for months, severely traumatising many, many children, who probably now have high levels of debt due to associative dissonance!
Atonement: Open a St. George Bank Direct Saver account at 4.65% interest p.a.

Jamie Croft (Age 6)
My childhood best friend at Abbotsford Primary landed a role on A Country Practice and out of jealousy I called it A Dumbtry Craptice (an early augury, you’ll agree, for my rapier wit).
Atonement: 1x Google Alert hit for his name

Andrew Baker (Age 8)
I once slightly delayed Andrew Baker on the way to class and he rightfully pushed me over an Otto Bin*. As I nursed my fractured wrist back to health over the next 6 weeks, I often wondered if he made it on time.
Atonement: Extra 5 minutes of tea ball.
* I certainly wasn’t Otto Bin Laughin’ (Osama Bin Laden) at the time if you know what I mean!? Topical.

Mr. Lyons (Age 9)
I remember Mr. Lyons as an avid Penrith Panthers fan, so it was no surprise when he spent the entire day on 23 September out of the classroom watching a replay of the 1991 Grand Final, leaving thirty unsupervised students to play Granny’s Garden on Woodport Public School’s only computer, an Amstrad CPC, thereby forcing me to report him to the school authorities whereupon he was promptly fired.
Atonement: Flowers on his grave.

Josh Quong Tart (Age 29)
Atonement: Maintain Wikipedia page for 6 months.


Clear your political correctness cache and enable comedy cookies on your brain browser in preparation for this in-your-face/on-your-screen blog post.

As an accomplished writer, musician and serial date rapist, I’m something of a triple threat (according to the NSW Police). Okay. Basically, I wrote a bunch of musicals threatening to date rape celebrities (currently showing Off-Broadway (Broadway, Sydney I mean. On the footpath near the new Max Brenner)). But my talents don’t just stop at bullying Israeli chocolatiers with my overactive libido; they also extend to international languages.

I coined this: Freudfreudenfreude (to take delight in another’s delight of Freud).

Example #2: Hitler war nicht vegetarier! Ich habe ihm einmal Rückenlehne gegessen gesehen! (Hitler wasn’t a vegetarian! I once saw him eating a fucking squab for fuck’s sake! (emphasis and swearing: mine)).

Another example: החלקתי משהו קטן ב שוקו חם שלך (I slipped a little something in your hot chocolate, Mr. Brenner (emphasis and rohypnol: mine – according to the NSW police)).

Also, I really, really like brackets and Facebook liking things in real life by tapping them with an index finger and saying “Like”.

So I think the above qualifies me to comment on all things Internationalismusfähigkeiten. Oh, and I forgot I also have a degree in International Studies (which is the “look, some of my best friends are gay…” of racism). In the interest of transparency: the only subject I had to do to qualify for the degree was Tutting Convincingly at a Copy of Francis Fukuyama’s The End of History, which is lying on a desk near my office. Regards, Robyn Knight (6cp). Also though: at UTS (which is the “look, some of my best campuses are vertical campuses…” of racism) so…


All of the above was a painfully drawn out and unnecessary segue to talk about this Italian poster that I found. GOD!!

Italians! The people that gave us the Roman Empire, pizza and hedging your bets during war (in hindsight I should have started this blog post here – pls scroll down so it looks like it does as I’m too lazy to go back and delete).

I in-real-life-Facebook-like the Italian language but can’t speak a lick of it! Even my offensive caricature of an Italian mamma (pause for applause) has hints in the accent of my offensive parody of an Indian Swami (forcing me to create a fairly convoluted back-story set in British India for what is, quite frankly, a fairly two-dimensional character to begin with – her only motivation is that she has pasta and wants you to eat it).

Fortunately, one of my best friends, Giuseppe (which is the “look, one of my best friends, Giuseppe…” of made-up anecdotes) translated the poster entitled “Hey Men! Even Women Can Be on Trains Now” (in Italy the advertising maxim is “sexism sells” due to a Google Translate error).

1. No pushing the train. It has a motor to help it move.

2. Do not pee out of the train at stations.

3. Do not exit the train using a hoverboard. Explanation: Italians are lazy and hate updating things almost as much as I just realised I hate updating this blog (hey-yo!) so all their warning posters contain futuristic warnings.

4. Only pole vault the train if you think you can make it

5. No divining for water on the train. Readings will be inaccurate as the train will be moving.

6. For the convenience of other passengers do not fill the train with water and ride a gondola in it

7. You really are an asshole, you know that.

8. Don’t drink in bed. It’s depressing.

Back in the olden days: hurricanes were called dust bicycles. The flamenco was called the man tantrum or “mantrum”. Rust was called gun cancer. Etcetera ad nauseum.

Website money-making scheme: – Pictures of Mao taking a break on the Long March.

Life Think #77: Lollision

February 25, 2010

Patent pending: Anti-Snore Airbag (Slogan: “Your car may be a twisted wreck but that doesn’t mean your marriage has to be”)