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.
What.

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)
Self-explanatory.
Atonement: Maintain Wikipedia page for 6 months.

[TO BE ETCETERAED]