List of peroxide-haired guys who aren't douchebags: Part 1*

I have spent every year of the last five minutes intensively researching this topic. After extensive trawling, street interviews and turfing potential candidates that turned out to just be Swedish, I have come up with a comprehensive list of men who manage to peroxide their hair without being ostensible douchebags.



1. James Marsters / Spike from Buffy














2. John Simm / The Master


















* For Parts II and III, see the list provided in Part I.

You have failed to produce me a male heir for the last time, woman

Woman, it now be nigh ten months since our last infant came into this world, and I learn now from my royal page that you are, once again, with child. Let me speak frankly. Half of me is filled with trembling hope that you will at last fulfill your contractual obligation and provide me with a male heir, as your parents promised me before we were wedded.

The other half of me is already wondering whether our guillotine is still in good working order and which part of the front yard is best to display your head on a spike.

Please understand I would not use such frank language unless you had pushed me thus far through your persistent and inexplicable rebelliousness against giving me a beloved son.

Oh, how clear in my memory is the soul-destroying event that was the last birth! I arose feeling fitful that morning. I dined on my customary red wine and duck, and your absence at the other end of my 12-foot-long dinner table indicated that you were, in probability, betwixt labour pains and birthing the boy who will inherit my estate and fortunes when I pass on.

The absence of news from my man, Phillip, inclined me to believe that the boy had not yet come. The nervous glances between the footmen whilst I sipped broodingly on my excellent merlot signalled to me that you were probably in the midst of travail. I finished my duck. It was good.

Afterwards I paced the marble foyer of my mighty mansion, my leather shoes clacking impatiently on the marble floor, occasionally glancing down at the reflection in my shoe buckles over the expanse of my impressive stomach. I could see that my powdered wig was slightly askew, but I barely cared.

I became aware that I was not alone. Phillip hovered nervously in the doorway. “Be gone, fool!” I screamed, ashamed to be caught in a moment of reflection, and I am embarrassed to admit I threw my muff at him. He scampered out the door, and before it slammed shut I momentarily heard the echo of your self-indulgent birthing screams. Stoically, I awaited my fate with my bejewelled fingers clasping my waistcoat, longing for an answer from God which seemingly would never come.

After what seemed like centuries, your showy production came to an end. I turned to see the midwife tentatively open the door. “The mistress is well, my Lord,” she tittered, holding her face low. I marched past the stupid curtseying woman, my cloak flailing behind me as I strode decidedly towards your private chamber.

Entering your room, I saw in my periphery you in a state of decided disarray upon the bed, your chemise disgracefully covered in blood. My infant son lay swaddled in his crib, and – no! This was no son! I turned my eyes from this abomination and took in your scandalous figure in disgust, an expression which did not fade when our eyes met. I looked upon your maidservant (whom I have bedded, by the by, on no less than 30 occasions), and sneered. “My good Sir-” the impudent woman simpered, and I turned about on my heel and moved purposefully from the room.

I marched as far away from you as my legs could take me, returning to my foyer where the paintings of my father and grandfather stared down upon me in mockery. Suddenly, my knees failed me, and I fell to the ground. “WHY????!!!!” my tortured screams rang out, echoing throughout the house as dramatic orchestral music reached a crescendo, and scattering the birds on my estate into the sky. “WHY?!?!?!?!!”

I lay some moments on the ground in the foyer, not bothering to stop the tears which marked me as a broken man. My satin waistcoat felt more like a straightjacket, and the weight of my velvet cloak was heavy upon my person. And as I whimpered, “I’m sorry, father”, at the frowning grey-haired man in the painting above my fallen head, so help me God if I didn’t wish you and your devil’s spawn dead at that very moment, woman.

You can see, I trust, what a distasteful morning this fateful day was for me. I could barely gather the presence of mind to go shooting with the hounds that afternoon. I should also add that your antics that day saw me take down no more than five ducks – which is two below my average for a typical hunting party.

It must be clear even to a female that this cannot, will not, happen again. I will not be made a fool of. Are we clear on this, woman? I quite ruined my stockings on my tragic foyer fall that morning, and they are not the only items belonging to me that are ruined by your impudence that day.

I am not privy to the knowledge of why you continually refuse to give me a male heir who will carry on my line, fulfil my hopes and dreams, and keep my estates out of the hands of my scheming cousin. I consider it fruitless to inquire into the minds (if one is to call it that) of women. I know only that your intentions are evil.

That being said, understand this. Failure to produce a male heir this time round will not go unpunished. I already have made plans to have your rose garden removed and replaced with your skewered slut’s head. The choice is yours. You can have this, or give me my son and remain alive. You may even receive a brief nod in recognition of work well done after the boy is born. I will glance with apparent impassivity upon his newborn face, and you will bring him up whilst I retire to Bath to take the waters and mix in society.

Again, woman, the choice is entirely yours.


Sincerely,
Sir Ben Affleck
(To Lady Jennifer Garner)

If I was a truck driver

I would be the world’s best middle-aged truck driver. I would be that happy overweight middle-aged guy that smiles fondly but platonically at little kids who go past in cars making that sign to pull the horn. I’d do it, of course, and give them a nice wave by flicking my mole-ridden chubby-fingered hand out the window. (I think there would be a wedding ring on my hand, even though my wife Milly left me years ago for another man because I was never home.)

I would try to be that upbeat trucker that everyone loves. Of course the Trucker Me would be a more complex character than Actual Me, and there would be sadness behind my faded smiles at times. I would treat a select few to these windows into my secretly tortured soul. Dolores, my favourite waitress, would occasionally say, “There goes a troubled man” when I walk out of her diner, but to my fellow truckers I would be all smiles.

People wouldn’t know this about me, but sometimes when I’m on the open road alone I would pretend my truck is a motorcycle, making “Vroom! Vroom!” sounds whilst I pretended to make sudden turns with the steering wheel. (This is an example of my sense of humour. I would like to make little jokes sometimes.) However I wouldn’t actually make the steering wheel turn in this example because that would be dangerous. I like to have fun but there is a line.

Sometimes my route would take me past my sister’s house and I would feel a pang of guilt. I’d consider dropping in and then discard this idea. The longer I decide not to pay a visit, the worse the guilt will get. I would eventually go see her at Christmas and her husband Ronnie would answer the door. I’d say, “How is she?” and he’d say, “Pretty much the same” and I’d go up the rickety stairs to her room. Her bed would be surrounded by heart-monitoring equipment, IV lines and her catheter. Despite what Ronnie had said, she’d seem worse than she last was, and her laboured breathing would make me flush with mixed emotions. I’d say, “How are you, pet?” and she wouldn’t answer. I’d rattle on about things we did together when we were kids, till she would look at me with wet eyes and whisper, “You never come to see me anymore.” I would race out of the house, jump into my truck and start pounding the steering wheel in frustration. I would then accidentally hit the horn and a sharp, off-tone “bleeeeeep!” would emit. I would then drive away and a few minutes later realize I’d left her Christmas present in the car.

Later in the day it would be like nothing had happened and I would hang out at the base with the other guys. Joe would walk in and I’d say, “Decided to join us?” and he’d give me a sharp look and spit, “Think I’m finished, do ya? Bullshit! I’ve got five hours left.” I would offer a sympathetic nod and would join in on a game of pool with the fellas, all the time feeling that I didn’t fit in exactly and secretly wondering what the other truckers think of me.

I would be a nice trucker who would pick up hitch-hikers with absolutely no rapey thoughts at all. Whenever a fetching young lass would be on the side of the road, I would slowly pull over and kindly offer her a lift. She would hop in, showing a bit too much thigh under her short denim skirt, and I would pretend not to notice. I would even move slightly away in my seat so that she wouldn’t think I was coming onto her. I’d ask her about herself and she’d talk, hesitantly at first, but with more enthusiasm when she begins to see me as a safe father figure. She would ask me about my wedding ring and I would tell her about Milly, about how my life on the road destroyed her. I would seem so sad and alone that my female companion would look at me with pity, but also with new eyes. I would pull over to the side of the road and take a deep breath. I would not force her to do it, but we would probably kiss then.

Unfortunately she would be headed to the big city and I will return back to my small hometown, as it was not meant to be. She will be living as a beautiful corporate office worker in New York where she is successful and happy, but whenever she saw a truck or a truck driver she would think of me.

In the end I will be content. All I will need is my truck, the open road and my Alan Jackson tape. I don’t know why South Park makes fun of him. Alan Jackson is soulful, like me, but probably with less of a good sense of humour. I wish I could check out his trucks, though. I bet they’d be awesome.

Conversation with clipboard folder guy who just came to my door

Clipboard folder guy: Hi! How’s it going? We’re from Bridgestone. Now you probably know Bridgestone because of tyres, but many people don’t know that Bridgestone is about more than tyres. We’re going door to door in the local community and letting people know all about us. We’re located down near Park Road, Milton – you know Park Road? Well, we’re just off that road. We offer people a full-body car service for almost – well, almost nothing. We’re offering (rattling off long list of options)... for just $147 for the year. That usually costs around $730 for the year, but we’re giving a discount to the local community and I wanted to let you know in case you wanted to save money on your car.

Clipboard folder guy’s friend: (Silent, staring)

Karene: I don’t own a car.

Clipboard folder guy: That’s not your Toyota in the driveway?

Karene: No. It’s my father’s car, the purple one. The dogs are barking and I’m doing work at the moment-

Clipboard folder guy (eyebrows raised): The purple one?

Karene: Ahh, maroon, whatever. The green one belongs to my friend Cameron-

Clipboard folder guy: Well, if you don’t drive, you probably don’t have much use for our services! ---
Karene: That’s right.

Clipboard folder guy: What about your flatmate?

Karene: Flatmate?

Clipboard folder guy: Cameron.

Karene: He doesn’t live here.

Clipboard folder guy: Do you maybe want to go inside and get him and we can tell him about our offer?

Karene: Look.... no. His parents decide every decision that relates to his car, anyway. He goes to his parent’s car service people, all the time. It’s a family business, they’ve been going there for decades. He’s not going to all of a sudden decide to go with someone else... and he doesn’t even live out this way. So, no.

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Clipboard folder guy: You don’t want to go and ask him?

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Karene: .... No.
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Clipboard folder guy (cheesy smile gone, leaving): OK.

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Karene: Sorry about the barking dogs.

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Clipboard folder guy: (Walks away)

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Clipboard folder guy’s friend: ..............

What sharks are like

Sharks are like seacows but more stream-lined looking and with giant teeth. For this reason, they are impressive.

* When I was a little kid I was out on a speed boat with my Dad, way off the Gold Coast. He was fishing and I was at the other end of the boat. A shark started circling our boat and I thought, "If it leaps up and kills Dad, I will be next." Our geographical distance (at opposite end of the boat) also meant it could easily go for me first, but I hoped it wouldn't.

* Normally if you get into a fight with someone, you can punch them in the stomach or chest and crack their ribs. A shark will just mock you in this situation, as they don't have ribs. However, the joke's on them: as sharks have no rib cage, on land a shark's own weight can literally crush it". Drag the shark onto the shore and sit beside it, laughing, and "cheers" your victory with a tinnie.

* I asked my friend Cameron (the guy who likes lap dogs) what he would do if a shark tried to attack him. He said it wouldn't happen because he would just punch the cunt.

* Shark-tooth necklaces are MEGA fucked. For this reason, when you search google images for "shark tooth necklace" you'll instead get a picture of a hot Mila Kunis to offset the douchebaggery of these necklaces.
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* The average shark will kill something like one in every twenty humans. The next time you're at a football match, take a look around. Nine thousand people sitting around you will one day be eaten by a shark.

* Sharks like water. If you're in water, you might be near a shark. Don't think pools are safe, either. I saw this campy dated James Bond movie where they put him in a pool and released sharks. Being alone in a pool is bad idea. If you swim with a friend, the shark might go for them first.

* The documentary Sharkwater shows sharks in a positive light and humans in a negative light. If I was a shark, I'd buy a plane ticket to Asia, cut off people's arms and make Human Arm Soup.
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* In Jaws, there's a scene where the main guy is sitting reflectively at his kitchen table, his head resting on his stretched-out arms and staring off in a drunken stupour. After a while, the camera pans to the other end of the table and you realize he's not staring at nothing, he's staring at his dog, which is seated in the other chair. The dog is staring back at him. It's gay. When Cameron and I finally make an awesome movie, this scene will occur in a montage sequence in the middle.
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* Sharks take a long time to digest food, with unwanted items never making it past the stomach. In this case, the shark will vomit the food out. This means if you get swallowed whole by a shark, you can spew your way out. Try punching the shark's punching bag organ thingy in its throat to get its gag reflex going.

* Sharks can swim to speeds of up to 19km per hour, which is kind of disappointing. You probably beat this speed circling your Woolworths car park.

* A popular myth is that sharks can't get cancer. Scientists have now found out they can. Can you imagine how funny it would be if a shark got boob cancer?

My friend who went to Great Ocean Road

This is a photo of my friend who drove along Great Ocean Road in Victoria. She took a photo of the event so she could prove it to others and also so she could look at the photo in the future and say, "Oh, that's from when I went to Great Ocean Road."

My friend really enjoyed her trip along Great Ocean Road. This is evident in her bashful smile. She didn't stand too close to the edge so you can see from the photo she's not afraid of standing at that height. Her hand is sitting on her hip with her arm stuck out in a kind of self-conscious gesture and the wind is rippling her skirt. This describes both the weather conditions and human psychological experiences featured on Great Ocean Road.

The water at Great Ocean Road is blue, and even more blue when you touch it up in Photoshop. In this photo, my friend is holding her stomach in because she's worried she'll look like she has a gut in the photo. However, she is athletic and her body issues really come from nowhere. You can see her arm is muscly enough and her boobs are pretty decent, and not just for someone her age. She may have stuffed her bra on this day, however: I can have no way of knowing. It is possible she just has misquito tits and is lying to all of us.

My friend cut her hair short a few months prior to this photo being taken. In no way did this event correspond to a preparation ritual for the Great Ocean Road trip. She didn't cut her hair off owing to religious convictions or meaingful notions, she just cut her hair off because she felt like it. She says that her hair is more manageable shorter and when you get to her age, you can't be bothered by long hair.

On her road trip crossing the Great Ocean Road, my friend changed the radio station on no less than 23 occasions. Every third time she would express renewed disgust at being unable to catch a radio signal. Her husband, who was driving, grew sick of it and put a CD in. She said, "I don't want to listen to this," and he said, "I don't want to listen to you" and there was an uncomfortable silence for about 30 minutes until they reached a petrol station. In the petrol station, her husband made a joke about the price of Coke, and my friend kind of smiled but the atmosphere was still strained. On the way back home, my friend kept thinking, "Am I doing the right thing in being with this man?" and "I could not face the possibility of sleeping with him tonight. That's a bad sign." She thought of saying something, but then she found it easier to fall asleep in the front seat.

My friend really like Great Ocean Road in this picture. You should go there.

Billies vs Cannies: The Great Debate

Last night after I watched this awesome episode Cops, I got the munchies and decided to fry some eggs. The two yellow yolks were looking at me like two eyes, and I stared down at this trippy egg-face for like, two minutes. Then I was like, "fuck this staring contest" and went into my bedroom to have a smooth cannie.

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It was then that I saw something gold and glinting under my bedroom table. I bent down to pick it up and my sunnies fell off so I couldn't see too well, and anyway I was blazed out of my mind so my vision was kinda fucked. But this wasn't like the time I thought I saw Pat Rafter at the BP. The gold thing was actually there in real life. I picked it up and wouldn't you know it, it was that cone piece I lost in 2006.

I guess I should feel like a bit of a prick since I blamed Terry for losing it. Then again, fuck Terry. He won't read this. He has a computer but he doesn't know how to use the internet. That is, unless one of you cunts tell him I wrote this. If you ever want to get decent weed off me in the future, don't fucken tell him.

Where was I? Oh yeah. I found the cone piece and I thought, "Oh, yeah, that's back from when I used to own a bong." Back in the day I made this fucking wicked swirly-coloured bong at TAFE. It was like almost opaque glass with purples and greens (lol) and shit through it. I loved that bong so much, I was so pissed when Mum found it and chucked it out. Well, that's what she says. I reckon she and Dad are secretly smoking my shit behind my back. You'd have to be stoned to stay married, I reckon.

Anyway, it got me all thinking about the bongs I've had since I was a kid, and I felt kind of emotional. I remembered the first ever bong I had, made out of a honey container. I called it Honey. My mate's dog ripped the shit out of Honey when she was a 6 months old, so I punched the cunt in the face and ended up getting reported to the RSPCA. I was a bit messed up after this but I ended up buying a new bong from Jared's mate's shop in The Valley. Cory was this awesome bong in the shape of a G.I. Joe doll. Cory could really hit the shit hard and long and he lasted about six years until some stupid slutty chick pretended to make out with him at a party and dropped him. His head snapped off and she giggled, "ooh, I decapitated him," and I muttered, "I'll decapitate you, bitch," but I didn't because she was sorta hot.

After this I moved home again because I got fired from Pizza Planet because Jason is a prick. Mum was always up in my shit at this time of my life. "Matty, get a job." "Matty, your room smells funny." "Matty, you're not doing marijuana again, are you?" With the bitch breathing down my throat, I couldn't keep a bong in the house. I walked to the shops one night and I was dying for some weed. I was thinking, "what the fuck will I do?" and then I walked into the 7/11 and bought a can of coke. Outside, I punched two holes in the tinnie with my car keys and let the coke shit just spill out. The Indian dude at 7/11 came out, all like, "You can't do that here," and I was like, "Do fucken what? Drink my coke, mate?" and he just kept shaking his head/turban and saying, "You can't do that here." I told him to fuck off and lit that shit up as an awesome cannie-bong, right there in the Sevs carpark. Walking back home was like a dream, like I was on a travelator the whole way back.

That's when I startied with cannies, and I never looked back. I know bongs look awesome and shit, but think about it. Cannies are like raw metal, raw weed and your mouth. That shit goes straight into your lungs, hard and fast. It's like the weed's become some monster from Where The Wild Things Are and it's in your chest, eating hash brownies and banging its head against your lungs. Or it's maybe ripping at your lungs with a miniature brick and then just blowing weed smoke into the bloody wound. You FEEL it, you know?

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I've seen photos of me smoking a normal bong and even though I do look cool in those photos, I can tell you right now I wasn't as stoned back then. Not sure why, but billies just don't hit you as hard.

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I remember being at Ben Primer's 14th birthday party and you can see in one pic that by the end of the night I looked almost completely sober, and I'd had about 15 billies by then. That shit was fucked up, I remember. I smoked all my weed in one night and I had to trade my Mortal Kombat: Annihilation copy to get it. If I'd had a cannie, I would have been ripped straight away, like at Mica's party last year when I broke my wrist* trying to do a keg stand.

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I guess if someone put a gun to my head and said, "smoke one of these and one only, bitch", I'd choose a cannie over a billie. Billies get you stoned enough to draw pictures of your favourite metal band but a cannie will make you want to be a better person. Last week I had a cannie and wrote a letter to Eddie McGuire, telling him to fuck off. I've lost it now but when I find it I will definitely send it. Anyone know Channel 9's address or where the fuck I'm supposed to send it?

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* For those of you who are concerned about my broken wrist, thank you but it's all good. I don't need to go to a doctor because breaks heal themselves and weed is better than any painkillers the doctor can give you. Except for strong cold and flu tablets, but they're real tight cunts about that shit nowadays. No, Naomi, I didn't break my wrist from batting off. Steve, I'm not paying you for the keg since it fucked my wrist. Sorry, bro.

Words of Wisdom from Dad

• “Amy Winehouse, absolutely.” - On which celebrity will die next
  


• “You didn’t have one of those funny cigarettes before you went out, did you?” - On my car accident
  


• “So ugly. Her chin is just disgusting.” - On Reese Witherspoon
  


• “I’m going to have a shower. I got this bit down around my crotch I can never reach... Can you help me?” – To any of my female friends who visit
  


• “Is it just me, or did the air get gayer in here all of a sudden? Oh, hello.” – To any of my male friends or boyfriends who visit
  


• “We got to the cinema, sat down, and after about fifteen minutes I realized I’d taken her to a full-on porno movie. This was back when they’d play real porn in cinemas.” - On his first date with my then 16-year-old mother
  


• “I’m sick of this rap crap.” – On Sum 41
  


• “That’s in South America.” – Whenever someone remarks that the air is “chilly”
  
  
• "What's wrong with Britney? She'd be a good root, I reckon. I'd slip Li-Lo one, too." On celebrity hotness
  
  
• “What’s the word for once every two years? Is it biannual, or biennial? Anyway, I just did my biennial washing of the bed sheets. There was one very specific section that was just black.” - On hygiene
  


• “God, I can’t be bothered having a shower today. Anyway, I bet the water is as cold as a nun’s cunt.” - Hygiene wisdom, part II
  


• “My mate dressed up in a gorilla suit and I was in a laboratory sort of outfit, holding a giant net in my hands. We got out at David Jones, and I chased him through the store, past all the staff and customers. We got onto a tram that was stopped in the middle of the Brisbane City Mall, ran up the aisle, and jumped off... I chased him all the way to Town Hall. Our mates were waiting there in the car, and we drove off.” – On attending university
  


• “Murphy! Stop fucking her face!” - On canine fornication
  


• “Jesus, I need something to lift me up after that. Someone get me to the pub.’” – Providing the inner monologue for Lindsay Lohan, just sentenced to a 90-day jail sentence for failure to attend AA meetings
  


• “I’m smart enough to win this show, but they only take people who dance around like fuckwits.” – On Deal or No Deal.
  


• “Now, he’s gay.” – On any game show contestant that is not overtly masculine
  


• “The dog just beat the amount of licks he had from his water-bowl - in one go – this morning. Guess how many? He took 107 sips. His previous record was 103.” – On his dog’s water consumption
  


• “He just strains at the lead like you wouldn’t believe... gasping for air, choking on his collar. He only ever does it when there’s someone else around. I say to him, “shut the fuck up”, but he never does.” – On walking the dog
  


• “I haven’t dreamed in about five years, but I had a nightmare last night. I dreamt I had this beautiful country cottage, somewhere in England. In the dream I woke up and went downstairs and my living room was filled with old pussies - Gran, Nandy, Gert, Betty – all the old women I’ve known in real life. They’d taken over the house and they were sitting on chairs in a large circle. They were clucking like hens and nattering on, and I realized I’d have to make them tea. It was the worst thing I could imagine.” - On elderly women
  


• “Said the actress to the bishop.” – Whenever someone says something that could be vaguely construed as sexual
  


• “My paladin is stuck in Stormwind and I’ve got to do this quest using my Sword Of A Thousand Souls.” – On pretending to play World of Warcraft
  


• “Show us your tits.” – On blonde female TV reporters
  

I'm rich and you're poor, but let's dance

"Society won't like it."
"I don't care."

"The movie follows Andie West as she pursues her big dream of becoming a street dancer. Her mother died of cancer when Andie was 16; she now lives with her mother's best friend, Sarah, but in reality, Andie feels like she does not belong anywhere. Andie trains with her dance crew, the "410" (pronounced four-one-oh), to keep the title of the illegal competition 'The Streets'.

As of August 4, 2008, Step Up 2 the Streets had grossed a worldwide total of $144,045,198, outperforming its predecessor."

New study confirms benefits of passing out drunk

In troubled Zimbabwe, over five million people die of passing out drunk each day. It's a gory reality most Westerners swallow each morning with their coffee, because that's something that never happens within our safe shores. Or does it?*

New statistics indicate that, at any given point in time, nine out of 10 people are at threat of passing out drunk within the next three months. And whilst our Zimbabwean brothers struggle with the hardships of passing out under a communist dictatorship, we see a different story emerging in non-terrorist countries.

A study conducted by Arundell Laboratories, Inc., found that passing out can actually provide wealthy middle-class Australians with a surprising array of health benefits. These include:

• Passing out is filled with floor-y goodness. People who have passed out tend to be inert on the floor of someone's living room. By being prostate, passed out people have a drastically reduced chance of bumping their heads into lamps, fans, wind chimes or deliberately into other people.


• Being passed out is negatively correlated with cancer. Studies show that most people who have passed out from drinking too much have a much lower chance of having cancer. This is because people with aggressive cancer don't have the strength or spirit left to get drunk.


• If you are passed out, chances are you are not watching Glee. Even if the show is screening on a nearby TV, unconscious people are immune to its effects. Moreover, most passed-out people can't see a television through their closed eyelids.


• One time I saw a guy green out at the Amsterdam Cafe in Vancouver. He fully lurched out the door, stumbled, and slumped to the ground vomiting while his friend tried holding him up. His face was pool-mould green. For real. Research shows that passed out people are too passed out to be vomiting from a weed overdose on a street corner.


• Passed out people are much less likely to be running a KKK meeting from their basement and broadcasting it to a local cable television station and then dying in a bloody stampede when anti-racism protestors storm the house, injuring several bystanders who were just there to help settle things down.


• Being passed out provides an opportunity for other highly inebriated brethren to distract themselves from also passing out by drawing the word "cock" on the unconscious individual's forehead or cock.


• Passed out people offset their lack of social contribution via an ecological contribution. By being passed and not using equipment, smoking, eating, coughing or breathing, you are massively reducing your carbon footprint. At the other end of the scale, passed out people are not holding eco-awareness rallies in your neighbourhood or asking you to sign a petition against Japanese whaling, so passed out people constitute a nice political neutral zone where you will not have to discuss the environment or politics.

*it does.

Bill Evans is my boyfriend in my mind

When I was saving the photo of this man on the right, it automatically came up as "Evans,B.jpg" in my save box, causing my heart to lurch.

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What was it about seeing his official name written out like that?

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I guess I would have preferred to have gone, "Right mouse click, save" and then seen a box pop up on my computer saying "Save as Evans,B.&Arundell,K,4Ever.jpg" straight up. Changing the title to this is a minor pain in the arse for me, but on a deeper level it's unpleasant for me to see Bill Evans' name separated from mine. I will write to the site this image came from and ask them to change the image name. It gives me sadistic pleasure to think of myself claiming Evans, B. via email.

evans

It's not superficial. I didn't grow up thinking, "One day I want to marry someone who is the Managing Director of a Big Four Bank and also reads the latest financial news to adoring listeners on Channel 7". Everyone knows the man of one's dreams doesn't fit a checklist. They just have the kind of smack-bang, straight-to-your-vagina magnetism that rises up all hot into your chest until you interrupt dinner conversation and rush to the toilets to try to breathe away an orgasm. You know, just have that trait that Bill has.

evans

Mariah Carey might have a voice like honey but Bill's voice is more like someone dropping a tractor on a small baby from a significant height. (I imagine the baby to be at the bottom of the Grand Canyon and the tractor to be dropped by another bigger yellow tractor at the lip of the canyon.) It is sudden, shocking, dangerous, fun and should be shown on Channel 7 news.

evans

Did you know that William (Bill) Evans - (careful, heart, careful) - is a graduate of Sydney University? That he got an Honours in Economics and even a University Medal? I bet you that medal has an engraving of Bill's profile but with Bill dressed up as Napoleon or something. Maybe dressed as Cesaer, but I know a lot of Romans used to be gay and Bill is definitely not gay (my gay friend agrees with me).

evans

As Westpac's economic spokesman, "Bill travels frequently, advising Westpac's customers on the Australian economy and financial markets." What this doesn't say is, "Bill travels a lot but he doesn't go to the Phillippines and have sex with prostitutes, or get with groupies whenever he's staying at Trump Tower or staying at the biggest Hilton in the world to tell Paris Hilton's Dad about the Australian economy." That's because Bill's not like that. He would be the perfect human and never cheat. Like most finance gurus, his mind is only able to concentrate on one concept and focus on just this concept indefinitely. He would not be distracted by other women. His mind, like his voice, is like a grey rock that is just grey and definitely has no veins of colour or silver in it.

evans

Look at that photo of Bill. It looks like it was taken in the 80s, so Bill was probably around 70 years old there. I wish I knew him back then, when the age difference was not so insurmountable. Not that I think he's too old for me; on the contrary. But why would he want me? An old man, his voice rich with charisma, interested in an attractive, young, sensual woman who likes The Big Lebowski? I bet he hasn't even heard of that movie.

evans

I will win him over. I'll dress up in a stuffy grey suit and 80's-ify my hair, and I'll reek of tobacco. I'll casuallly saunter into Channel 7 while he's finishing up, lean into my hip, tip my head and hold up a fishing pole. I'll say, "I need a partner. Know where I can find one?" And he'll say, "You just did", and we will go fishing, but I'll be the one catching all the fish and he won't catch anything. It'll be funny and I'll stand up in the canoe and laugh, pointing at him. Then I will accidentally topple over the canoe and we'll fall in the lake. We will come up for air, and as he emerges Bill's hair wisps will form a fine, glittering spider's web on his wet dome. I'll say, "Maybe fishing wasn't the best idea," and he'll grab me, stilling my words, with a big fish-lipped kiss.

evans

Bill Evans reads the finance report on Channel 7 News in a monotone that will not cause heart attacks for elderly, hypersensitive women. He doesn't have a wikipedia entry, because he is above all that.

The real Wikipedia, standing up

Helpful advice column

Q: I'm really wanting to update my garden with a fancy new look. The only problem is, it's autumn! However I hear again and again that though we see beautiful colours around in autumn, it's not a good time to start seeding. Is it true that seed planting is affected this heavily by the milder seasons?

Confused in Camp Mountain


A: You know what? I'm just going to get rid of the elephant in the room. This is really MESSED UP!

First of all, everybody knows it's a cardinal rule to not be crushing on your friend's crush. If she saw him first, let her have at it. Now, if you saw him first, you probably shouldn’t have helped her in the first place and should have told at the point because you saw him first. Am I right?

Second, make sure you've got your facts straight. Are you sure he's making goo-goo eyes at this evil girl? My last piece of advice is to become friends with him. Start off with a joke. That always makes the discomfort dissolve away when I'm making new friends.

And if he still decides to drool over that other girl, drop it, grab some popcorn, and watch him wither in his own tears of despair when he gets rejected. Hey, every girl gets to be a bit mean once in a while. Am I right?

Love and Peace.

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Q: I want to make sure I'm getting the best out of my portfolio and picking the right stocks. Like most Australian investors, a sizeable proportion of my portfolio is comprised of mining companies, BHP Billiton, Rio Tinto etc. My question is, does Gillard's latest super resources tax compromise really bode well for the miners? Also, how far will the BP oil spill go towards affecting Australian stocks?

HotInvestor79 from Sydney


A: I know this must be very sad for you and I'm sorry. I send my deepest sympathy. And about your mom, you should stay out of her way but you shouldn't be a ghost. And if she looks really depressed then go up to her and take a chance, say "Mum, I'm sorry about grandpa, do you wanna talk? Maybe I can help." If she says no then politely say, "Ok, I love you." Believe me! It will make her feel better. If she says yes then just hug her and tell her its ok that you love her. And listen. She's an adult; she'll realize it sooner or later. Good luck!

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Q. I'm a 15-year-old and I've been in a relationship with a 22-year-old for the past 4 months. I told my parents at first, but they reacted in a very negative way. I said that I wouldn't see him, but I couldn't stay away. He's a really great guy, and I want to continue the relationship, but recently I've been feeling very guilty about not telling my parents and I'm also starting to get nervous and anxious they might find out. What should I do?

So Stressed Out Right Now


A: Dear Karene,

Please find the sales report attached in this email.

I am sorry for the delay. We don't normally pay royalties till the end of the year.

Also we had no recent contact address for you until a month ago and have not heard from you in eight years.

Thanking you for your patience. I would appreciate it if you can confirm you have received payment as I am eager to have this matter settled.

Kind regards

Lydia

Midnight in Manhattan Dreams; Overall grade: F-

Midnight in Manhattan Dreams - Rated R (some violence, full frontal nudity); director: Karene Arundell; starring: Karene Arundell

Overall grade: F-

Check out the information above, home-slices. And to the left. I'm IN this movie, fools. I must be, otherwise why would this awesome poster be here?

Roger Ebert says of Midnight in Manhattan dreams, "as slow-moving as it is trite, Midnight is one of the worst indie films to make it straight to DVD this year. Not for one moment does the film show any semblance of a relatable storyline. The main character, Karene (in a hideous attempt at self-promotion being the same name as the actor), is fundamentally unlikeable. I'd rather get cancer again than sit through this."

Scott Wilson of the Chicago Tribune noted, "so awful that it's almost funny, but it fails even here. It is never explained why the title character is in Manhattan, and the film seems to be set entirely in some backwards country town in Australia. The film's antagonist, a talking dog called Goofy, is less CGI than 1920s Disney-drawing. Absolutely awful on all fronts. Giving this film an F- is a compliment."

On the other hand, Rolling Stone called Midnight in Manhattan Dreams, "a film that... has actors... cross-breeding, and... vegemite... absolute abortion... of misjustice".

Anyway, gotta run. I can see a soft purple-pink dissolve settling across the camera-screen of my eyes, and I'm pretty sure that means I'm about to have a reflective moment about Manhattan.