My friend Jennifer Medway is very helpful. Five stars for Jennifer Medway.
Here is her payment.
On the wholemeal, bread is the greatest thing I’ve ever seed. It never loafs around. It always rises to the occasion. I don’t mean to be too flourery with my praises – I think I must have gotten carraway. He said, ryely. At yeast I know when to stop.
ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? What would you be without bread? You don’t know? I do. A spread infested nightmare is what. People roaming the streets slurping Vegemite off the backs of their hands, sobbing as the honey is mashed into their clothes by the nation’s youth and disadvantaged elderly. I mean sure, lesser spread receptacles would step up to do what they can, but have you ever eaten boysenberry jam off a waterford cracker? If you have, you’re a better man than I. Eventually even the noble cracker and the exotic lavosh would crumble trying to fill the peanut butter smeared void that bread left behind.
|A world without bread: a world gone mad.
Look, there’s a camel and shit. Utter bedlam.
And don’t even get me started on bakers. These people are heroes. When all the rest of us are safe asleep dreaming of how they have to do their tax returns tomorrow (don’t forget, Patrick) the bakers are trudging down the street, fighting off vampires and shaking their yeasty fists at the moon, just daring anyone to stop them in their noble quest to bake bread. And when the sun begins to peak its flaming ginger face over the earth – like a giant curious redheaded child – fresh hot bread is waiting for road crews, retail workers and dowager empresses alike.
These mavericks in the face of conformity stick it to the man, much in the same way their sticky buns stick to deliciousness. Neenish tarts!
The bakers even spat in the face of my arch-nemesi, the maths council. When they arbitrarily decreed that the term ‘a dozen’ would mean twelve units, the bakers put down their caramel slices and said ‘nay, for us it shall mean thirteen’.
LACK OF STARS:
I once knew a girl who couldn’t eat bread. Was she gluten intolerant? Or merely allergic to it. Was it a dietary stipulation placed on her by fancy city doctors? Or self imposed, after watching a special called ‘A hundred ways to annoy your friends in a restaurant’. Sure, she might have swelled up like a pufferfish, or an affronted mayor in the 1920s – but all I really know is this.
She was the saddest girl I ever knew.
The snarling, atavistic voice of the Australian people: provided those people live on farms in Queensland and don’t enjoy sodomy, immigration or a lack of greenhouse gases.
After the political upheaval that was the hung parliament of Australian politics, the balance of power somehow got passed to the hands of an eccentric band of misfits known as the Independents. Bound together only by their inability to agree with anyone else about anything, their presence in mainstream politics has been like a breath of weird air.
And that’s where Bob Katter comes in.
|There’s a chance I don’t believe in you.|
There’s a big part of me that really enjoys the sheer batshit insanity that his presence entails. The other part of me is a traumatised and whimpering ball that is sad for my country of origin. The fact that we have to seriously listen to a man who threw eggs at the Beatles and who flat out refuses the existence of homosexuals in north Queensland is a tier of absurdity rarely scaled. However the most absurd part of the Katter phenomenon is that I trust him more than Tony Abbott. I mean, he’s the kind of crazy where you can predict to an extent what he is going to be crazy about. Abbott is just a snake.
LACK OF STARS:
If the eighties taught me anything, it’s that the people dressed like cowboys are usually minor characters with bad accents and a lack of anything resembling character development.
|I love the episode where Helicopter Pilot confronts his fear of lakes
and also goes in search of his alcoholic mother.
During the eighties, Katter was one of the cronies of Joh Bjelke-Petersen, the Undying Lich Lord of Queensland. Their dread government helped inflict conservative politics on the state for decades. Some say Bjelke-Petersen will rise again. Some say he never died. Others believe he lives on in Pauline Hanson’s womb.
But the fact is, that the Mad Katter was clearly one of those situations where a minor character outlives the main villain, and then is quickly forced to develop into a real human being. Clearly this meant seven layers of insanity.
And now that he is rising to fill the dread throne of Petersen, he has begun gathering his own sinister force, under the banner of ‘Katter’s Australian Party’. Villains from around Australia are slowly pledging their support.
And the question on everybody’s lips: where is Batman in our time of need?
1/5 stars. He may be crazy and evil, but maybe rural Australia needs a crazy evil voice to stand up for them in their time of need. They are suffering many, many plagues. I may be a latte sipping inner-city vest wearing phoney, but I’ve seen Landline.
I’ve recently delved into the wonderful world of Doctor Who. I’ve been resisting this for a while, because I find that time travel is usually a wonderful excuse for stupid deus ex machina. But they seem to be doing fine. And then like any stable adult-child, I bought a sonic screwdriver for my own to play with.
If you’re not a Doctor Who fan, all you need to know is that the sonic screwdriver is his hand sized device that opens things and diagnoses things and tracks things. It works entirely the way I think technological devices should work. They never even seem to explain what goes on, and I don’t care.
I bought my very own sonic screwdriver with the express purpose of pointing it at people’s crotches and making the ‘wowowowowowowow’ noise. This is a fantastic thing and will never grow old.
Many thanks to the cast of 100 Years of Lizards for letting me objectify their crotches. Check out what’s going on at Sexy Tales Comedy.
But the fun doesn’t even there, no sir. There is endless fun to be had with automatically opening things, like train doors. The mingled looks of pity and fear you’ll get from the rush hour public is totally worth the rush of power you’ll feel from owning a fully functioning screwdriver.
Furthermore, it makes the standard, pedestrian, frankly boring tasks of the day so much fun! Just think about that click the kettle makes when its boiled. Point your sonic screwdriver at it, and you’ll feel like a wizard! Sorry, space wizard.
LACK OF STARS:
Bridget has this whole theory that the sonic screwdrivers are accurate representations of each Doctor’s penis. This has made my awesome fun into something perverted and weird. It’s also given rise to the idea of the vagina being similar to a Tardis. It’s bigger on the inside, when use it to travel to wonderful places, and it’s always better to bring a sexy companion with you.
So, the night after I wrote this post, I went to my friend Lachie’s house, because my other friend Jimmy is back from Chile! This is wonderful, but means nothing to this story except flavour. We are standing out in the cold wind, telling tales of adventures ‘Do you live in the Chilean version of Wollongong?’ When we hear a rustling in the tree above us. Someone asks if it is the house cat, or perhaps a possum. Because I’m a jerk and the novelty hasn’t worn off, I point my Sonic Screwdriver up into the tree in order to “verify” what it is. The green light hits the possum, at exactly the same time its stream of pungent urine hits my face. Worst. Timelord. Ever.
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Brian Marggraf, Author of Dream Brother: A Novel, Independent publishing advocate, New York City dweller
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