I herd they’re fairly scary. I find it stag-gering that there isn’t more information available to the public.


Bleeding heart leftist media and pinky communist propaganda left over from behind the Iron Curtain would have you believe that deer are the VICTIMS. Just peruse your VHS collection for the tale of Bambi, an innocent orphan whose mother is shot by evil hunters. What they’re not telling you is that Bambi’s mother was taking local jobs and was a drain on state welfare.


In reality, deer are iron legged hoof monsters that plague our shores like large majestic rats. Like other pests, they must have stowed away in the cargo bays of large wooden galleons when the convicts came over, which is both a testament to the incredible creepy sneak of the deer and their indomitable persistence.

In Australia, deer are an enormous pest that ruin the fun for all the other animals. Their sharp hooves destroy foliage and top soil and their merciless teeth strip the bark from trees and make them sad enough to die.

But the sinister threat of deer are not limited to the animal kingdom – nay, while it may be hard to conceive of while living amongst the bright lights and flaming meth addicts of the city, in the dark forests and urban fringes of Australia, the deer lurk and are terrifying.

When I lived in a tiny place called Maianbar, in the middle of the Royal National Park, it was an unspoken rule that when night fell, we would retreat to our cottages and shanties, as the deer would roam. In strangely silent processions they would ghost through our streets and along the beaches, lurking under the dark eaves of the gum trees. Strange, but it’s not like they need human blood to stay young, right?

To illustrate, I once brought a group of my friends to stay in my house, for some light singing and heavy beverage consumption. In the middle of the night, two of my friends decided they would take a wander through the cold bushlands that ringed my house. Filled with the false bravado of the schnapps, they were heedless of my warnings, and decided to go anyway. Scarcely were they gone more than fifteen minutes, before one returned, wild eyed and crazed, babbling about a sound, a sound they heard in the woods. When I asked about his companion, he admitted that they had bolted in separate directions when they had heard the unearthly cry. Later our friend arrived, pale and silent, as if he had discovered an unholy truth, a harsh mystery.

Having grown in the area, I was knew exactly what they had heard. It was the sound a deer makes, half bark, half sad baby, half banshee wail. Truly, it is impossible to describe the blood clenching horror of it. At night you can hear it echoing across the bay, and widows tighten the bolts on their windows and bearded men polish their shotguns silently.
But during their walk, they had unwittingly blundered right into the midst of a herd – even I can scarcely imagine the shock of hearing that sound only a few metres away, coming from the pitch black of a moonless night. Lesser men would have lost their sanity. Luckily they had very little to lose in the first place.

Was actually a bunch of crows duct taped together.

If that’s not enough to convince you of the deer threat, here’s a story directly from my ‘Top 5 Near Death Experiences’ folder, of which only one has been previously mentioned in this blog.
In this same house in Maianbar, I soon outgrew my tiny cupboard room (I’m talking literally, I could not physically lie lengthwise in that room) and was moved to a caravan in the backyard. This caravan was awesome, and had the added benefit of being set up right next to an outdoor bathroom.

So, one night I wake up in the middle of the night to a strange noise, like a tree branch scratching along the outside of the caravan, right near my head. It’s vastly annoying, so I decide to kill two birds with one stone, and get rid of the branch and pee.
So, as I walk out of my caravan (naked. I’m… just always naked.) I look in the small gap between the caravan and the bathroon, thinking to see a branch caught between the gap from one of the overhanging trees. Instead what I see is an enormous stag, wedged between them by his spreading rack of antlers.

I had weird hair at this point in time. 

Seeing me must have given him the fear (or perhaps the hate) to spring free, and so suddenly, in the middle of the night, bleary eyed and sleepy, I am diving away from the full force of a charging stag. It missed, but I know that deer have long memories and even longer antlers.


1/5 stars. (It was pretty funny seeing people so scared actually)



The act of convincing people to buy your things.


A dear friend reminded me of this story the other night, which is probably the pinnacle of my career in minor retail heroics.

Now, you don’t have to convince me of the effectiveness of advertising ploys. I succumb about once a day, and it’s only my borderline poverty that allows me to escape with a thousand trinkets, cleaning products and books stapled to my weeping face. But that doesn’t stop people from misusing the awesome power of advertising.

Case in point – at this particular stage in my Odyssean retail airport journey, I was working in the wine section of the store. This particular night was a late shift about mid year, when on average we would be lucky to get fifty customers after about 6pm. So what this could either mean was a bunch of standing around and looking at wine bottles (surprisingly fun) or if a motivated manager was on, cleaning and pretending to look busy.

At this point in time, we had one of our interminable and confusing special promo/advertising campaigns going. In order to somehow clarify the deal – Buy three (3) bottles of wine or one (1) bottles of spirits and over thirty dollars ($30) of perfume, receive ten percent (10%) off your next purchase.


And how we advertised this was a little blue label that hung over the neck of a bottle of alcohol or perfume. The team leader who was on that night decided that instead of having the labels hanging off every other bottle in the store, we had to put it on EVERY. SINGLE. BOTTLE.

If you don’t immediately grasp why that’s the dumbest thing ever, let me draw you two pictures.


Discovered today – I can’t draw wine bottles.
Hello sir, do you sell wine in your label store by any chance? 

So, after doing this, I looked around at the sheer madness I’d been forced to perpetuate, and decided that I would perhaps illustrate the absurdity of this a little more. So I then hung the rest of the labels on my own body, off my ears, off my buttons, on each of my fingers. I then stood still and blended into the sea of blue, ridiculous advertising.

When the team leader came back about an hour later, she looked around in a satisfied way for a while before noticing me, the retail chameleon. To her credit, she didn’t fire me.


However the store remained like that. My moment of rebellion passed unsuccessfully.
However when the store managers came in the next day, they quickly came down.


1.5/5 stars. Why? I dunno.

The Economy

This is an anecdote. Suck on it.


The other day I was on the packed morning train to work, listening to my headphones and minding my own groggy, sad business. Packed in next to me in the standing section of the train, were two men, one carrying a large video camera on a tripod and the other a bunch of audio equipment. Their jackets clearly said something to the effect of ‘Fashion Hair TV’. Keep in mind that only the day before i’d gotten my hair cut, so it looked neat even if I’d done nothing special with it.

So, at Redfern most people got out, and then these two skeletal junkies loped on board, all crazy eyes and furtive mutters. The first thing they saw were the hair fashion guys, which they were clearly taken with. One even reached out and traced the embossed words, much to the cameraman’s dismay. Then they saw me.

With an intuitive leap that I can only put down to the sheer amount of fairy dust screaming through their bulbous veins, one of them starts jabbing me in the stomach with a rolled up newspaper, saying “How dare you be a hair model in this economy? Huh? Huh?”


I mean sure, everyone goes out in the morning looking for those rare compliments about their newly cut hair from addictive drug users – but that doesn’t stop it hurting when you are accused of… well whatever it was I was accused of.

And as it was pointed out to me, while my supposed career of hair modelling might be a little vainglorious and useless to greater society, at least I’m not a parasitic drain and fountain of crime. I somehow don’t think the black market drug trade is what Obama should be focusing on to reinvigorate the USA’s wilting economic rod.


1/5 stars. 1 because I got a compliment.


I had to use the old uploader because things were going crazy on this, and the other picture I had just wouldn’t load. It was shitty anyway. It was an unrecognisable Uncle Sam with what looked like a pile of snow, but was meant to be cocaine.

James Franco

Hello folks, so I’m back after my hiatus. Please don’t think I was drinking coconuts on a beach somewhere and flipping you all off the whole time. One, because I’m too pale for that and two because I wasn’t. I had a deadline for a play, so unfortunately all the time that I wasn’t at my paying job was spent writing that. And let me tell you, I missed this old bloggedy boo ba. So, after a week of incredibly tumultuous current affairs, what am I choosing to write my review on? The Royal Weeding? Spin Laden? No – actor James Franco.
James Franco, if you don’t already have the privilege of knowing him, is the handsomest, most talented, intelligent, charismatic man in the world. And that’s not even the slightest hint of exaggeration. Here are some reasons why:
*James Franco just starred in a movie called 127 Hours, where after a horrific mountain climbing mishap, he charms the audience and a sheer cliff face into loving him for one and a half hours.
Did I say charming? I meant terrifying. Utterly terrifying.
Also, got mixed up with a zombie film.
*James Franco is starring in a movie called Howl, where he plays Allen Ginsberg. ALLEN GINSBERG.
*James Franco, as well as being a successful Hollywood and TV actor, is completing his PHD in Poetry. On the day he received an Oscar, he also did a class on renaissance poets or something. Our internet is strangely dead today, so I can’t verify all this shit. I’m just going to write this all in a word document and then contribute to what I can only imagine is a realm of misinformation about this man.
*Once I had a nightmare where my grandma was trapped in the sewers and there was this really big rat with five legs trying to eat me, and it was some real subtle horror going on and I was getting really quite distressed and then I rounded the corner and JAMES FRANCO was there. He helped me rescue my grandma and then we discussed beat poetry.
The problem with all this is that some people, from reading my crude words, are starting to hate him. Especially all you ugly people. But, if they ever met him, they couldn’t help but love him, such is his charm. It’s much like a concept that me and my good friend Daniel East came up with once, a superhero named Perfect Man. Now, Perfect Man doesn’t really need any overt laser eyes or possum hands to get by, he is just simply perfect. Everyone loves him, nothing bad ever happens to him, he can solve crimes with an arch of his perfect eyebrows. But this concept unfortunately led to a frustrating debate:
EAST: But he is so perfect that people would eventually get annoyed at his perfection.
ME: But actually, because he is perfect, it’s impossible to for people to get annoyed at him.
EAST: But perfection is annoying.
ME: Then by definition it’s not perfect perfection. Ultimate perfection is flawless, even of flaws bought about by its own perfection.

Who knew that being perfect involved being so bumpy?
See, it would be different if it was simply looks, or simply intelligence. Those things are categorically annoying, the denser the percentage of it. But perfection is boundless. James Franco, is boundless. No, not fat. Boundless.
We should understand that there is nothing natural or holy about James Franco and his perfect face. Lessons learnt by Dorian Gray and various Cthulu summoning horror stories show me that one day there were be a terrible price to be paid for Franco’s vast gifts. I’m not CLAIMING that I know he sold his soul or made a pact with a demon or practice the blackest of black magics, I’m just saying that there is no other logical reason.
That said, I think he made the right choice, and an eternity burning in hell or driven mad by his decrepit portrait is probably a small price to pay for being so damn awesome.
So, James Franco if you are reading this, I’d like to put in an application to be your apprentice. I’ll sweep your tower, get into hilarious Disney type magical mishaps and stare at you while you sleep. I come highly recommended.
5/5. Of course.