I don't like basketball. Any sport that gives an advantage to genetic freaks should be banned. I've heard basketball described as 'chess at 100 miles an hour.' Rubbish. Ever hear chess described as 'basketball standing still?' Exactly. The main thing that bugs me about basketball is that the team that wins is not the team that scores the most points, it's the team that scores the least point loses. You get rewarded for not failing, rather than succeeding. As a matter of fact, the first three quarters are rather redundant. You could start with even scores and just play the last quarter and nobody would notice the difference. Just spray some water on the players and mess up the referees hair. I reckon Kerry Packer should do the same thing to basketball that he did to cricket. World Series Basketball. Start in the fourth quarter, put the hoop down at knee level and make all the players wear whites.

I got my car back from the mechanic today. He wanted to fix the car for nothing but I talked him up to $400. I'm a hell of a negotiator.

I have been requested to provide photographic proof of my early morning jog.

Here I am on my way out at 0500.
Tight-lipped, stern and determined.

Here I am having just returned home at 0525.
Wet with perspiration, open mouthed and haggard of expression.

I never get tired of smacking this penguin around. My personal record is 321.1

More news on the 'penny-dreadful' corporate takeover saga. I got another 'vote for me' letter yesterday, which only reinforced my decision not to vote for the greedy capitalist pigs. Better than that, they sent me a stamped return envelope. So I soaked the bugger off. Up the workers! That's fifty cents up to me. My friends and relatives call me a mean, tight-fisted miser for soaking off stamps. I prefer the word frugal. Whenever the post office is careless enough to miss marking a stamp, I soak the little bugger off and save him for later. That's called 'sticking it to the man.' Fight the power!

Briefly today at work we discussed how long it would take if the office was sealed up before we turned to cannibalism and who the first victim would be. It's funny what Thursdays do to you.

I got a letter from my 'penny-dreadful' investment company (current listed value $0.0155.) It seems the correspondence I recently received saying 'vote for me' is part of some dastardly boardroom struggle. I'm glad I shafted them and voted against them, now.

Furthermore I have been having persistant dreams of the past few days about bloody boardroom coups. I dream I turn up at work and there is a workplace meeting and someone unlikely has staged a hostile takeover. We all sit in an uncomfortably hot room and endlessly discuss the options in front of us. As usual in these types of meetings I get distracted by a buzzing fly or get chatting with someone, probably someone I haven't seen in ten years.

It's strange enough to be troubling, and persistant enough to be significant.

Sorry I'm late in posting today but my train was 35 mins late. I stood on the platform at Summer Hill station with 50 other gormless commuters waiting for the train until it felt like a Samuel Beckett play. I have had to catch the train recently as my car is off the road being repaired and so far I have yet to catch a train that arrived on time. One Mr Costa, M. will feel the full force of my wrath in written form next week.

Even worse is that my plans to buy a motorcycle have been shelved due to the fact that I have nowhere to store it. If you have a garage in Summer Hill that could allow me to park a motorcycle in it, please let me know. I shan't be holding my breath. So if I want a motorcycle I will probably have to move, which is a pain at the best of times. Bugger, bugger, bugger.

I got home this morning and discovered that my video recorder had become catatonic overnight. Most video recorders break, they chew tapes or regurgitate them unprompted but mine is in a coma. It wouldn't respond to the remote or the off button and there was only a dim, dark picture on the TV. Fortunately there was no video in it. I was forced to pull the plug. It's had a good run, though, so I'm not really complaining. It gives me the chance to replace it with something newer and snazzier.

Nobody likes them, they look identical to the real thing, they sit innocuously on supermarket shelves waiting for people to buy them, lug them home, take one bite into them and throw them away. I'm talking about that scourge of fruit and veg - the floury apple. Nobody likes them, so why do supermarkets insist on selling the bastards? Every time I buy apples I feel like I'm flipping a coin, because 50/50 the apple will be crap/crisp. I'm stuck with a dilemma, do I buy one apple in case they're crap and I don't have to throw them out, or do I buy half a dozen in case they are fresh and tasty? Is it that much trouble for the fruit and veg man to throw the old buggers out and whack in some fresh ones? I would have thought apples were popular enough items to allow a high enough turn over, but apparently not. I hate gambling with fruit. You can only tell if the apple is floury by taking a big bite out of one, which is generally frowned upon in the actual store.

And furthermore - why does every bottle and jar you buy nowadays have 'refrigerate after opening' on it? Is mustard going to go rancid if you leave it out overnight? Will tomato sauce develop a nasty skin of fungus around the lip? Will italian salad dressing busily ferment a seething culture of salmonella if it isn't kept at or near freezing? I have a bottle of vinegar that recommends refrigeration. You know they're having a laugh when vegemite says to pop it in the fridge - no self-respecting bacteria would touch it.

Is there any such thing as an American film that does not contain a murder? I think it would be a fair estimate that 75% of American films contain graphic depictions of violence and murder. In my experience violence and murder are the exception rather than the rule. Now, if you're making a war film, violence and death are intrinsic to the plot and narrative, but are 75% of American films war films? Not bloody likely. Just once, in fact more than once, I would like to see a film where the hero or heroine of the film goes from start to finish without having to commit an act of violence and the final redemption of the main character is not gained by committing murder, or mass murder. Here's a few tips for any Hollywood producers reading my blog.

1. Try to limit the use of firearms and explosives. I know those things are spectacular and look great on film but try and use vehicles like dialogue, acting and plot to get around it.
2. If you're going to use an historical character, I'm sure a quick trip to the library will turn up all sorts of interesting facts about them, thereby removing the necessity for you to make shit up about them.
3. Cars are great, but tyres do not need to screech at every given opportunity.
4. Not every film needs to end in a shoot out to the death.
5. Oh, and make the film interesting, too.

By the way, I don't mind coarse language, sex and nudity in films, so cram plenty of that in. I can never understand how that stuff is less acceptable than seeing a human being killed in slow motion.

This morning on my way to work I passed a milkman with tourettes syndrome. The language that emanated was so foul I'm surprised the milk didn't turn sour. Actually, he might not have had tourette's syndrome, he might have just been in a very, very bad mood.

I went to a mate's place last night - he and his fiance were having a housewarming/engagement party - although I didn't twig it was an engagement party until quite late in the piece. I had a bad case of winkitis - whenever I was introduced to someone I couldn't help winking. Not in a creepy, sleazy way, but in a "howyagoin" Oz kind of way. Once I'd started I couldn't stop. I may have to visit winkers anonymous. Yes, I did spell that right. I did my critically-acclaimed impersonation of a piece of decorative furniture and, as usual I was the last to leave. They turfed me out at 0100. The part of the evening that has made the most lasting impression on me was the cab ride over. I had one of those cab drivers who believes that steering is an optional part of driving a car. The essential part is to be able to read the street directory. After all, as long as he can hear the badoomp badoomp badoomp of the road markers under the wheels, it means the cab is still on the road, right? Either the blinkers were broken or it was against his religion to use them. Judging by the wailing prayers emanating from the stereo it's certainly possible. But I think the scariest thing of all was the pungent waft of garlic and cough syrup.

Anything the yanks can do we can do smaller and lamer.

Airgun sniper suspect arrested


I hate to rain on this wankers parade but there is no such thing as a sniper who carries an air-rifle, unless you've been given a top secret mission by the SAS to sneak behind enemy lines and take out a top ranking pigeon. If there's any justice in the world the judge could only give one possible sentence. Just like when you played brandings as a kid. Every person that this knucklehead 'allegedly' shot gets to shoot him back using the same air-rifle, firing squad execution style. Blindfolded, cigarette in the mouth and "any last requests?"

Like my mum used to say, "you'll take someone's eye out with that."

Sydney Morning Herald today - "A postcard sent from southern Sweden in 1982 arrived at its destination in the centre of the country last month, more than 21 years later, a Swedish newspaper reported. But the intended recipients of the correspondence died years ago, and their daughter - who sent them the postcard 21 years ago - received the delivery in her mailbox on December 19. The newspaper calculated that the postcard took 7,814 days to travel 830km, averaging a speed of 9m per day. The postage stamp - which cost 1.65 kronor compared to today's 5.50 kronor ($A1) - featured a young King Carl Gustaf XVI. The monarch is now a greying 57-year-old. "

I love these stories. My mate Norman tells me that his grandmother got a Christmas card in 1989 that had been sent by one of her children in the early 70s.

This was a famous one - a bloke called Colin Wardrop sent a postcard to his sister in Aberdeen, Scotland from Queensland in 1889 - it finally got delivered in 2001 - it had been AWOL for 112 years. Best of all, the BBC blamed Australia Post for it! Hah! How do we know it wasn't stuck under a desk in a mail sorting centre in Slough for 111 years? Hey? Hey? Answer me that one you smug pommy bastard.

What had these letters been doing? What exciting and wonderful things had they seen? Had they been getting into adventures and solving peoples problems like The Littlest Hobo? Or had they just fallen behind the back of a cupboard and hid there until the the furniture got rearranged and Postman Pat said, "shit, Jess, we better get this bugger out and let us never speak of it again?"

If you know of any more stories about wayward correspondence imitating the prodigal son send me some links.

What's the difference between a blouse and a shirt? Or slacks and pants? Or pants and trousers?

Local Nutcase Makes Big Bastard Bomb

Say what you like, this would have looked awesome. If only he'd had the forethought to sell tickets or film it he could have recouped his legal costs.

Verdict - Darwin award waiting to happen.

Also, I can guarantee you that every bloke who has condemned what this guy has done as dangerous and stupid has secretly thought to himself "cool."

I lurve shopping at Franklins. Not really. They have a little jingle that plays over the PA. One ill-chosen snippet from the jingle goes "you don't waste time, waiting in line."

Do I need to point out how irritating that piece of doggerel is when you're fifth in line at the checkout?

Most mornings around 5am I go for a short jog, over a mile or so. Jog is probably inaccurate, accelerated shuffle is closer to the mark. I've just come back from a brisk walk and I came back along a street I always return on when I'm on the return leg of my constitutional. I pass this house maybe four or five times a week, but it's always in near darkness. This evening I passed it and there is an entire nativity scene in the front yard. It must have been there for a week or two at least and it's the first time I've seen it. For a start the place is massive, a two-story Edwardian mansion and the front yard is enormous for this part of the city and there in the front yard is a half scale stable with Jesus, Mary, Joseph, shepherds, wisemen, sheep, angels, pigs, cows - the works. Surrounding the edifice are various other characters from the bible - Santa, elves, reindeer, snowmen, penguins...that's right, penguins. Did I not get that memo or something? Since when are plastic injection-moulded life-size comic penguins an essential part of a Christmas scene? Let's just ignore the fact for the moment that this locality hasn't seen snow since the last ice age some 12,000 years ago and think this thing through. Polar bears in a Santa scene I can understand but penguins only live in the SOUTHERN HEMISPHERE while Santa lives at the NORTH POLE!! It's illogical, see?

I need to sit down now until the throbbing in my temple subsides.

I got a letter today from a company I own shares in. Before you shout "capitalist pig! leeching off the blood of the workers!" I don't own very many shares and they aren't worth much. 10,000 shares at 15 cents each - I think that the company could be termed a 'penny-dreadful.' Nevertheless, the Annual General Meeting is coming up. I got the proxy form just the other day but I wasn't going to bother voting until I got a second letter today. It appears two of the directors are trying to out manouvre two of the other directors as I got a proxy form all filled out for me, with the boxes ticked, a little pamplet with two grinning drones and a spiel about how they ran multi-billionaire corporations and how they are considered deities in some third world countries AND a stamped, addressed envelope to return to the receiving officer for the AGM.

*evil grin*

So of course, I voted against them and sent it back courtesy of the letter they paid for. Smug bastards.

BTW - I wasn't hungover the other day, I had a 'temporary self-inflicted concentration deficit.'

I went to the cricket yesterday. I'd show you a picture but my camera is inexplicably bereft of images, meaning I must have deleted them by mistake.

After we left the cricket we wandered around looking for somewhere to eat and found a korean bbq restaurant. I ordered something and when it came out it turned out to be raw beef. It was also delicious.

I got up this morning and found my trousers in the middle of the kitchen.

Needless to say, [Rowley Birkin, QC voice] I was very, very drunk indeed.[/Rowley Birkin, QC voice]

I reckon if the croc had snapped up Steve Irwin's bub, he would have had no choice except to dive in after it. You can't let a reptile get away with something like that. At least, not in public.

I've worked out what my problem is.

Whenever I'm in a pub or on the street or whatever and a cute girl gives me the eye or looks and smiles I automatically think there must be a piece of snot on my lip or my fly is undone.

That's not the problem. The problem is that I'm usually right.

I was just watching a rerun of the "seminal" and "millennial" Australian drama 'The Secret Life of Us' and I've now come to realise - it's rubbish. Why I didn't realise this before I have no idea. I think the clincher came when I saw one of the characters rooms in the apartment block in former working class and now mega trendy suburb of St Kilda has a room (in a share house, of course) which is decorated. Decorated in the style popular among TV removation show renovators, using 'unconventional' materials in 'unconventional' ways. The character, I should point out that the character is Evan, an Australian heterosexual male, otherwise known as a bloke.

I have never met a bloke yet who gave any more thought to decorating other than "does it fit" and "is the bed on the ceiling or the floor. Floor? Bewdy."

By the way, hope everyone had a Happy New Years Eve, you sheep.