And the Weird Blogging Hack Came Back

Don't pretend you didn't miss me. Blogging as a medium decays in my absence. Crucible Tongs has come back, adorned in that trademark garb you've come to associate with worldly security. The gleaming diving helmet throbbing with neon lights and encapsulating the timeless German rave scene, the sharp tuxedo and white gloves, the snowy ruffle and obsidian briefcase of depth indeterminable... Yeah, I kind of fell in love with an alter ego in there somewhere, but affections for fictitious characters is like throbbing biological urges in priests, they're cool so long as you don't act on them... and you will, so enjoy dreading the absolute downfall of all your amassed credibility while you're at it...

*Ahem* I am so unbelievably glad I can blame that intro on my blogging slump of late. That way it can't be dredged up as evidence for the raging 'Crucible Tongs vs Bram Stoker's Estate'... of which claims of over 400 calls demanding to know where I should address mail to one M. Harker are completely unsubstantiated... *Ahem... because sometimes a paragraph's gotten so defamatory you've retched up some of the most grotesque 'Fishing Chips' (Which are NOT SUSTENANCE!!!) you'll definitely encounter next weekend when they're on the table waiting for you when you get home, and had to clear your throat once more*. I've got no idea where this is going and this line is often the harbinger of some of my more... 'eccentric' work on Musings Of Tong, check it out if you haven't, you'll probably NEVER be able to speak to me face to face again, but I like to gauge the reactions nonetheless. Nevertheless I'll keep it 'clean' and try to keep the name dropping to a minimum.

'Why haven't you been blogging, Mr Tongs?', I bet you're all asking, as my overflowing charisma has been known to require three successive greetings before one can truly consider themselves capable of comprehending my overwhelming personage. The answer is simple, it's called a cocktail of stress, anxiety, borderline nervous breakdown, Nirvana (The state of being AND the band!), hallucinations, illness, tragedy, large scale property damage, chronic isolation and a Typically Tongian Transcendence of today's value system... with Tiringly Terrible Tongian alliteration for good measure... However I'm getting quite sick of saying life's sucked for the last few weeks and so can't be screwed now. Instead I will detail my absence because this is blogging, you'll sit down and enjoy what I tell you to enjoy...

So strap yourself in reaaaaal tight... don't mind the wires and tape keeping your eyes ajar... because here's my 'Ode to (eventual temporary) Joy'...

The storm.

THE storm.

THA storm.

You know, the one that didn't reach it's full potential for media frenzy as measured by comparing my mother's level of indignation to that of the tabloids. As you all would have guessed with a startling degree of accuracy, no doubt, is that a 'deeply troubled' (sounds so much cooler than 'potentially dangerous' in conversations with women, trust me... because my conversations with women are the stuff of legend... almost to the point where I wish humanity could collectively forget them...) and, shamelessly overt, melancholic youth such as myself sees an intensely ferocious, yet empathetic poetic beauty to a well timed downpour. The heavens break for you, they cry the tears you couldn't shed like a best friend, they drown out the uncaring world in a constant perfect rhythm... and delivers a comforting yet commanding voice in thunder, as a fantastic Shakespearian precursor to unfathomable tragedy. King Lear, THIS MAY, GET HYPED, GET SNIDE AND PRETENTIOUS, GET TICKETS... then get wasted on red wine & cheap caviar and despair at the day your future daughters come and destroy your life with their grotesque, hereditary, karmic, ignorance...

Well THAT storm, which became ridiculously serious because it singlehandedly ruined Moomba, shocking all that a celebration for something as dead as the Yarra had to be buried by divine intervention... Well I was home, on the phone to a confused and threatened Mr Phistocoles, the greengrocer, about trading my permanent essence for the culinary skills to develop what later became the greatest vegetarian bolognaise sauce the world will ever see. To cut a long story short, the iceman indeed cometh in the form of a middle eastern mob evidently without sin. Here's where the heroics come in, if anybody still plays Brass instruments now would be a good time, or that lacking, the Indiana Jones theme will do just fine. I have a dog, my sister has a rabbit. The dog's a genius, he knows life's about food, sleep, poignant misery for attention, snappy outfits and sating those pesky male loins with anything you can squint enough to make appear female. The rabbit is vermin, it layers our backyard in it's 'leavings' (I love that word in that context, it's so classy) which adds that extra layer of disgusting challenge to an already distressing occupation of hanging out the washing... seriously, handling people's clothes is way too 'stalky' for anyone under 35 and engaged in... your mantra becomes, 'I'm just holding clothes, they're for wearing, not for ME to wear though! Oh lordy no, although they might fit your... *shakes head violently grits teeth and resumes the psychological torture*'. I digress from cool heroics, which will get their own paragraph for emphasis.

*Click, Click... Click, *curse* backspace* Excellent, well evidently I loathe my sister's rodent companion, as an ignorant, deadbeat, talent squandering young male willing to fake dedication for attention and overstaying my welcome, I dragged the dog inside. Hail explodes on garage roofs situated next to porches like shrapnel. It was the least I could do for the only company I had for the weekend... who I'd neglected to feed until one that morning thanks to stupid uni timetable and fear of abandonment from schoolyard chums. I had guilt on my mind so I saved him... by opening a door and shouting, but that's sort of all they do for avalanche survivors too. 'OH MY GOD!!! ARE YOU ALIVE?!?!?!' as the victims sudden blindness, deafness and unceremonious shovel wound to the forehead are inflicted and carried for the rest of their, admittedly lucky, lives. Well the dog was inside barking, which I often immaturely associate with canine cursing for cheap lulz and out of an intense shared hatred for morning birds. 'A mighty fine job Tongs', said my imaginary colonel or military horn player... I consider knowing nothing of military rank or weapon numbering one of my finest traits, the prospective engineers I spend my week with think otherwise... It also helped that i was wearing my awesome lazing around weekend cargo pants that I swear were designed for covert operations or something else a six year old openly considers cool before he thinly represses it for the rest of his inadequate, non maiden-rescuing/dragon-slaying/Nazi-trouncing manhood. I'm wearing them now actually... I think I took blogging to a new disturbing level... Yeah, I'm wearing my action pants right now... nice and loose, as I frantically wait for people who are out enjoying their Friday night to comment on my facebook status and put up with my dad's disturbingly audible sleep apnea from the other side of the house... yeah, this is why I'll need tertiary education to get by...

Okay, so my rescue is complete so I stand on the porch amid the shards of ice in the rain howling in victory like the barbaric and rugged 57kg beast of a omegamale I am... when I see my sister's goddamn rabbit. Lewis Carrol was onto something (Someone will point out the implications there, come on, there's a Disney tie-in, someone apart from Damacus owes it to themselves to get this, because I was sick of his adoration within a minute of meeting him...)... *hints shamelessly out of fear of not being acknowledged and draining any miserable immature humour this gag had left due to breach of brevity* No, not little girls, but why you should NEVER FOLLOW WHITE RABBITS... Me being the brilliantly heroic, yet stoic (Don't ever touch me...), but charming (...Eeeeeehh!!!!), combat hardened (seriously, never touch me...) and intensely dashing individual that I am, I threw caution to the wind, and offered a helping hand to my much maligned, myxomatosis proofed malefactor. I have a brain, he tells me to do some really bad things, in this case he reminded me he's in a prime position to take some serious damage right about now and he's in charge of my delicate balance between playful randomness and schizophrenic depravity so I listened, and put a battered washing basket over my head. Screaming like the only person I have the build to appear remotely like... Xena, I bolted for one of those ancient plastic clam shell paddle pools that lies in a pile of junk from an age when it was cool for toys to have 78% Lead concentration. It was the only way to break the bonds of trademarking and have the Ninja Turtles ACTUALLY fight Transformers and a trio of Batmen with Pokemon, complete with your own predetermined winner based on what you were more into at the time. Giggling and screaming hysterically, high on chemical-laden paints and Peyote loaded juice while wearing shorts for ridiculousness is probably why our generation is so fucked up... and by that I mean AWESOME! OK so I'm fumbling with a slab of plastic that's in a state of decay. Paddle pools must have become non-profitable ages ago thanks to child obesity... Well as I fumble I learned a great lesson from my cosmic-gnostic-mech-god/imaginary friend. The fusion of testosterone, dopamine and adrenaline's short lived effects are karmic punishment for inherent disappointing male sexual performance. It's about here where I start wetting myself with whatever fluids my body has to offer. It doesn't help that I get hit on the hand by a Yeti's tennis ball with a troposphere for Newtonian acceleration. Now the Xena scream is this messy amalgam curse... which from memory wasn't even cursing but more like vocabulary leakage. I run straight for the rabbit hutch as the thing springs about like it ate... or watched Flubber. The rabbit can smell my hatred, it panics and recoils as I run adorned with a washing basket, bleeding from mother nature's stigmata and holding a giant menacing blue shell while screaming 'Mothertrainfootgrasseyescakeloveelevensickcardcoldadverbnottrydonecouldwoodenstalepragmatistcolonialisedrakefortbedjuxtaposition!!!!'

Well I got there and I placed the shell over a cage which in hindsight was probably doing a good enough job protecting an animal too dumb to realise it's actually safe in the steel shelter box despite the roaring being ten times as loud. Not happy with the orientation (Terrible time for OCD to get you, I know) I shifted it around, the basket was nailed with what I now assume are flaming meteors. I yelp like a small girl spliced with a chipmunk and bolt for the safety of inside. Well that's my elaborate rescue in a coconut shell.

I'd wrap this up now, but my computer says 'Vampire Hunter D' won't be done downloading for another 2 hours and Damacus, despite saying so, knows his previous posts absurd length (aided by videos, crazy formatting and other cheap nonsense) was a crazy challenge to my kingly authority over this blog during my absence... Need I remind him it was MY crazy latenight MSN conversation idea initially to convert Dracula's (3rd nightwalker mention, because it ain't a D.I.D. post without vampires!!!) diary and letter format to that of weblogs and e-mail, for our own despicably pretentious and subversive sense of humour. Actually I don't mean to boast or anything, but those late night Crucible-Damacus Brainstorming sessions unfurl some of... no... THE GREATEST CONCEPTS THE WORLD WILL EVER SEE... admittedly he drops the ball most times, but my influence pulls him into line. Actually I think I'll check to see if I've got any saved to pass the time. Afterall, you've got another hour and a half of my story to wade through, you've deserved your catharsis... of basking in my detestable ego masturbation!!!

Well I can't find anything, sorry, I actually looked. You'll just have to believe that neither of us have anything better to do with our time than contemplate character scenarios brimming with references to things we're experts on thanks to wikipedia, then growing increasingly disturbing and angsty until we both realise we're writing ourselves into a subversive phantasmagorical dystopia as a weakly concealed allegory for the tragedies (note the plural) we've faced living unemployed in peaceful suburbia but are experts on because we know words like 'angst' and 'melancholy' and can recite the names of all the demons from 'The Lesser Key of Solomon' and personify them appropriately as institutions and corporations we keep coming crawling back to...

Well since I started this only one person liked one of my four facebook statuses churned out in the space of a minute. Which goddamn genius decided to develop another means to gain perceived acceptance? As if I needed somewhere else to make a fool of myself for the sake of sweet, sweet praise... Hmm, how about making a status about the fact that I'm typing up a blog post...2 minutes later I netted two comments for it. Fantastic, this is what I've worked all night for. Now to use anything that was said as a ridiculous counter. Girl Scout killings due to decreased levels of blindness in society will do nicely... Now to await the fish to take the bait. The bait has been taken, now to kick it up a notch. You know how in Western's the cliche villain ties the cliched broad to a cliched rail line, then the train that runs on cliches comes around the corner and the cliched hero shoots some cliches and saves her... only to have the hero die anyway in the cliche final stand in the ending. This WILL get a response. And a response it got... hmm... maybe some electricity... sleep deprivation... yeah, I've found my conversation for tonight, I don't need blogging anymore, so uh... bye!

5. Something that you feel will find its own form