Are you writing from the heart?

I have attempted to write this blog about fourteen times. At this point, sleep deprived, listening to some vaguely irritating indie pop chick playing a moving song on a keyboard, I feel like Bernard Black trying to do his taxes:

"If you live in a boat, but are... not... blind... WHAT?!?!??! WHAAAAAAT?!?!?!"

Anyway, I've had to do some reassessing lately of one of my core beliefs. That core belief being: unbridled bitterness focused on everything and anything, but particularly on A) People having spontaneous fun and making too much noise B) Pretentious wankers who own Jaguars even though they're 18 and have the emotional and social capacity of a teaspoon, but think their opinions are more valid than yours because they once read something about Montaigne's theory of sleep and Nietzsche's idea of the Ubermensch (for the record, Montaigne had severe erectile dysfunction, and many of his philosophies were about his sexual insecurities, while Nietzsche had to pay a woman to sleep with him because no one else would, and for his troubles his caught syphillis, went crazy, and was remembered for hugging a dead horse and having a moustache that scared women away... but I digress...), and C) gross, overly-affectionate couples who indulge in PDA constantly and are all "No, I love YOUUUUU MOORRREEE".

All of these things make me want to smack a bitch.
Please. Don't make me vom in my mouth.

Anyway. Long time readers of D.I.D a Mess may have gained a certain impression about my general disposition. That being: I am a crazy, bitter, twisted 20-something with no empathy, or sympathy, or any of the "pathies", with a penchant for coffee, gin and cats, who will most likely die alone in an abandoned house, surrounded by cats, perpetually gin-drunk and throwing kittens out of upper floor windows at happy children outside.

THIS IS AN ACCURATE CONCLUSION TO DRAW ABOUT ME, AND I APPLAUD YOU FOR REACHING IT OF YOUR OWN ACCORD.

The point is, my being has been challenged recently. My capacity for broad generalised rage has been challenged to some degree, my disgust with "things" as a nondescript entity has been waning, my late night, caffeine-fuelled, barely readable rants have dissolved into a fine silverly powder of vague displeasure (and, on this note, you may also have noticed that I have infinitely less interesting and intelligent blogs than my D.I.D a Mess colleagues. This is potentially because they are endlessly more intelligent and have far longer attention spans than me, and also they all do literate and clever things with their lives that will probably earn them money and when I am living in a hovel somewhere with my many cats, cackling like a banshee and listening to Edith Piaf on an old gramophone... um... I don't remember where I was going with this. THE POINT IS I SUCK AND I APOLOGISE FOR THIS).

Anyway. All of this has been challenged for the following reason:
...
...
...
...
I discovered I have feelings.

I know. I was horrified too. I tried many things to get read of these mysterious and foreign "feelings". I went swimming under a full moon in hot springs, I sacrificed small animals, I drank the blood of virgins. I also did some stuff to try and get rid of the feelings. OH HOH HOH, I AM SO WITTY.
The point was. They just didn't go away.
And another person was dragged into it, and you know how the old adage goes:

"When there are two people with feelings, their feelings unite into an amorphous blob of a gooey substance that invades every orifice and destroys all rational thought until they can't breathe."

Or something not quite like that. Possibly something nicer. Or possibly there is actually no adage, and I just really need sleep.

The point is.
Somehow I'm in a long distance relationship and. I'm. Happy?

Sometimes reassessment is good.
Anyway.
If I don't sleep I will die.

I will leave you with this parting haiku:

Anna Hyde is
going to sleep now or else
Refrigerator.

xx

Technical Difficulties - Apologies for Inconveniences

Damacus' election coverage has hit a snag what with the current predicament... while he's in the middle of an anxiety attack from having all faith in political procedure challenged... (It'll get better soon man, you've just got to tough it out... and go loot yourself a Nick Cave box set or something else you can tell us all about for a month) you're dealing with someone with a more harmful negligence than casual nonchalance concerning government.

That and the fact that in spending the last few weeks working on a 6300 damage, full meter combo for a fighting game in a country that didn't even have arcades in the 80's and other pursuits to secure my chastity forevermore, I noticed my post count was being steadily scaled by a certain usurper, who could only be punished by an elaborate scheme involving the slow, seemingly natural, dissolution of their government and the associated 95% of their stolen material, before their very eyes...

Anyway, I have facebook again... I caved like the liberal voting population (too hot in the kitchen for you?). Basically the last two days have been spent contemplating a now marketable blog post and the repopulation of a friend list so meagre the buddhists could get off to it. By the way if you're reading this and I've left you out or something, not my fault, it's hard work... and it's PROBABLY not intentional.

So why'd I come back? Because this is the 21st century! Without junk I don't need, use or particularly want, I'd collapse into a bawling mess of alliterative self explanation and lose all touch with reality to the point where intravenous caffeine is keeping my preserved, ageless body alive, who'd read that guy's book?

Well in keeping with the modern theme of marketting the first crap I see when I walk into the boardroom whacked up with the heroin that eighteen seasons of Survivor can still manage to put on my family's table every night, I bring you, Crucible Tongs' Hoarding Habits!

#3 MY TEASTAIN OUROBORAS

I'm not remotely hardcore enough or even in possession of enough of a masculine torso to even think of body art... as a matter of fact, my body mass would just lead to lethal concentrations of food dye by the time they'd finished 'God is dead'. I could do bling though, it makes me look like a shrinking trophy wife well on the way to recycling, but that's a better demographic than 'Decorated Member of the 9th Squadron of Steampunk Geekdom'... unfortunately only two people make snakes into rings... Lucifer and Loki... and they have a show for their sexual depravity on well after midnight... So my only avenue is to explain to any hapless victim that's looking unimpressed at the desk where this crap comes from, that that the circular stain beneath the mug in the eleventh stage of ceramic decay, symbolises my capacity for self sufficiency and alchemic perfection while looking more badass than equations in the Greek alphabet...


Actually... the amount of times I'd have to explain that 'It's not JUST a snake!!!'... maybe not worth it...

#2 MY BOX OF VIDEOGAMES FROM ALL CORNERS OF THE GLOBE... I'VE NEVER PLAYED

I wasn't tried for crimes against a fully functioning system of social norms at highschool for my repetitive, obnoxious wit oft patronised from pity... It was because the real world didn't allow me time to invest nine hours a day into calculating the perfect combination of Light Magic wielders and Sword users with tolerable two dimensional personalities to overthrow the empire's regime for the eleventh time... Well... when I could afford to... Nowadays I just buy what I reaaaaaaaaaaally want to play... or want to end up gathering dust in a pile on my desk for not being a postmodern attack on the guy treating the controller like his umbilical cord... I have a growing pile of Jungian whodunnits, Cyberpunk prior to The Matrix and playable David Lynch movies (complete with jumbled backwards talking about why ghost terrorists have to laugh and explode and be invisible)... I only do the craziest shit... I just don't get around to actually playing it... like some kind of indie prick with a cracking voice and a sense of humour birthed by the need to feed on any form of acknowledgement... uh... MOVING ON!


I paid $110 for this... and you know what, I don't give a fuck about having no idea what's happening half the time...

#1 AWESOME CLOTHES OF AWESOME GLORY THAT ARE TOO EPIC FOR MY LAME *insert current insecurity*

I have a penchant for ridiculously awesome attire that will one day be invaluable when hell beasts walk the earth in swarms for the sole purpose of meeting divine and bloody retribution at the hands of some cocky wanker in a red leather trench coat... which unfortunately will be what all the insecure vampire hunting adolescents will have agressively marketted at them... I'm not ashamed to admit that my wardrobe contains a leather monkey vest (for when I grow up and have to fight lions in the desert for training and need the extra agility afforded by revealing clothing), assorted headbands, cowboy boots and won't be considered complete without steel gauntlets, a full black and white checked suit, punk boots up to my chest, a driving cap complete with goggles, a diving helmet, full victorian finery, MAN-tiaras and a cape that a coachman of the Carpathians could be proud of... Admit it, I'm THE most maddeningly cool person you'll ever meet.


It says 'women' in the item description, but that's just to stop pussies buying it

Soooo... why haven't I sold all this junk so I have room to practice my fly kicks? I really don't know... there's not much in the way of sentimental value, none of it's actually useful (... yet... but when you fools inadvertently elect the Vampire Chieftain when he catches you off guard in your vulnerable state of political uncertainty...) and every instinctual urge to procreate howls with misinterpretted frustration every time I even look at this stuff. It's a little bit weird that everyone has this sort of junk they can't let go of... but the second someone important isn't in a position where they can be passively acknowledged every day we just mope a bit about our own social impotence and then move on.

Yeah, cool... but one day they'll stop signing in to MSN, they change phone numbers, move away. You can complain all you want, the lines were always open... for the record this isn't bitterness over my facebook departure or anything, I needed some time off for a while, you all knew I'd be back. This is something I'm starting to notice people doing to other people who DON'T take 200 pictures of themselves posing in a trenchcoat every week and it's sort of starting to bug me. People aren't static, we drift apart if we do nothing. I could list so many people I've let this happen to before and I can guarantee you can too...

So here's the deal, you little human punks, don't fuck this whole thing up okay? Don't procrastinate with people, text them if they haven't been around, send them something stupid you just noticed, ORGANISE A NO HOLDS BARRED PSYCHEDELIC TEA PARTY *COUGH*... fuck, go all out and spend 50c on a stamp and mail them ransom notes... Value people enough so you can at least look at yourself atop your castle of materialism. Because if a message tone can stop a suicide attempt, consider everything else it could fix.

Thanks for reading... and Damacus, I covered your lack of election posts... so I guess now we're even for all those times I snuck into your house and took photos of me wearing your clothes...


My bad!

TONGS AWAY!!!

My shameless bias it's loses shame

T'was the night before Election

And all through the lower house,

Not a creature was stirring

Except for Kevin Rudd the member for Griffith who doesn't sleep any more he just stares into the middle distance and contemplates the irepressible chill that freezes his soul slowly from within.

...I think the meter needs work. 

It's election eve, and all of us hang our stockings up around the Polling Tree to see what presents the properly elected parliamentary Santa will  bestow on us. Will it be a paid parental leave scheme, or a paid parental leave scheme that's a bit better? Will it be a National Broadband Network or a National Broadband Network that's a bit not as good? Will it be a note saying "I.O.U 1 ETS" scrawled on a scrap of KRudd's skin or a pair of speedos with a bottle of sunscreen? 

Personally, I think that the Ms Claus is a bit better, and will be leaving milk and a cookie out accordingly. Not that one of her own face, by the way, that would just be weird. But I must confess that I shan't be voting Labor as my first preference. All through this blogging-countdown-process-thing I've felt a wee bit guilty about the fact that I have pretty strong opinions about this election. One voice inside me is screaming "You're BIASED you stupid fauxhemian naive eighteen year old lefty hack" where as another one is yelling "Hang on, you're not the freaking ABC – it's a blog about your personal views; being impartial isn't the point"; after which the first voice replies "The ABC? Which way do you THINK Kerry O'Brian votes?!"; to which the second voice answers "I'm not going to canvas any private conversations between Kerry and myself", then the first voice says "Oh well isn't that convenient you BARBARIAN.... Hang on how could you have had a conversation with Kerry O'Brian when you're nothing but an illustrative device used to justify an inevitable pro-Greens tirade and try to inject some filler into an idea that got old a week ago?" and then the second one says "Shut up douchebag way to break the fourth wall" and then finally Kerry O'Brian suddenly materialises to soothe their savage bickering with his improbably attractive cerulean gaze.

Yes I know I've blogged that before. But seriously look at the colour of that mumbling 67 year old man's eyes. It's the equivalent of God sewing Angelina Jolie's lips onto Kochie.

NO DAYS TO GO: MY GUSHING JOURNEY TO GREENLAND

Tomorrow I'm voting for the Greens. Whenever I tell someone this, I normally get one of the following reactions:

1) "LOL your always so zany what a great way to donkey vote! Politics is so boring, I'm gonna waste my vote 2! Cos they won't get into power, right? They're not popular enough to be President."

2) "Oh", followed by that intensely awkward look-away that screams I-think-you're-gullible-or-stupid-but-am-trying-really-hard-to-be-polite, like when someone mentions their weekly psychic appointment or says "I've been straight edge for a whole week now!"

3) "Yeah same. Let's bitch about conservatives and listen to Hack."

4) "Good for you. You do know that they want to ban fishing, get rid of Victoria's water supplies, get rid of electricity for ever and give out free heroin to children?"

To have a bit of a closer I look, I decided to go to a Greens forum-meeting-thing on Wednesday where Bob Brown was speaking. It was held in a hall at RMIT that was illuminated by appropriately lime-coloured light. The event was on because Adam Bandt, the candidate for the division of Melbourne, is actually looking he might win; he'd be the first Greens MP in the Federal lower house ever. Posters of Bandt, a white forty-something male with glasses and dark hair, plastered the wall. I was struck by the fact that he looks exactly like Stephen Conroy and Steve Fielding; and if someone were to cover them up with three giant cups then shuffle them around really really fast and then take the cups off again I wouldn't be able to tell which one was which. 

In the crowd, I did see lot of expected clichés: uni students, hippies, hipsters, gay people and serious socialists with crap facial hair. But the mix actually did surprise me. Though the cheerful audience was mostly full of teenagers and twentysomethings I saw quite a few middle ages and older faces, especially women, and one man with a walk frame who must have been in his eighties. For the record, I disappointingly only spotted one head of dreadlocks, and no hair worse than mine. We shuffled from the foyer bit to the hall and I sat four rows from the front, really close to a couple of senators. No big deal, that's just how I roll. I also wrote down illegible notes in a note pad so people would think I was some kind of suave investigative journalist.

 

After a brief wait were greeted by the Greens candidate for Somewherewheretheydidn'tstandachance, who introduced Adam Bandt. He spoke very well for a solid 40 minutes, which was probably 10 too long. Still, he was pretty funny and engaging and talked about the measures he'd try to put through for uni students (upping youth allowance and stuff), converting Melbourne to renewables and improving public transport. Then Brown stood up and delivered a more general speech on Greens policy; speaking about education, refugees, tax reform, same sex marriage and especially climate change. I've decided that Bob Brown is awesome, his reserved country monotone much more charismatic in real life. Both of them sprinkled their speeches with sharp but not dominating attacks on both the ALP and Liberals. The two hour forum ended with questions from anyone in the crowd, about topics ranging from mental health to private schools. The panel of three answered fairly, and Brown completely owned an obvious plant from the fishing lobby. They didn't disguise him well enough: even if it was green, he was the only person in the building wearing a tie. Bob also seemed to recognise him straight away, leaning across to whisper something to Bandt as soon as the guy stood up. The conversation pretty much went like this:

Green Tie Dude: Ever since I managed to bring myself to tell my 6 year old and 10 year old that Greens want to put a ban on recreational fishing, they haven't stopped weeping and are inconsolable. How could you do this to them?

Bob Brown: My Dad was a fisherman all his life, in the last century the world's fisheries have dropped by %80, we just want to bring in a %30 no-catch zone, as recommended by scientists, so that there are fish left for your children to enjoy.

*Green Tie Dude reveals himself to be Bob Brown Sr's vengeful cabin boy who was fired for trying to wipe out all marine life in an attempt to  become The King Of The Sea and lunges at Brown with the gutting knife he keeps hidden in his wooden leg but  is restrained by the power of love.*

Or something like that. The audience clapped and laughed at everything that even vaguely resembled a policy or a joke, but the vision was so Captain Planetastic and the mood so excited that it was hard not to join them. 

 

For the Record, my voting preferences shall be:

1.Greens

2.Sex Party

3.Labor

4.Libs

5.Family First

But I strongly advise you to do some last minute research and look into it for yourself, this is a big deal folks. And remember you don't have to vote for them same party in the senate as the house of reps. Toodlepip and all that. Happy voting.

democratically yours,

~Damacus 

 

A podcast from Melbourne Talk Radio

HELLO! I've spent the last 12 hours on on and off working on blog stuff, and only the second half of those were in the daytime. I'm so great at life. I'd like to apologise for not blogging these last two nights, I was setting you up for the inevitable disappointment that'll follow saturday. I also needed sleep (like now) and am lazy. So to preserve your respect for me, please imagine you just travelled two days back in time by stealing a time machines from the Channel Nine studio.

I'd like to also say that today I have our first ever D.I.D A Mess podcast. So to you present-dwelling naysayers, "Quiet, you!"

NOT MANY DAYS TO GO: SAVE THE SHOCK JOCKS

One of the most heartbreaking stories about the this year's campaign is that while a lot of media outlets have rode the gnarly election wave to a sunny beach of financial success, one rashie-clad radio station has failed to do so. I am of course talking about Melbourne Talk Radio, Steve "poisoned dwarf" Price's rightwing talk-back station that debuted this year. If you don't know Steve Price, he's that guy who frowns a lot on the 7pm project on Tuesdays. Other presenters on MTR include my biggest unhero, Marie Andrewnette Bolt, and intellectual heavyweight Sam Newman. Apparently Jason Akermanis even has a gig there, what he has to talk about I have no idea. I assume on Saturday they'll have close electoral analysis by Ben Cousins. 

But despite this stellar line up, MTR has an average of  audience of 8000. No I didn't leave out a zero. That's almost as few listeners as there were boat people arrivals in the last five years. It would be a lot cheaper for them just to gather the audience into the studio carpark and yell at them through a megaphone. Personally I think it's appalling that a fantastic Melbourne based radio station with most of it's shows syndicated from Sydney should suffer like that. So that's why, in solidarity, I've decided to give them a tiny bit more publicity by posting an excerpt from "Brian Jackson's BATTLEZONE: With Brian Jackson", my favourite MTR program. Enjoy. 

~Damacus

Oh Caption My Caption

Four days to go. That means that if God had to create a universe due on election day, he'd only get up to the fish and then have to timidly ask for an extension, starring down at his omnipotent shoes. It also means that I'm starting to run out of things to write about. After yesterday's six hour photoshopping marathon I'm still a little blog-fatigued, so this shall be a wee little post.

4 DAYS TO GO: SCRAPING THE BOTTOM OF THE (PORK?) BARREL.

From the universally acclaimed "Citizens Assembly" to the hallowed, vomit stained halls of Rooty Hill RSL, this has truly been an election for the people. The parties are 100% committed to giving us a fair dinkum go, a chance to have our say and as little choice as possible. They have gloriously pursued mediocrity and reached it with resounding triumph. Finally we have ways of engaging with our leaders – to help them understand the profound and complex issues that matters to us –  in 140 character or less. As long as Tony Abbott can keep his dial up working that is.

That's why it seems wrong of me to keep this blog so tyrannically. So far, I have ruled my Election Advent Calendar like the omniscient, totalitarian god of Teletubbyland, controlling my multicoloured slaves with little speaker things and magic windmills. That time has come to an end. Light up your stomach-screens my brothers and sisters, because now it's time for BOTH people who read this to have their say. 

Here follows some non-sequitor pictures, resplendent with my captions. My nakedly-validation-seeking-idea is that you submit your own captions, here or on facebook, about any or all of the pics, and I'll put them on the blog. Got it? Good, cause I don't, but I assure you that this sounded like a really good idea when I started the paragraph before last.

The Winner will receive:

-A FULL SET of home made 2010 Election Commemerative Biscuits, lovingly crafted by yours truly. Minus Wayne Swan, who I ate.

-A SIGNED photograph of Pauline Hanson. (Note: Veracity of signature not guaranteed.)

-A LAURIE OAKES AMULET, designed to ward away low to medium level undead politicians.

1#

"In a misjudged response to Tony Abbott's Iron Man participation, Julia Gillard took up mime classes.
On the upside, this means she has been able to, quite effectively, say nothing this election." ~ Shady Lewis

"Then I said 'Sure I'll offer you a cabinet position'!!!"

2#

"Genesis 19:30-38"~ Crucible Tongs

"If I can manage a dowry I can manage the economy."

3#

PUERILE  PRANKSTER SNEAKS INTO APEC

4#

Her gaze pierces cloud, shadow, earth, and flesh.

5#

"Luckily, I saved some of the shavings and used PVA to glue them back on; Julia says it's impossible to tell the difference."

6#

Harold Bishop had always known that one day his crack habit would catch up with him.

~Damacus

The Undead Politician Survival Guide

This election has been dominated by the lumbering corpses of pollies past, irritating those in charge and terrorising the public. It seems like no matter how long they've been retired, fired or politically expired, our ex-leaders and PMs feel the need to get their withered faces on TV every five minutes. One of the main problems is their seeming immortality; Gough Whitlam, at last count, is older than time itself. What we really need is some kind of mandatory dismissal-by-bullet policy, like they have in Argentina. But until then, use this veritable pokédex of undead politicians to help you identify, escape, and maybe even destroy any of these foul demons that cross your path.

5 DAYS TO GO: THE UNDEAD POLITICIAN SURVIVAL GUIDE

The Ghost of Kevin Rudd

"What I'm less proud of is the fact that I have now blubbered."

Danger Level: †††

Weaknesses: Salt, redheads, organ failure.

Weapons: Being a distraction, inspiring sympathy, awkwardly refusing to make eye-contact.

Description: Only recently killed, The Ghost of Kevin Rudd so far appears to be fairly unaggressive, and doesn't make the stupid gaffes or ridiculous stunts of his undead colleagues. Nevertheless, he is still a considerable danger to friend and foe alike. He lingers and haunts like Banquo's spectre, a constant reminder of guilt, a memento of his own foul and unnatural murder. As he roams the sunny shopping centres of Queensland his backstabber watches on nervously, trying to clean the Ruddy red blood out of her hair. Out damn spots indeed.

Count Johncula von Bennelong

"We have a great opportunity to turf out a thoroughly incompetent government."

Danger Level: ††††

Weaknesses: Garlic, A stake in the heart, boatpeople.

Weapons: Blood-sucking, eyebrow-furrowing, the liberal campaign launch.

Description: The Prince Dracula of Australian politics campaigns around the country with demonic fanfare and handfuls of unconsecrated earth in his tracksuit pockets. Though he has left the realm of the living, his three vampiric brides still stalk the halls of parliament: Julie Bishop, Bronwyn Bishop and Tony could-have-been-a-bishop. The last of these is his heir, to whom he has given everything except his habit for wearing clothes in public. Dangerous, and obsessively worshipped by his cold-blooded followers.

Ghoul Keating

"Politics is like going into a dog's den. If you are not ready to behave like a mad dog, get ready to be mauled."

Danger Level: †††††

Weaknesses: Decapitation, hallowed ground, voters.

Weapons: Spits acid, eats human flesh and can boil bone marrow with a sentence.

Description: Ghoul Keating is the traditional lord of the bitter necrotic ex-mps, and has viperously preyed on the living for the last 15 years. This formidable fiend famously described John Howard as an "old coconut  araldited to his seat", Andrew Peacock as "an intellectual rust bucket",  Laurie Oakes as "a cane toad" and Wilson Tuckey as a "stupid foul-mouthed grub." I'm not exactly sure if any of those are untrue, but they're certainly not very nice. This election he's been no quieter than usual, though a little more reserved because of some privacy campaign thing he's got going. Incredibly vicious. DO NOT APPROACH.

Andrew Thriller Peacock

"You'd need to be pretty handicapped not to appreciate that this government is dissolving before your eyes daily."

Danger Level: ††

Weaknesses: Chainsaws, people under 30 having no idea who he is.

Weapons: Super-strength, insulting disabled people.

Description: OK, Andrew Peacock was before my time, but apparently he was the ever-failing opposition leader of the 1980s: sort of the Kim Beazly of the Liberal party. With his recent rise from the grave he seems to pretty much be your typical political zombie, turning up unwanted, saying idiotic things and embarrassing the public and his party. By the way, the Labor candidate for Peacock's old electorate happens to be blind, making the whole "before your eyes" thing extra douche-baggy. Treat with caution.

Bobmez and Blanchticia

"I have always loved getting out and meeting the people and still do." (nudge nudge wink wink) – Bob

"I have always depended upon the kindness of strangers." – Blanche

I'm really happy with my photoshop work on this picture, they genuinely look like terrifying, nightmarish reanimated corpses! ....wait a second....

Danger Level: †††

Weaknesses: Crucifixes, silver bullets, true history.

Weapons: Claws, godawful telemovies, the mental image of them going at it. (OH THE HUMANITY!)

Description: They're altogether ooky, and infest slow news days with the dull, necromantic soapy that is their private life. Prone to viciously mauling former-colleagues and Alzheimers-afflicted ex-wives, this rotting, rampaging Bonnie and Clyde are also known to reduce viewers to twitching, blood-soaked left overs with their excruciating 45 minute interviews.

Now I am Mark, destroyer of worlds

"It's the snake's way. It's unmanly and beneath an Aussie bloke to act this way."

"I haven't been stroked down the front by a woman other than my wife for quite some time actually."

"It's the sad thing about him; he is hyper-sensitive about his morbid obesity."

Danger Level: †††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††

Weaknesses: None. No amount of universal dislike or irrelevance can phase him.

Weapons: Breaking arms, handshakes of doom, poisonous tirades, fire breath, "journalism" and being the Hindu goddess of destruction.

Description: The most indisputably diabolical election revenant of 2010 is Mark "Kali" Latham, who doesn't discriminate between parties, the press and the public in his vaguely pathetic but soulrendingly vitriolic attacks. From accusing Julia Gillard of sexually harassing him to telling the people of Australia to donkey-vote, Latham's deranged, beyond-the-grave rampage rains down upon the just and unjust alike. Ever wrathful, ever hungry, he consumes all he sees, like a yawning abyss of political irrelevancy. Fear him, fear his alter of blood, and fear his shitty 60 minute specials.

~Damacus

A blog from the Barbarian Collective

6 DAYS TO GO: MARIE ANDREWNETTE

 

There comes a time in every person's life when they have to write a drunken blog about a conservative columnist at 6:04 in the morning. Though every stringy muscle in my moderately intoxicated body is screaming "JUST WRITE 'I DON'T LIKE HIM' THEN GO TO FRIGGIN' SLEEP!", I am a much more loyal shephard to my generous flock of fluffy-skinned politastic readers than my twitching, eye-rolling body would prefer. (Did you like my sensible self-censorship in writing the word "friggin'"? That was because I'm worried about young children or one of my aunties reading this blog and finding me use the word "fucking". Clever eh?) 

It may shock and horrify you to find that I am not the only blogger with a particular interest in this election. I'd like to talk about one in particular. Some of you might know about my overzealous, Mark David Chapmanish obsession with Andrew Bolt. I'd be surprised if you didn't actually, because it's one of those few conversation topics I incessantly cycle between. (The others being "Gosh I love Nick Cave.", "Religion sucks!" and "I need a haircut.") I loyally read Bolta's column in the Hun pretty much every Wednesday and Friday, and invariably storm off in a screaming flurry of irrational, disembodied sounds shortly afterward. For those who don't know who Andrew Bolt is, he's pretty much the Bill O'Reilly of Australian Print journalism. For those who don't know who Bill O'Reilly or Andrew Bolt are, then I beg you to maintain that snow white purity for as long as this diabolical world will allow you.

I'd be lying if I didn't admit that I have fantasies about meeting Bolt, slamming a massive pile of documents with either a list of The Stolen Generation or evidence for climate change in front of him and screaming "READ THIS YOU CRAVEN DUTCHMAN!" I'd then challenge him to some kind of duel, defeat him, and then win Kate Ellis's hand after rescuing her from that tower where he kept her imprisoned. But I also have to concede that I feel a little bit sorry for Andrew, as the election really seems to be taking it's toll on his already fragile grip on reality. For example, with that recently killed gangland patriarch dude, surely nobody but the writers of Underbelly are punching their fists in the air? It's not like someone would use the example of a murdered criminal who's been in in the country since 1969 to imply that we should end all (arab-sounding) immigration, would they?

But Andrew's biggest mental crack appeared a few days ago, when he posted a blog about this wonderful parody twitter account, resplendent with a terrifying threat:

"A little warning there. A tearful sorry afterwards will be both too late and insincere, especially from people with their record of sliming."

So anybody who happens to live in the same street as Mr Bolt and sends him a late Christmas Card, or lose a tennis ball over the fence, be aware that a weeping apology won't be enough. Especially if you have your "record of sliming", so those with leprosy or some other pus-related skin condition should be especially wary. He later updated his blog with this:

"This is only a small instance, but as I’ve so often noted among Leftist activists from the French Revolution to the Internet revolution, many have a curious belief that their moral cause entitles them to act as barbarians. It’s this loss of conscience in the collective that makes them such a menace."

 ..."Barbarians", "loss of conscience", "menaces". Who is this man, exactly? Some kind of 19th century imperialist? Clarence Starling? Mr friggin' Wilson? He's joking write? Um, apparently not. Two days, completely sincerely, he refereed to left-leaning columnists as "The Barbarian Collective". This from a man who considers reactionary shock-jock Steve Price to be left-wing.

So though this post may not be specifically relevant to this election, I'd like to point out that no matter how bland and crappy the candidates are, they could be a lot worse. That's not to say Bolt doesn't have a point about the French Revolution thing. Maybe joking about public figures on twitter IS pretty much the same as decapitating 7000 aristocrats.

~Damacus

That's the way the cookie crumbles

The lines are buzzing, the pundits are tweeting, the dog-whistlers are barking and Mark Latham is sobbing into his pillow because there's ONLY ONE WEEK TO GO! That's right – there's only a single week left until the most spectacular event in Australian politics since... well the last election. Or when we changed Prime Minister less than two months months ago. Or when Tony Abbott had that photoshoot with the fish. Listen, it's quite big OK?

I for one am extraordinarily excited. On a Damacus Excitement Scale from 'Sitting through the Soccer World Cup' as a 0 and 'meeting David Stratton and Margaret Pomeranz" as 100,000,000,000,000; when it comes to the election I'm at least a 6. With such twitching enthusiasm gripping the hearts and minds of the nation, I'd be insane not to capitalise. That's why I'm expanding my  special catering business from last year into the political market.

7 DAYS TO GO: ELECTION 2010 COMMEMORATIVE BISCUITS

The Red Barren:

Mr Rabbit:

Kruddster:

Barnaby "my-first-name-is-so-stupid-I-don't-need-a-nickname" Joyce:

Swanny:
 

Comrade Bob:

I'm didn't check if the eggs in the biscuits were from free range chickens or mandatorily detained battery ones, so I went with the spinach leaf just in case.

Contact damacus_steel@hotmail.com for your special order today!

~Damacus

The Burke Identity

8 DAYS TO GO: ORGANGATE

This is the Minister for Sustainable Population, Tony Burke.

Is that annoying fluffy figure necessary? You'd think the Age would try a little bit harder to not have people standing right in front of the camera. Maybe Michelle Grattan was just really busy that day, and only had time to snap the one with her iphone before a night of radcore clubbing.

Here is the Minister for Sustainable Population, Tony Burke and 1820's Edinburgh serial killer, William Burke:

...


What the Pell Burke is going on here?

Could Tony Burke be a of descendant William Burke? No, the murderer died childless, with no relatives left for excruciating TT interviews (or whatever the 1800s equivalent was... similar I guess, but with more swooning and tuberculosis). Could it, as some you will inanely hollar, be a mere coincidence? I scoff at your naivety. LOOK AT THE MOUTHS AND NOSES AND FACE. They're pretty much identical, especially considering that one of the pictures is a crude 19th century wood cut. Imagine if you met your doppelganger, who also happened to have exactly the same surname as you. You'd either be comparing birth certificates or planning some kind of crazy parent trap scenario within five minutes. But Burke and Burke were born 180 years apart, so they couldn't be twins. That only leaves one logical possibility.


THEY ARE THE SAME PERSON. That's right. The man responsible for our fisheries is a 218 year-old serial killer, who's been keeping a low profile ever since his supposed execution in 1829. 'How could he possibly live that long?!' you ask, voice whiney and pedantic. You have a point of course, that kind of immortality sounds impossible. You'd need to be, I don't know, constantly surgically replacing your internal organs with fresh ones or something. And it's not like William Burke was the kind of person who went around strangling randoms for the sole purpose of harvesting their organs!


...Oh wait. That was exactly what he did. Burke and his accomplice Hare murdered between seventeen and thirty people to sell their organs and bodies to an overenthusiastic and kind of deranged anatomy lecturer, who used them for disection in his classes. Eventually they were caught and sentenced to hanging (except the lecturer, who was too rich and important for that kind of thing). But Hare's faked his death, and after a lifetime of studying he finally learnt to replace his organs with those of non-consensual donors, guaranteeing effective immortality.


After living a relatively ordinary, if long life all over the globe changing his first name every generation to avoid suspicion, Burke is finally in the position of power he has always insididously craved. To be fair, he'd probably good at it: he's obviously got the "sustainability" thing write, and he's an expert at curbing excess population. Don't be fooled by his affable if tedious appearances Q and A, Burke has a lot more power than he'd like you to believe, with secret influence over most of the government. With a ruthless, unnatural revenant in their Cabinet, Labor's policy leaks from a couple of weeks were more than inevitable. It wouldn't surprise me if Burke, now needing to cut back on the murder to keep a low profile, had set up a black market in the parliament, in which desperate MPs can make Faustian pacts in exchange for political string pulling.


At least that explains Krudd's minor political comeback.

~Damacus

My First Election Blog — The GREENUMISTS

HEY THERE my ever-neglected blöglingskind (yes I just made up a German word, they do it all the time) this place is looking barren as a prime ministerial uterus so I thought I'd better post. A few months ago I made a (core) promise that if Tony Abbott becomes Prime Minister, I'd hitch an illegal boat ride and try my luck seeking asylum in Afghanistan. With nine days to go and the polls looking horribly tight, the chances of a honour-bound exile is really starting to worry me. I've started packing, and I'm already in people-smuggling talks with an unemployed Jessica Watson. So basically, if I'm ever to jump on the triannual election bloggin' bandwagon, I better start now.

My aim with these election count down bloglet things is to make them short, amusing and daily. The odds of this actually happening sit somewhere between Matt Preston winning the Tour De France on a unicycle and the Democrats doing quite well in the election. Nevertheless, I shall persevere with my Election Stories Of The Day! ... Or At Least *A* Day, Considering That Most Of Them Will Be Weeks Out Of Date, Or I Don't Know You Could Be In A Different Timezone Or Something.

9 DAYS TO GO: THE GREENSHEVIKS AND THEIR PAGAN WATERMELON MOUSTACHES.

To hook you all in from the start of this little project, I thought I'd begin with an  obscure news story that has nothing do with the major parties at all! Cardinal George Pell, the boss of the church in Australia, is in theological terms a bit of a douche. He's not particularly fond of women or divorcees, and threatened to excommunicate any Catholic MP who voted in favour of stem cell research. He's also not a huge fan of environmentalism:

"Some of the hysteric and extreme claims about global warming are also a symptom of pagan emptiness... In the past pagans sacrificed animals and even humans in vain attempts to placate capricious and cruel gods. Today they demand a reduction in carbon dioxide emissions."

...Ok, I admit, I've been saving up that abominable pun for much longer than is socially acceptable.

Anyway, our favourite antediluvian autocrat has once again decided to be politely mindful of that 100-year-old restraining order between church and state with some completely neutral comments about The Greens: 

"One wing of the Greens are like watermelons - green outside and red inside - a number were Stalinists supporting Soviet oppression... For those who value our present way of life, the Greens are sweet camouflaged poison."

You may well be asking yourself WTP "Camouflaged Poison" is: does it wear an army print t-shirt, or have some other way of blending into the forest to escape it's predators? Personally I think it sounds like one of Lucrei's band name ideas from Year 9. (...sorry, I couldn't resist). And when will someone make up a menacing name for the Greens other than that watermelon thing, preferably one that isn't named after a delicious fruit?

But I'm glad that the Cardinal has made this announcement to his flock. Otherwise, how else would we know that a progressive environmentalist party of smug hippies and hipster; who's best polls are like Brendan Nelson on a bad day, are actually on the verge of taking over the country and becoming a totalitarian communist dictatorship? I can see it now: compulsory gay marriage and Christine Milne setting up Gulags. A chilling vision of things to come. Literally, I might add; why else would the Greens be so opposed to Global Warming other than a twisted desire to replicate their beloved Soviet climate? 

There'll probably be another Cold War as well. Sure, we don't have any nuclear weapons yet, but we have heaps of uranium and I'm sure that guy who looks like Kochie from The New Inventors could whip something up. (It's the ABC. Of course they'd be complicit in a Socialist Regime.) Like the pieces of a carbon-free jigsaw, the diabolical elements are falling into place. First the seat of Melbourne, then the world. If that's not evidence enough to convince you, just look at their latest campaign poster:

~Damacus~

 

CUT AND PASTE

Evening all. By all I mean you... and if that turns out to be a singular the non-reading public had better start locking their doors, their second storey windows and sealing their ventilation with concrete and eucharist... OK, I've nailed the Dracula reference in a paragraph, excellent start...

Well, I'm at Melbourne uni now, having new adventures and finding new surrogate security hovels to wait out colder months, inquiries and the plotting citizenry of your planet. I'm finally doing psychology which beats self diagnosing with wikipedia and facebook quizzes, so naturally I'm kind of happy. Kind of naturally happy... not the sort of happy I get from not sleeping... or not eating... or any other obtuse form of self harm, for that matter.



'I am Jack's complete lack of surprise'


Because something finally happened, and I'm an emotional exhibitionist in authenticity's bordello, have a run down of things! Because you want what I want you to want!

What they don't tell you about a mid year transfer is that three days to choose subjects, get enrolled, walk in line to Joy Division's Walked In Line (for self effacing hypocrisy... and angsta cred. T_T) get books, teach yourself a semester's worth of biology and maintain the illusion that technically you didn't run away this time and you won't fuck this one up like another page in a recurring nightmare etc. is impossible. They assume you have a sliver of sense about you.

PFFT, I spent $50 on a monkey vest that doesn't reach my nipples, what do I know about rationality? So I do what I do best. I'm a rennaissance man. Nothing is impossible sans appearing respectable or trustworthy in the slightest... So like Da Vinci himself, I fuelled up on camp metal, impractical sunglasses and that alluring, inevitable femme fatale stride... because I can't pull off the dude version, something about prepubescent genitalia... TRUE STORY. Last week I was 'mistaken' for a fourteen year old FOUR TIMES. That's a new record. Thrice buying DVDs... because now people seem to care about the kind of filth that messed me up in the first place, and once at my intolerable job that's not a job that I lost but then got back, but will lose again in four weeks that pays in memberships to local football clubs that has no appeal to me despite frequent displays of homosexuality to spite the female species for it's outright exclusion of my genetic information... you dig?

Uhhh... *cliche 'Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaanyway's* Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaanyway, I had to line up for an hour and a half to find out where my queries should have been directed... oh, and to have a student card remind me of why my abstinence from smiling could well be what's regulating ocean acidity*. WOO. I get to be a enrolled student of a course that's not just TAFE in accredited clothing.

A hilarious photoshop with that Karl Stefanovic joke of a human being would be here, but I couldn't do it without him sexing up farm animals

*'What's Regulating Ocean Acidity?'tm is a property of the nine network and it's subsidiaries. Expect educational candid life guard trivia with all your favourite 'personalities' who didn't get sniped by dancing with the stars this summer

Alright... I've steered the ship out of awkward waters into politically incorrect ones... and I can see that masking tape 'X'... I think we'd normally rap this up? Well then, sorry everyone, for being such a crummy little blogger and wallowing in misery most masturbatory all the time.

This is a work of intended yet misguided humour, any relation to submerged personality traits is purely coincidental... or ornately fabricated by a genius... but most of you have witnessed me in face paint for face paint's sake, or watched me eat leaves for facepaint's sake... so I leave that judgement to you.



ACK!!! How could I forget this!!!

'The metaphysical comfort--with which, I am suggesting even now, every true tragedy leaves us--that life is at the bottom of things, despite all the changes of appearances, indestructibly powerful and pleasurable--this comfort appears in incarnate clarity in the chorus of the satyrs, a chorus of natural beings who live ineradicably, as it were, behind all civilization and remain eternally the same, despite the changes of generations and of the history of nations.' - Nietzsche The Birth of Tragedy




OH!! And like O my brothers and all that cal.

BYE