A Life Less Stupid

Suddenly Smithy.

2008-06-02T02:02:00.000-07:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E2gsLhroTtQ

Better seven years too late than never, eh?

Enjoy this grainy memory from my teenage years and silently wish that I still posted whymsical blog entries week after week after week...

012 Future Tense

2008-03-25T01:06:00.000-07:00

I hate not finishing things.

And despite the string of unfinished endeavours, and half loved labours that lie in my bedroom closet – I have resolved to finish this, my blog. Or at the very least give it some sort of ending.

Unfortunately, this blog has been a casualty of my ever increasing workload and annoying and pointless responsibilities outside of work.

In the short time I have been writing, I’ve touched upon the stupidity of life. Its futility. Its pain. Its colours and flaws.

Or maybe I’ve just been having a wank on the computer talking bout pissing and lobsters and drug-pig celebrities.

Nonetheless life continues.

It gets faster and faster with each new line of character or age that I discover on my face (and also my first few grey beard hairs).

It’s my firm belief that most endings in life should speak of the future and not the past. That’s why I’ve decided to use this final entry to extrapolate the likely course of the rest of my life…

Here goes.

Ten Hours from Now:

Distraught, I will be meander about my small kitchen after downing three glasses of Scotch and a few episodes of Red Dwarf. I have realise that it is getting late and I’ve skipped meals all day. Now its time to eat.

Wacky antics ensue as I, aesthetically impaired and half way inebriated, struggle to make a simple meal and eventually settle on over cooked fish sticks with ketchup.

Six Months From Now:

My growing sense of paranoia and general angst prompts me to install a panic room underneath my house. There, surviving on Tacos and a sizeable stockpile of Snack Pack, I begin writing a new blog, under the pseudonym “Scotty Clarendon”.

Not knowing where I am, my family abandon all hope of seeing me again and sell all my stuff on eBay. I cannot find any clean underwear.

Twelve Months From Now:

After growing gradually disenfranchised with my panic room and my job, I enlist in the Australian Military, quickly developing an aptitude for weapons handling, covert operations and domestic chores.

I make the entire platoon a Mushroom Risotto that is simply to die for.

But the army is lonely and I marry some dude on the internet with red hair. He lives in Oklahoma. It is a marriage of convenience, enabling him to travel to Australia and pursue his life long ambition of stalking Delta Goodrem. I still cannot find any clean underwear.

Two Years From Now:

After graduating from my military training with high honours (and a notable reputation for streaking) I briefly gain notoriety for spearheading the “Five Minute Fight Club” underground movement. It even has its own MySpace.

My marriage fails, and that red headed guy I mentioned before runs away with gypsies.

Lost at sea during military training exercises, I wrestle with, and later apprehend, a rogue shark. While speaking to the press, I dedicate the heroic episode to the late Roy Scheider.

Five Years From Now:

Several wars break out. They’re about oil or grain or land or Osama’s bones. I bravely serve in my capacity as weapons specialist and combat chef with the rest of my platoon. After six months, I am severely injured on the front lines when I get run over by a laser powered Panzer battle tank.

Ten Years From Now:

After an honourable discharge from the military, I decide to use my savings to buy a small villa in the south of France. There I spend my days watching re-runs of Seaquest and ebaying various coffee mugs from around the world. I live in relative seclusion, learning Spanish by correspondence and only ever leaving my house when in need of more Snack Pack.

Fifteen Years From Now:

After marketing my own brand of genetically enhanced Corn to the French public, I endeavour to make a name for myself on the local art scene with my controversial oil on canvas entitled “The Brigadier’s Son” depicting a small boy in mid fellatio.

I tell the press that the provocative image was inspired by my time working at a box factory in my youth.

After nude photos of myself (taken in my military days) surface, my reputation as an artist lies in tatters.

Twenty Years From Now:

Gradually succumbing to the asbestos poisoning I received while exploring an abandoned mental asylum in 2008, I return home to my home town of Melbourne to old friends who thought me long dead.

I tell them all long rambling stories of my colourful exploits over a hearty glass of scotch. They all have ugly human children and rubbish cars.

I visit the ruins of my old apartment (destroyed during the war in 2013) and find my collection of Star Trek comics and my treasured soup ladle.

Another war breaks out.

At the ripe old age of 44, and badly affected by the asbestos nestled in my lungs, I am too weak to fight.

I donate my brain to science. On October 29th, 2028, I loose consciousness for the last time in a golf cart at Northcote plaza.

My brain is then implanted into some type of robot super soldier who continues to live in my house in the south of France. A vicious legal battle ensues as that red headed guy I married a while back tries to contest my will and claims my vast porn collection.

Fifty Years From Now:

The robot super soldiers has turned evil for some reason and terrorises the streets of London, killing many. It is eventually subdued by three surface to air missiles and the ghost of Mandy Moore.

In honour of the massacre (and of course my amazing brain), a new research institute entitled the “Jimmy Toast Killbot Centre For Nuclear Medicine” is opened – ensuring that history will never forget the name...Jim Patrik.

Thanks for reading.

See you in Twenty Years.

the end.

Britney Watch

2008-02-11T23:01:00.000-08:00

"You've got me hypnotised - I've never felt this way"

Before she dies - I have been asked by several people to get a move on with the Britney Watches. So here it is - the latest chapter in the car crash that is Britney Spears.

This week in review:

Wealthy investors, getting domestic, my battle with the kitchen ants, Rachael has been judging me, working more at work, Gareth is sexually harrassed with invisible ink, Hoda snares a Rob Thomas lookalike, Pirate phone sex, Carlota runs into more Banditos, living next to Jews, The Mighty Boosh, dinner gets cummunal, Kelly wants to borrow that top, the benefits of chewing Extra, teasing poor people, watching "old" Doctor Who and the legendary story of my haunted microwave.

011 Lousy Drunken Soldiers.

2008-02-04T23:36:00.000-08:00

So today I’m thinking bout that time when Frank Sinatra freed the Jews from slavery in Egypt back in the days before mobile phones existed and MP3s were for free.

It was a pivotal moment in human history.

And, other than being one of the only things I’ve retained from the countless hours spent sealed in an un-air conditioned classroom as a teen, it’s a story that’s always made me think about leadership. What it takes to motivate people.

Caught in the maelstrom of office politics, whispered words and oh-so public meltdowns – these lessons seem all the more relevant to me this week.

This brings me to my toy soldiers.

Like Ethiopian schoolchildren, they are all scattered across my desk at work, closing the gaps between the Daleks, Cybermen and David Tennant all vying for action-figure dominance.

Originally these soldiers began appearing one by one, like a silent invasion force. After some skilful investigation, I discovered that this was yet another attempt by my boss to annoy/harrass/amuse me. Instead these little plastic men triggered a small mental breakdown that lasted an agonising four minutes.

In defiance I took them all as my own and have been trying to whip them into shape as a mean, efficient fighting platoon that can serve as the vanguard for anyone who dare place their germ ridden mittens on my stapler.

I stole that stapler fair n square dammit!!

But with all of the soldiers being Irishmen, motivating them has been especially difficult.

Sean and Callum can’t even hold their rifles correctly, and Kevin, Owen and Seamus are routinely found AWOL in the women’s toilet.

I have tried so hard to get them to behave. To conduct themselves in a manner befitting a man in uniform, but they seem more concerned with laying about in the sun and drinking all day.

More recently, I’ve begun to suspect that they have formed a secret resistance cell aimed at breaking my brutal and unyielding hold over them.

Obviously these tactics will not be tolerated. These individuals who refuse to comply will feel the full wrath of my white Anglo Saxon God.

To that end, I have “extracted” William, Connor and Patrick from the rest of the platoon. Let’s see how they feel about following orders when faced with the prospect of being trapped inside the antiquated gas cooker at my apartment.

In the words of a notorious Starfleet Captain: “When diplomacy fails – violence is the only viable solution”.

the end.

Great Xpectations.

2008-01-30T23:49:00.000-08:00

Ladies and lads - witness the triumphant return of Mulder and Scully in The X Files 2, in Ozzie cinemas July 25th (the year of our lord two-thousand-and-eight).

More exciting than Cloverfield or the rubbish new Star Trek remake.

Just like M & S I've been slightly busy (mostly with work, and sorting out my new bachelor-pad) but I'll be back soon!!

Oh...and for those of you who have e-mailed me asking what hair product I use - Its called Muk. You can check out the official website at www.muk.net.au

Britney Watch.

2007-12-20T19:41:00.000-08:00

Right.

My small but powerful army of caffeinated monkeys who usually do my typing are too tired and are currently lying on my living room floor struggling to breathe.

Looks like they might have overdone it at last week’s work Xmas function.

So because of this - here we have my last post of the year with the obligatory final Britney Watch. And what a year it’s been for good’ ol Britters with head shaving, suicide attempts, glue stick hair extensions and a violent umbrella attack upon an innocent, unsuspecting paparazzo.

And an equally eventful year for me too. Many, many bad things happened. But I learned a lot. Mostly who my friends are, and who I can trust. I also learned how to terrorise a small boy using only a handful of Vitamin D pills and an extension cord.

But by far the most important lesson I have learned, is that as long as I have a couple of people around me who always tell me the truth – I can accomplish anything.

L, H and L – I love all of you endlessly. You guys believed in me even when I didn’t.

And for those of you who made things difficult. Those of you who lied and stood in the way of my happiness and success – you all know who you are. You’re all a bunch of cunts.

I hope you all choke on my victories in the coming year.

Thanks for reading. Please come back next year – I still have so much to tell you.

Sincerely, Jimmy.

(This week's Britney Watch photo is courtesy of Matty who emailed it to me while drunk and then drew all over my arm in black texta. I know where you live dude).

010 Knives Out.

2007-12-16T21:48:00.000-08:00

Having just ended a substantially long term friendship with someone, I find myself absolutely dumbfounded by the immature actions of certain people.

At the risk of having this stately blog entry morph into yet another forum for me to whinge, I’ll cut to the chase here.

As I choke on my utter indifference at the whole situation, I find I’m noticing more and more how the little things in life often mirror the really big stuff. Sort of like the counterpoint in classical music. Or an episode of Battlestar Galactica.

But endings are kind of inevitable. It’s what lies at the end of the road for each of us. For the lucky few it comes in the form of a two hour movie-length finale.

We live. We die. And when we die almost every trace of our biological existence is erased.

Moby, in one of his frequently sanctimonious essays, once compared this process to that of a guest staying at a hotel room.

When we check in, we are often mortified to find even the smallest trace of the room’s previous occupant.

Thus hotels (well some of them anyway) are constantly being sterilised. To give you the illusion that you are the first person who ever stayed there. But that’s all it is – high tech sorcery.

Of course, anyone who ever saw that episode of 60 Minutes with the UV light and the Best Western hotel room no doubt is thinking differently at this minute.

So now wheels in my head are turning and examining how this situation mirrors the overall theme of our existence. Like being an organ donor for example.

To think that some dude fifty years in the future will be walking round wearing my eyes or carrying round my human heart as if it were nothing more than a ‘spare part’.

I hope they at least wash it before they give it him.

I remember when I first got my organ donor card a few years back. Many of my closest were horrified at my decision.

“Not your eyes, Jimmy – anything but them!”

It was almost as if having every trace of me gone would somehow be comforting to those left behind. To‘re-use’ my components just seemed too ghoulish.

And while I’m sure that organ donation is more fun than a handful of pills and a wank, it seems to scare a lot of people.

So then what does that say about our perspectives on life?

Does total erasure breed a soft, chewy buffer zone for those who find my death too traumatic? Or just another stupid fallacy to stop us from truly facing the transitory nature of our lives.

Like friendships. Like relationships. Like human bodies, everything eventually dies.

The older I get, the more I realise and accept this journey and the places it takes me to (and away from) and am increasingly less frustrated. The wheel simply turns. Sure it can be jarring, but this is what it is to live seven days a week as Jim.

And so finally and at long last I’m not hurt by the process. I’m not angry. And I’m certainly not sorry.

And to the dude who ends up carrying round my human heart – good luck with it.

May you find it less painful to carry round with you than I did.

the end.

Britney Watch.

2007-12-09T22:47:00.000-08:00

“Hoping I’ll resort to some havoc and end up settling in court…”

This week in review:

In which our hero learns that electrical tape has many uses, a dark lady in a corset brings helps him taunt an errant Jew, a cease fire is finally put in place with cut price soda, he crawls through a gravel pit to buy cigarettes, he attempts a dramatic exit, he bravely weilds a sonic screwdriver, he tortures a fearful child with an extension cord, he scales the deathrock, he watches new episodes of Scrubs and has a heated confrontation with the local constabulary over more drinking related offences.

And at the end of it all he bears witness to the most unexpected plot twist that life has to offer him. Ever.

To be continued...

009 Human Error.

2007-12-03T22:52:00.000-08:00

Human essence...

I imagine it stored in a small glass test tube in a futuristic lab set hundreds of years in the future. Once the human genome has been completely mapped and a whole bunch of other cool scientific stuff has been done.

This futuristic ‘flash forward’ sequence is directed by Paul Verhoeven.

There it is – in liquid crystal form. The force that drives all of us filthy primates. Like some sort of divine ingredient which lives inside a slovenly vessel of blood and bone. Some people call it a soul, but it is essentially, it is that which makes us Human.

I’ve been thinking bout this secret ingredient. Kept under wraps harder than that bigot Colonel Sanders hid his coveted herbs and spices. It eludes me and keeps me awake at night.

Also I think of a 24 hour Taco place – how great would that be?

Some days I can feel my human essence rising and falling and boiling like my blood does when I see Casey Donovan in a strapless dress.

Other times I can barely contain the rage it pushes me towards

Like when I see Superchoc – the fantastic flying Christmas Dog – I hate that little fucker.

I want to know where it is so I can cut it out of my stomach with my pocket knife and examine it with a blowtorch and some skewers.

It’s like the molten core of my being. The same core that forced me to threaten a man the other week after he spilled his drink on my shoe. The very same impulse made me buy Pizza for a homeless, foodless man who was sleeping on the street.

I cannot control it and it seems chaotic and unpredictable and wrong. Each day I ask Jesus for a metal heart and robot body – but lately he hasn’t been returning my calls.

After All I’ve done For Him!!

All this talk gets me thinking about the value of life, and the great big tally sheet that I’m undoubtedly gonna have to answer for when I die. The bad things that I’ve done. Will those deeds condemn me to burn forever in some medieval version of hell?

Or will I just have to watch Jodie Foster in “Contact” again and again until the end of time as punishment?

So after three hours, the alien is her dead dad – what the fuck!?!?

To wound the heart is merely a mortal sin (committed by us lowly mortals).

To deprive something of life – this is something reserved for the authority of only God himself (or maybe Jesus – he’s kinda got carte blanche to pretty much do anything).

Maybe its time I started making a list of my own. Because human essence is human error.

the end.

Cylon Watch.

2007-11-29T22:00:00.000-08:00

The following celebrity has been revealed as a Cylon.

Another Week In Review:

Well it’s been a big week here with many flashing and pulsating lights. We’ve had Murph and British tourists, a Scary Costume Contest, Evil Toby, The Lunch Emo Returned, Scary Austrekkers Returned, Free Tequila, Churros at the Spanish Festival, Carlotta and her “secret contacts”, the City’s Tallest Man Ever, a Conversation With a Clown, a Controversial Lap dance, a Juvenile Tantrum, Dirty Nick, Bros Before Mo’s, a Crazy Lady Wearing a Swan Dress, Cinnamon Stroke Pie, Battlestar’s WTF? Finale, Futurama Undies and yet more Spectacular Drunken Driving from me!

See you fuckers next week!

008 Early Resolutions & Some Other Stuff.

2007-11-25T23:17:00.000-08:00

There’s a time travelling demon sitting on my desk.

Its multi coloured and continues to harass me even after I ask it to stop.

I can’t get any work done because it keeps popping up and annoying me with innocuous thoughts. Sometimes it gives me things of value.

Tell me!! Damn you!!

It will talk about strippers or where the good parties all are.

I will speak with you no more Demon!!

Anyway...

According to David Tenant, time is not quite the thing we perceive it to be. Its sort of like a sphere with wibbly wobbly, timey wimey things spinning round inside of it.

I guess that’s why linear time is such a difficult concept for us to grasp. Moving in one direction through this timey wimey vortex of experiences.

Each moment, each second - decision waits (I’m fast approaching my point - remain still!)

It’s an indisputable fact that there are two types of people in the world. Sharks and Sheep.

The Sharks roam the Earth drinking many cups of coffee and always iron their clothes.

Sheep merely follow the Sharks in their many endeavours because they fear having their lower intestines ripped out in a really violent way.

All this men’s room musing (I thought of this while peeing) got me thinking about where I fit in.

Shark? Sheep? Ummm…Antelope?

We all have our animal spirits that guide us. I feel mine is the noble Bear.

Lumbering. Kinda stupid. But with the ability to hold a grudge for eons. Also the Bear likes sleeping for several months a year.

This chaotic string of thoughts has finally led me to my ultimate point. I’ve decided to be more Shark-like. To drink more coffee. Wear Ironed clothes. And never give people second chances – even when they might rightfully deserve one.

It’s your own fault if you decide to play a game of ‘chicken’ with a Shark. Just look at what happened to Linda Hamilton!

So there it is – my New Years Resolution started one month early (before all that gosh-darn drinking starts come December thirty first!).

Get ready to get out of my way! After all – I’m an angry motorist!

The end.

Muse.

2007-11-15T23:44:00.000-08:00

Here's a really crappy photo from the Muse concert last nite!

Stay tuned - more charmingly disenfranchised words of hatred next week!

Britney Watch.

2007-11-11T21:04:00.000-08:00

"You wanna piece of me...?"

This week in review:

Another late night at St Vinnie’s emergency room, Dan’s birthday, Sera my amazing handbag date (and her dress), More Scotch, New Meds, Big Red is furious, Dan’s brother’s hair sample, Scary fish sticks, A Lying Whore, Cyber controllers, Matty needs pills, Dave accidentally brings sexy back, Hoda doesn’t stab me, Slaying some old demons and fighting some new ones, Tax office trouble, Carla shakes her booty, Loads of cake icing, More Movember, Doctor Who finale, Star Trek at Nova and Muse (my favourite band in the whole world) live and in person in just four short days!

007 Astronauts, Killbots & The Real World.

2007-11-07T00:07:00.000-08:00

Space.

To most people it’s just a big, black uneventful place in the sky. They don’t take the time to notice its beauty.

And here I am. A small insignificant member of a minor bipedal species, gently floating in a white spacesuit, witnessing the immensity of the universe.

Ahhhh…this is nice. Kinda like being in a hot tub.

It was a day I had been waiting for my whole life.

I could see the stars and the moon, crystal clear in front of me. Saturn, the ringed planet loomed before me, large and yellow and majestic, only a stone’s throw away from my heavily padded foot.

The cosmos was singing an electronic song, all my favourite 80s songs rolled into one twelve minute space-opera.

I remembered the small human child sitting in a classroom gazing up at a chart of our solar system in wonder.

Remembered the awkward twenty something who went to the Planetarium time after time (usually alone cause no one would go with him!) – and here I was. Finally seeing it for myself in surround sound.

“If we were Astronauts, all our problems would be solved. We could just sit there and enjoy the stars”.

A conversation from long ago. She was right. I have to tell her.

Did I bring my phone with me?

I’m an Astronaut. I always have been. I float up here in space sneering at all of God’s creation. I have no problems. I don’t have to make loan payments. Don’t have to worry bout being single.

The Earth floats below me – a super massive space borne animal covered in tiny little insects and water.

If I push off with my toes and I can move. There it is. Gently now…

Maybe I’ll visit a new plant. One with man eating amoeba. Or a planet of Killbots. They will be tall and metallic, with angry eyes and a thirst for blood.

The Killbots will be my friends. I’ll show them on a star chart what planet I’m from and guide them back to Earth.

Once there, they will burn the cities of the world to the ground. All that will be left will be ashes. They will burn down the Eiffel Tower. And that stupid Sydney Myer Music Bowl. And then the Rivoli cinema.

Fuck I hate that damn cinema.

The people of Earth will beg me for mercy, but the rampage will continue. This is what they get for screwing with me. Thems the breaks I guess!

Fuck.

The brakes.

I feel the souls of my shoes pressing down upon my black rubber brake pedal.

Outside the window, a gigantic metal beast is staring down at me, snarling. It has angry yellow eyes and steel rods surrounding its bulbous, metallic exoskeleton.

Killbots? Already?

Inside the beast lives an angry bearded man. His beard is red. He is yelling and shouting and making emphatic hand gestures, but there is no sound.

What?

I’m in peak hour traffic, sitting in my car, blocking the path of a four wheel drive.

The driver beeps his horn for what seems like the fifth time. I quickly place my foot on the accelerator and speed away. I’m late for work.

Work. Fuck. Loan payments. Goddammit!! Not again!

In an instant it all comes back to me. Planet Earth. I’m still here. Still me.

Must be these new pills then. Guess I better pay more attention to the real world.

The end.

Britney Watch.

2007-11-03T22:20:00.000-07:00

Its Britney Bitch!

Sunday arvo and I'm hungover so I'm at home watching the first season of My Name Is Earl on DVD. Oh its just a mile a minute at Jim HQ!!

This week in review:

Drunken bike riding, Burritos and Tacos, Falling off the roof, Amusing Hair, Romanian People, Doctor Who, Mercyndol, Scotch, Toothaches, Britney and her "Blackout", Junk Food, Pete, Sera, Cane, Murph and Matty and Leigh, Irish musicians, a boring party, some scary Austrekkers and one moderatley attractive man with fluffy hair.

See y'all next week!

006 The Guy Wearing The Bear Suit.

2007-10-30T00:04:00.000-07:00

"Love is a lie which means I’ve been lied to.
Love is a lie which means I’ve been lying too"

I could feel the panic slowly start to set in. Real honest-to-God panic.

That sickening moment of dread. The exact second where you realise that you’re in a dangerous situation. In short I was in deep shit.

This wasn’t supposed to happen this way. Not at all. It was meant to be a laugh, a harmless bit of fun. I came here with the best of intentions. More importantly - I came to help. And besides – who’s gonna beat up a guy wearing a bear suit?

I was just as surprised as you are.

As I lay there on the floor, I tried to lift my legs and arms. They flailed wildly in a futile attempt to protect myself. I had accepted that these kids could probably do some serious damage if they wanted to. After all, the human body could only take so much beating.

Louder and louder they yelled and jeered, spitting and cussing. Kicking and punching and poking with viciousness I had never known before. I could feel the intense hatred that they radiated.

I winced in agony as someone’s foot connected with my stomach. Hot tears welled up in my eyes and streamed down my cheeks. At that moment I was grateful for the bear suit. Its humorous headpiece concealed my disgrace.

I slowly curled up in the foetal position, remembering it from some half digested made-for-TV-movie that I had seen years ago. I think it starred James Coburn. Or was it Sally Field?

Never mind that!

It was apparently the safest position to be in when there was badness. Like a plane crash, or an exploding bus in Beirut.

It didn’t help. Those venomous children were out for blood.

As my muffled screams struggled to make their way through the inches of Bear Costume shag covering my brittle little body, the children surrounded me, continuing their assault with rocks, chains, sticks and cricket bats.

One of them even had some sort of steel rod. I shuddered to think what that was going to be used for. Why do they hate me so much? What did I do to deserve this? I’m just the guy in the fucking Bear suit!!

Bruised and battered, I rolled on my side, trying to protect my head. That was where my brain was, a fleshy receptacle for all my thoughts and feelings and memories.

Learning to Jet Ski when I was fifteen, breaking a car window when I was sixteen, and falling in love at seventeen. It all flashed before me, each time ticking off just one more ‘near death cliché’ box.

But there it was – undeniable, all laid out like some sort of cheap montage, the memories faded and opaque, but sentiment burning just as bright. I can’t die like this! Fuck!

I came here and it was a party. I came here optimistic, with my goofy Bear suit in tow, and an equally goofy smile pasted to my badly animated face. But it had all fallen down around me so quickly.

Defenceless, the beating continued. Brutal and unrelenting.

Oh man I don’t think I’m gonna get out of this so easily this time. If only I could reach my phone I could call for help. But who’s gonna help some idiot in a Bear suit getting beaten up by angry kids? Who’s gonna believe me?

I’ve got no one to call!

Fuck I’m so sick of wearing the Bear suit.

The end.

Britney Watch.

2007-10-24T01:00:00.000-07:00

Yup. This photo sort of neatly sums up how I feel this week.

Things have been kinda shithouse, but they only fuel even more angry monologues (to be posted quite soon - I'm just editing out all the swear words and naughty drug references).

Oh and Shane - I'm working on the Brit Vs. Whit Dirty Crackwhore Challenge.

Way ahead of you buddy.

Watch this space.

005 Dude, Where's My Crab?

2007-10-17T00:58:00.000-07:00

This is a long and confusing story, so you might want to take a moment and get some snacks and then come back (I don’t want you getting up during my story).

Are you back?

Yes?

Good.

Okay…so there are several people standing in a circle.

It doesn’t matter what colour the circle is. It is irrelevant.

They are partaking in a crab race. One by one they all receive crabs which eagerly race each other to an imaginary finish line snapping and hissing and generally being crab like.

However, one of the people in this erstwhile circle does not receive a Crab. He waits patiently; a leg trembling with youthful excitement and foolish optimism – yet his crab never arrives.

So in short, all the other Crabs are flailing with wild excitement, miles ahead of the final player in this metaphorical game, leaving him looking like a confused and skinny Vin Diesel waiting for a bus.

There was more to this story, I’m sure of it. Something bout a game show host. Thanks to copious drug abuse, my memory isn’t what it used to be.

So life is like waiting for Crabs that never come.

Not the gross type that nest in the dark, oily recesses of the human body, but the other type with the exoskeleton and the snappers living in the sea and playing Caribbean percussion instruments.

At least that is according to Red, my alcoholic, pill popping, rage mongering office bombshell of a friend who I drove home last night.

Her words of wisdom soothed my growing frustration as I stood motionless by the seafood smorgasbord of life. (What is a ‘smorgas’ anyway??)

There’s a heartfelt stupidity to everything I do, and because I play for the good guys, life sometimes moves excruciatingly slowly. I know there are several bright and shiny things waiting for me on the horizon, but lately I’ve been getting frustrated.

I just hope that I haven’t been smoten my God or something, and that I’ll finally get some sort of ‘payoff’ for the seven years of heartbreak and under achievement so far (sorry – yet another random EMO moment creeps its way into this blog – dammit!)

So now on my desk sits a colour printout of a cartoon Crab wading around happily on the beach next to a panic-attack-inducing Starfish.

Red put it there this morning before I had emerged from my pre-Coffee haze. It’s simple, crustacean smile fills me with hope for the future. Underneath this opus are the words “You’ll get your Crab, Jim”.

I think I’ll put it on my wall at home.

the end.

Britney Watch

2007-10-12T01:07:00.000-07:00

Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha!

(It's Friday and I'm too lazy to post anything worthwhile. I promise next week I'll post comething less crappy. In the meantime lets all enjoy this photo that I googled during time I should have spent working)

004 Fear.

2007-10-09T01:55:00.000-07:00

“I’m already more scared than I’ve ever been in my whole life – how can it get any worse?”

Those words were mine not a few days ago. Arrogance or stupidity?

Fear.

It’s a funny thing. But not laugh out loud funny. Funny like Nicole Kidman. From far away it looks relatively harmless, but the closer you get, more and more horror is revealed until you’re confronted with a pasty, worthless flat chested woman.

I guess this entry comes from a place deep inside my torso, where all the black stuff and important internal organ-y doo dads live. I believe that’s where real fear starts.

Like a virus, it spreads quickly through human veins and nerves, and before you know it – a giant neon claw has got a steadfast grip on your heart.

With it, Fear brings its extended family, consisting of Jealously, Suspicion and Paranoia.

All things that I’ve learned to accept as part of life. You can’t be angry at em. That’s like being angry at a storm on the horizon. Or being angry at the sun for shining so goddamn hard.

But what does Fear what from us?

Does it simply wish to be conquered? Or is it something more?

Is it a battle that rages deep within us – a battle for control of the mind and heart. When Fear controls your every move – are you even “living” anymore?

I’m not sure where all this musing is going. But I write these words because I see it all around me, and lately have had to call upon the vast armies of Jim to pull double duty to hold back Fear.

Fear of what I’m unsure of. But its there. In the corner of my eye, ready to take advantage whenever I give it a few milimeters to squeeze in.

Around me, I see people succumbing to the Fear of their lives and wonder how often my actions are governed by Fear. I try to tell myself that I am brave and strong (cause I’m obedient and eat all my greens) but who can say for certain?

Besides – one day’s Fear is another day’s boredom. Isn’t that the way it’s sposed to work?

So at the risk of sounding overly saccharine here, I dedicate these meagre words to all those around me who face Fear.

So many of us are still fighting, you only loose when you hesitate – when you put down your weapon and give in.

Sometimes life blows – and yes – it’s going to be very painful, but as long as you keep breathing you’ll survive.

(To further illustrate my point, I have included a picture of a very frightening animal)

the end.

Britney Watch

2007-10-03T01:12:00.000-07:00

I mean, what else am I gonna laugh at?

003 Demented Celebrity Rant.

2007-10-01T01:51:00.000-07:00

"There's a pretty lady in a bikini her eyes are clear.But her teeth look like smashed out window panes.She's trying to fix her dreams.With seaweed and sushi and carrot juice and wheat germ"

Celebrities are fucked.

Point me in the direction of one person on God’s green Earth who doesn’t think Jennifer Lopez is an oxygen thief!

They stand up on stage, airbrushed to within an inch of their life, but there’s nobody home. Lord knows Teri Hatcher died a long time ago.

Malevolent TV execu-bots dug up her worm infested corpse, slapped on some white paint and now she’s a “ratings sensation”. Go figure.

Need I remind anyone that these are the same money hungry suits that had the guff to pull the plug on “Firefly”?

"Cuz everybody's so shrivelled up insideThey're trying to hide behind Power Bars and Volleyball and Valium"

Suppose we dropped poor bung-eyed Paris into a small Ethiopian community without her ‘minders’, her cell phone or her credit card.

Would she be greeted by adoring fans?
Would she sign copies of her vocorder-laden debut album?

I think not.

The angry, starving villagers would gather their masses and tear her apart limb from limb.

Its grizzly I know, but only when you think about this scenario do you truly realise the inequity of the society in which we live.

A society in which the stupid and vacuous receive mass adulation instead of being ground up into a fine paste.

In this world we celebrate the hollow and empty.

Mother Theresa alone should have lived for several more decades with all cracking work she did to feed those poor young’ins living in the slums.

I say it’s high time that celebrities started pulling their weight. So in the opinion of this mild mannered reporter - the only thing they’re good for is eating.

the end.

002 Bad Things Happen To Good People

2007-09-28T01:01:00.000-07:00

Bad things happen to good people.

I spilled my cereal today and it ruined everything.

Like a moment frozen in time I sat and watched in horror as soggy Cheerios slowly enveloped the stationery on my desk.

This incident all happened before my morning caffeine and almost sent me into a murderous chainsaw wielding episode. Several innocent people were issued with my patented death glares.

It’s these little things in life that count I guess.

Cause the great big canvas of life is made up tiny little pieces. We filthy humans call em minutes and seconds. These are just soft chewy words that we use to describe time (when really these so called ‘seconds’ float around the atmosphere like razor sharp icebergs)

So when these deadly, deadly icebergs are littered with spilled breakfast cereal, parking tickets and premenstrual co-workers – things can get bad.

I’ve been thinking that maybe I’ve uncovered some sort of strategy for combating the brutality of life. Its all about the moments. Like dominos they spill into one another leading to Tacos, birthday sex and hopefully one day, some pole dancing construction workers.

(Dear God, please send me some pole dancing construction workers for Christmas. And a Robot. And a surface to air missile so I can blow up the Rivoli Cinemas. Amen)

But enough with the heavy philosophising. Today life became a piñata and I decided to wrestle it to the ground and impale it in the heart with rusty poultry scissors. The result is the above photo.

Dan, my hairy co-worker in his Hawaiian ensemble. Lets all take a moment to enjoy this image. You see this is what we do at work. Hard to believe I get paid to be here. But I’m eternally grateful to my employers (just in case you’re reading) and of course, the saucer people.

And Dan… you're a bad person and you should feel bad.

the end.

001 Fourteen Months Later.

2007-09-26T01:42:00.000-07:00

Stupidity is the quality or condition of lacking intelligence, as opposed to being merely ignorant or uneducated. This quality can be attributed to an individual or a person's actions, words or beliefs. The term can thus also refer to poor use of judgment or insensitivity to nuances in a person who is otherwise intelligent

Life is stupid.

This profound thought struck me as I was standing at the urinal yesterday watching swirling concentric patterns of piss slowly making its way down the drain.

It’s the great human leveller huh?

I mean everyone’s gotta pee. Most people do it in the shower, but don’t wanna admit it for fear of being ridiculed and hunted down with sharp sticks. And while I’m sure the British tabloids will have a field day – I’m gonna go on record right here and now and say that I pee freely in the shower.

In fact I do it most mornings. It’s one of the greatest feelings in the world (and saves me valuable ‘getting ready’ time in the morning).

But I’m not here to talk about piss.

The term can thus also refer to poor use of judgment or insensitivity to nuances in a person who is otherwise intelligent

Back to the ‘life being stupid’ bit.

Okay – so I’m having a slightly EMO day here, but I think life is profoundly stupid. Sometimes I’m floored by it, how meaningful and glowing it can be at one minute and Kelly Clarkson the next.

This is where I fit in.

My name is Jim. Fourteen months ago I finished telling the world about my life, its various allies and villains and of course a fuckload of shameless product placement.

Watch as I fall from high places! Observe and laugh as I hurt myself repeatedly on sharp pointed objects!! Milk and other beverages will spray from your nostrils as you laugh at me getting hit in the crotch by tables, chairs – even vending machines containing heavily salted snacks.

I’m caught up in the stupidity of it all. From the burly, gyrating tradesmen I see every lunch time, to the angry hot dog vendor who tried to steal my change purse.

Matthis Van Boxel, a crusty old historian of note, states that contention that "stupidity is in fact the foundation of our civilization" and says that no one is intelligent enough to realise how stupid they are. This is not as stupid as it sounds if one includes in the definition of stupidity "unwitting self-destruction, the ability to act against one's best wishes".
Yup. Right here.

Does this make me stupid? I mean stupid as an individual? Like the simple kid who fixes the soda machine!?! I’m sure it does. But this is how I see the world. This is where I start.

Life is meaningful.