My wife and I dipped our collective family jewels – figuratively speaking – in the running river that is the housing market again this week. We figured with all this talk of a recession it might be a good time to buy. Fuck were we wrong.
NZ might now officially be in a recession but I don’t think anyone has told homeowners trying to flog off their properties at the same over inflated price they bought it for. This was always going to happen of course. Prices got so crazy a few years ago that we all knew as soon as the arse dropped out of the housing market that there would be tears before bedtime. One house we made an offer on has been on the market for months. The vendor declined our offer – which was very reasonable given the current climate - because he’s holding out for 40k more. Good luck with that mate, hope you’re happy to wait a few months more.
One thing that hasn’t changed is absolute amateur behaviour of the people posing as real estate agents. Once upon a time, people like my mother, the stay at home mums of my generation, ended up selling Tupperware and Avon as a means to an end. These days the very same type of people sell houses - the product might have changed but the ‘gagging for your dollar’ way of going about it hasn’t. The tendering process of buying a house is supposed to be a confidential one, where only the real estate agent and the vendor gets to see all the offers on the table. Well our stay at home mum pretty much told us what our competitors were offering as a means to get us to offer more, which of course would be in her best interest too because she gets a bigger cut of the wedge.
It’s like when you go to a recruitment agency and the consultant makes like you’re her new best friend and talks you up as being perfect for a vacancy she has. It’s easy to get sucked in by the show of false sentiment and think that she’s on your side and that any day now the two of you will be sharing long, warm showers together. It’s a great feeling but guess what? She isn’t. A fact that dawns on you a few days into the job from hell that sat open on the same consultant’s books for months. To her you’re just a four figure payout and a set of test results.
I remember going to this new agency this one time and after going through all the standard typing, Word and Excel tests had to sit through another two hours worth of psychometric testing. After about half an hour I’d had enough and simply ticked ‘A’ on every multi choice question from that point on. My consultant was somewhat confused when reviewing my ‘interesting’ results until I pointed out – rather smugly I might add – that I had merely answered ‘A’ 327 times in a row. She made some disparaging comment about how my results couldn’t possibly accurately reflect my potential to a prospective employer given that I had chosen the first option on every question. To which I replied something along the lines of ‘well if the job was as boring and as useless as your testing I wouldn’t want to work there anyway’.
I never did hear back from that agency now I come to think of it.
It didn’t take China long to get back onto everyone’s shit list did it? Just when they had hoped we’d forgotten about all the civil rights violations, the whole Tibet thing, Engrish and badly made McDonalds Happy Meal toys that only last two or three goes, comes the whole milk powder scandal. Turns out the guys who make the most milk powder in China knew about the problem but did not disclose it publicly for at least a month throughout August, whilst Beijing hosted the Olympics. Fair enough, no one likes a kill joy after all but this was hardly a ‘we’ve run out of paper plates’ or ‘someone’s double dipped the tomato sauce’ type of party faux pas. No this was more a ‘someone’s pissed in the punch’ type of cock-up.
Still, it could be worse. Like the couple having a quickie on the train tracks who got run over by a freight train in South Africa last week. Apparently its quite a frequent event in the part of town that it happened – for people to rut on the tracks – because the working girls often take their clients their for a romantic root amongst the passing 3000 tons of metal. Gets me moist just thinking about it actually. The funny thing was that the driver saw the two and sounded his horn several times but yet they didn’t move? Now that’s what I call getting your moneys worth. Put’s a whole new spin on the term ‘horny’ doesn’t it?
Apparently the condom the guy was wearing was found still on his chopper, despite the fact that he was found in pieces. Now there’s an advertising slogan in that somewhere….
Friday, September 26, 2008
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Algebra + Economics = Rubber Fist In Anus
Funny isn’t it, that when the price of petrol rockets up it’s always because of just the one reason, but yet there are thousands of reasons offered as to why it never drops in price just as quickly. Dang, that’s whack.
It’s a bit like getting money out of the IRD when it’s owed to you. They purposely try and bore you into submission by having you fill out a huge mountain of paper based bureaucracy, in triplicate, in the hope that you’ll get pissed off and forget about it. But when the role is reversed and you owe them money then shit gets real simple; pay up or we kill you. Geez even the mafia are discreet about the ramifications of not paying what is owed by the time it’s owed.
I was once overpaid by Income Support back in the day when my life revolved around reading the morning paper cover to cover just in time to do the same with the evening paper. By then it was all old news so I often wonder why I bothered but hey, what else was I going to do? I was unemployed for all of a month after I left college and in between reading the papers, masturbating my brains out and coming up with funny voices so as to ring up the talkback and pretend I was someone I wasn’t in order to pass off my extremist views on pressing social issues like the use of apostrophes in public signage, I collected the dole for a short period.
The government gave me a $110 in the hand each week, no questions asked. I had bugger all rent to pay because I was still living with the old man. Man I was living the dream. Well, not really, but I did buy a lot of comics with what I had left over after paying my rent and buying my papers. Life didn’t get any better than that.
Then I got a job and forgot to cancel my dole the first week I was working and subsequently got overpaid. Seeing as I was now a high roller, earning $12 an hour at Hallensteins I decided to play hardball when they rung me to tell me I owed them and arranged repayments of $2 a week. Fuck that told them – when you mess with bull, you get the horns.
I paid back all of it bar about $4. I couldn’t be arsed walking down the road to the grotty welfare office to pay the money so I never did. They kept ringing and I kept ignoring them because I was hardcore. Unbeknownst to me they passed the massive debt of mine onto Baycorp and that was the end of my credit rating for six long years. Four bucks for crying out loud! It probably cost more for the letter and envelope they sent me the debt collection notice on! But I blame myself. Not for the first time I had failed to heed dear old Grandma Eve’s advice when she always said ‘Smarty gave a party and no-one came’.
Maybe that’s the reason I hate game shows. I don’t know about you cats but I take no delight in watching someone win free money on TV. In fact quite the opposite, I would like to see a game show where they take money off you – IRD style - if you don’t get the question right. Now that would make for interesting viewing. Certainly better than the NZ version of Who Wants To Be A Millionaire where they seem to ask extraordinary hard questions like ‘How do you spell RSVP?’.
See money management is not something they ever taught me at school. They spent an exorbitant amount of time trying to teach me how to math with letters – something that no prick ever used after they left school – but not essential life skills like how to avoid having the financial equivalent of a rubber fist shoved up your jacksee. Economics seemed like a good place to have learnt that shit but I did it for two years and I can’t remember what the hell I did there the entire time, other than take the piss out of Mr Moriaty, an intelligent yet small man who didn’t like me or my wingman, Coops.
Of course we didn’t help matters by doing things like placing the duster just out of reach – even if he jumped – atop the blackboard before the start of each lesson, or making outrageous claims that just couldn’t be left unchallenged like that it was we that had invented the question mark. He disliked Coops particularly, but that was probably because Coops countered everything he said with a very open ended, but insightful “But what’s the point?”
It was of course a rhetorical question. There is no point of learning economics because the Arabs own and run everything and Asia consumes everything. Lesson over. That’s why the price of petrol goes up like a rubber fist up the chocolate starfish, but never down.
It’s a bit like getting money out of the IRD when it’s owed to you. They purposely try and bore you into submission by having you fill out a huge mountain of paper based bureaucracy, in triplicate, in the hope that you’ll get pissed off and forget about it. But when the role is reversed and you owe them money then shit gets real simple; pay up or we kill you. Geez even the mafia are discreet about the ramifications of not paying what is owed by the time it’s owed.
I was once overpaid by Income Support back in the day when my life revolved around reading the morning paper cover to cover just in time to do the same with the evening paper. By then it was all old news so I often wonder why I bothered but hey, what else was I going to do? I was unemployed for all of a month after I left college and in between reading the papers, masturbating my brains out and coming up with funny voices so as to ring up the talkback and pretend I was someone I wasn’t in order to pass off my extremist views on pressing social issues like the use of apostrophes in public signage, I collected the dole for a short period.
The government gave me a $110 in the hand each week, no questions asked. I had bugger all rent to pay because I was still living with the old man. Man I was living the dream. Well, not really, but I did buy a lot of comics with what I had left over after paying my rent and buying my papers. Life didn’t get any better than that.
Then I got a job and forgot to cancel my dole the first week I was working and subsequently got overpaid. Seeing as I was now a high roller, earning $12 an hour at Hallensteins I decided to play hardball when they rung me to tell me I owed them and arranged repayments of $2 a week. Fuck that told them – when you mess with bull, you get the horns.
I paid back all of it bar about $4. I couldn’t be arsed walking down the road to the grotty welfare office to pay the money so I never did. They kept ringing and I kept ignoring them because I was hardcore. Unbeknownst to me they passed the massive debt of mine onto Baycorp and that was the end of my credit rating for six long years. Four bucks for crying out loud! It probably cost more for the letter and envelope they sent me the debt collection notice on! But I blame myself. Not for the first time I had failed to heed dear old Grandma Eve’s advice when she always said ‘Smarty gave a party and no-one came’.
Maybe that’s the reason I hate game shows. I don’t know about you cats but I take no delight in watching someone win free money on TV. In fact quite the opposite, I would like to see a game show where they take money off you – IRD style - if you don’t get the question right. Now that would make for interesting viewing. Certainly better than the NZ version of Who Wants To Be A Millionaire where they seem to ask extraordinary hard questions like ‘How do you spell RSVP?’.
See money management is not something they ever taught me at school. They spent an exorbitant amount of time trying to teach me how to math with letters – something that no prick ever used after they left school – but not essential life skills like how to avoid having the financial equivalent of a rubber fist shoved up your jacksee. Economics seemed like a good place to have learnt that shit but I did it for two years and I can’t remember what the hell I did there the entire time, other than take the piss out of Mr Moriaty, an intelligent yet small man who didn’t like me or my wingman, Coops.
Of course we didn’t help matters by doing things like placing the duster just out of reach – even if he jumped – atop the blackboard before the start of each lesson, or making outrageous claims that just couldn’t be left unchallenged like that it was we that had invented the question mark. He disliked Coops particularly, but that was probably because Coops countered everything he said with a very open ended, but insightful “But what’s the point?”
It was of course a rhetorical question. There is no point of learning economics because the Arabs own and run everything and Asia consumes everything. Lesson over. That’s why the price of petrol goes up like a rubber fist up the chocolate starfish, but never down.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Helicopters and Wheelchairs
My god, aren’t helicopters magnificent? Now that’s usually only a call I’d make when describing two horses mating or voluptuous young breasts, but helicopters are right up there in terms of choiceness.
Choppers - as we ex-army types refer to them - could quite possibly be the best invention ever. Tanks would be a close second and fighter planes third, but choppers are the business. They’ve been using them every day at my place of work all this week which has pretty much meant an eight hour woody for me and Dougs each and every day.
Of course we had a lot of choppers in Nam, the place was full of them. There was so many that Lancey once woke up in the morning - after a night out looking for five dollar boom boom - in bed with one. Only our side had them, the Vietcong never did which was a good thing because it’s a little known fact that Asians don’t like heights or flying and that’s the reason why most of them are shorter than your average Caucasian. We loved riding in the choppers and there’s nothing quite exhilarating as taking a whizz from a chopper as it rips across the tree tops I can tell you. That's what really caused the deforestation in Nam, not that Agent Orange shit.
Have you been watching the Paralympics in China? Probably not, because most of the Western media packed up when the able bodied athletes did and got the hell out of Dodge. Admittedly I haven’t watched much but only because I can’t help but see the funny side of the Paralympics – which is terrible I know - but hey, at least I’m watching!
Take for instance the Woman’s 200 metres final. The leader arsed it about 20 metres from the end and given that she had a prosthetic leg fell in such a way that she spread herself across two lanes and scuttled the second place getter too. Third and fourth – a NZ girl – who thought they were long gone 20 metres from the end eventually finished in the medals! If that wasn’t mildly amusing (and it was) then the 5000 metres wheelchair race featured a 6 chair pile up on the home straight. Only five athletes finished the race and the medals were given out before the tournament committee decided to scrap the race and do it again later in the week.
Now a couple of questions remain unanswered regarding that balls up; Firstly those wheelchairs are like those all-terrain-take-up-the-whole-damn-footpath baby buggies that posh pricks buy and are almost virtually impossible to roll. So how did the first chick to crash get it oh so horribly wrong? Secondly if this happened in an able bodied cycle race would they have scratched the result and raced it again? No. It would have been oh dear, how sad, stiff shit.
And just when you thought it couldn’t get any worse than being the cause of the biggest wheelchair pile up since Auschwitz, the girl who eventually got disqualified (even from the rerun) because she fell in the path of everybody else gets penalised twice – once for falling and twice for having no legs and thus being unable to roll anywhere but in the way of the chasing peloton!
I’ll tell you who should be disabled, at least financially, are those rich pricks who run finance companies into the ground and walk away with their assets untouched. Man that’s just not right in my book. I was reading about the guy who was in charge of Lombard Finance, a failed company that owes its investors $127 million. This guy pulled down a salary of $400,000 a year. How the hell do you spend that much money let alone earn it? This guy didn’t spend his on luxury cars, he didn’t need to, they were part of his remuneration package – he got a new one every year!
I think the law needs to be changed so guys like this – who live blatant extravagant lifestyles before and after their companies collapse – should be accountable right up till the day every investor gets every cent back and if that takes years then so be it. He can start by cashing in on everything he bought with their money in the first place.
After all, if I went and took the prize money we’ve gathered for the winner of the Help Desk Massive Pool Comp and put it on some horse down at the TAB with long odds and lost, who should get indiscriminately pushed down four flights of stairs by assailant unknown; me or the nag?
Choppers - as we ex-army types refer to them - could quite possibly be the best invention ever. Tanks would be a close second and fighter planes third, but choppers are the business. They’ve been using them every day at my place of work all this week which has pretty much meant an eight hour woody for me and Dougs each and every day.
Of course we had a lot of choppers in Nam, the place was full of them. There was so many that Lancey once woke up in the morning - after a night out looking for five dollar boom boom - in bed with one. Only our side had them, the Vietcong never did which was a good thing because it’s a little known fact that Asians don’t like heights or flying and that’s the reason why most of them are shorter than your average Caucasian. We loved riding in the choppers and there’s nothing quite exhilarating as taking a whizz from a chopper as it rips across the tree tops I can tell you. That's what really caused the deforestation in Nam, not that Agent Orange shit.
Have you been watching the Paralympics in China? Probably not, because most of the Western media packed up when the able bodied athletes did and got the hell out of Dodge. Admittedly I haven’t watched much but only because I can’t help but see the funny side of the Paralympics – which is terrible I know - but hey, at least I’m watching!
Take for instance the Woman’s 200 metres final. The leader arsed it about 20 metres from the end and given that she had a prosthetic leg fell in such a way that she spread herself across two lanes and scuttled the second place getter too. Third and fourth – a NZ girl – who thought they were long gone 20 metres from the end eventually finished in the medals! If that wasn’t mildly amusing (and it was) then the 5000 metres wheelchair race featured a 6 chair pile up on the home straight. Only five athletes finished the race and the medals were given out before the tournament committee decided to scrap the race and do it again later in the week.
Now a couple of questions remain unanswered regarding that balls up; Firstly those wheelchairs are like those all-terrain-take-up-the-whole-damn-footpath baby buggies that posh pricks buy and are almost virtually impossible to roll. So how did the first chick to crash get it oh so horribly wrong? Secondly if this happened in an able bodied cycle race would they have scratched the result and raced it again? No. It would have been oh dear, how sad, stiff shit.
And just when you thought it couldn’t get any worse than being the cause of the biggest wheelchair pile up since Auschwitz, the girl who eventually got disqualified (even from the rerun) because she fell in the path of everybody else gets penalised twice – once for falling and twice for having no legs and thus being unable to roll anywhere but in the way of the chasing peloton!
I’ll tell you who should be disabled, at least financially, are those rich pricks who run finance companies into the ground and walk away with their assets untouched. Man that’s just not right in my book. I was reading about the guy who was in charge of Lombard Finance, a failed company that owes its investors $127 million. This guy pulled down a salary of $400,000 a year. How the hell do you spend that much money let alone earn it? This guy didn’t spend his on luxury cars, he didn’t need to, they were part of his remuneration package – he got a new one every year!
I think the law needs to be changed so guys like this – who live blatant extravagant lifestyles before and after their companies collapse – should be accountable right up till the day every investor gets every cent back and if that takes years then so be it. He can start by cashing in on everything he bought with their money in the first place.
After all, if I went and took the prize money we’ve gathered for the winner of the Help Desk Massive Pool Comp and put it on some horse down at the TAB with long odds and lost, who should get indiscriminately pushed down four flights of stairs by assailant unknown; me or the nag?
Monday, September 8, 2008
Weetbix, Telethon and Titties.
Whoever said that fibre was good for you clearly hadn’t eaten four weetbix a day, every day, for breakfast when they made that statement.
I have - and my sphincter is not thanking me for it. I told my mate at work about it the other day and he told me that he felt sorry for my toilet. Feel no pity for the carzie my friends, it is porcelain after all and quite frankly is built for this shit, literally. Unfortunately the soft pink tissue that makes up the rim of my anus is not. Infact, the term ‘ropeburn’ springs to mind.
Pink toilet paper never really caught on did it? No one minded having it on the roll so much I think, it was more the case that used pink toilet paper shows up a lot more easily when washed out to see than white. That aspect of it never really caught on at all the popular swim beaches that’s for sure.
Now I’ve been chowing down on NZs favourite breakfast – and how the fuck do they know, have they asked everybody? – on account of it’s Stat Attack trading card time again and as readers of this blog know, or the owners of kids can attest, they’re like gold up and down the playgrounds of Aotearoa. Honestly, the things I do for that boy of mine. My old man would never have been so forthcoming. He would have told me to stop being a bloody poof over some poofy cards and given me ten lashings across the bare buttocks with his leather belt just for good measure.
Perhaps that’s one of the reasons I continued to wet my bed well into my teens. It only finally stopped the day I landed in ‘Nam. You don’t dare wet your bed whilst in ‘Nam. Charlie can smell Caucasian urine a mile away, even closer if you ate asparagus the night before. And don’t even think about taking a dump whilst on patrol. You either hold that turtle head in till you get back to the firebase or you eat it whilst it’s warm. For many years even after I returned to civilisation I continued to drink my own whizz, not because I had to but just because I liked the taste. War does that to a man.
WeetBix have always been associated with trading cards. Remember how every pack back in the day had a couple from some series that you never ever had the chance of completing. By the time you got through the box and bought another, the 30 card set of World War Two fighter planes that you were really gagging to complete had long gone and you were forced into starting on some gay set of trains, castles or seabirds. I don’t think there actually ever was a complete set of World War Two fighter planes; it was all a ruse created to disappoint heterosexual boys.
Another blast from the past is making its way back in 2009 - Telethon! How good was Telethon aye? 48 hours of crazy, wacky, hi-jinks perpetuated by New Zealand’s own B, C and D grade celebrities mixed in with a few nobodies from overseas from shows you never really watched anyway. Throw in hourly performances from the local line dancing troupe, crochet club and that mute juggler from Cuba Mall and you really had the precursor to the TV show that has become NZ Has Got Talent.
If you were really lucky you got to stay up late and watch the really risqué stuff that happened when all those celebrities stopped drinking coffee to stay awake and turned to the top shelf booze to keep them ‘spontaneous’. It was only then that they’d shave off each others moustaches and play that lame game where you pass the piece of fruit around the room using your neck cause it made it look like you were giving each other a hicky. Man that was some wacky backy stuff wasn’t it?! Whew, good times.
Let’s face it, everything between the first and last hour of every Telethon was shit and its not going to hold up to today’s standard of entertainment unless it starts, continues and finishes with one main ingredient; Titties. Lots of them, preferably naked but I think most of us will take what we can get on whomever they can get. Actually titties are so good that I’m genuinely surprised we’re having a Telethon because I think they could quite possibly cure the cancer they’re going to try and raise money for.
This thought occurred to me the other day when far from there being thousands out in Auckland protesting the Boobs on Bikes parade, there were actually thousands out supporting it, taking every vantage point possible and all of them getting more of an eyeful than I ever did when I snuck a peak at the Page 3 girl in the Sunday paper Dad always used to buy along with a loaf of unsliced fresh bread.
Now if only Weetbix did a Tittie Attack series of collector’s cards……
I have - and my sphincter is not thanking me for it. I told my mate at work about it the other day and he told me that he felt sorry for my toilet. Feel no pity for the carzie my friends, it is porcelain after all and quite frankly is built for this shit, literally. Unfortunately the soft pink tissue that makes up the rim of my anus is not. Infact, the term ‘ropeburn’ springs to mind.
Pink toilet paper never really caught on did it? No one minded having it on the roll so much I think, it was more the case that used pink toilet paper shows up a lot more easily when washed out to see than white. That aspect of it never really caught on at all the popular swim beaches that’s for sure.
Now I’ve been chowing down on NZs favourite breakfast – and how the fuck do they know, have they asked everybody? – on account of it’s Stat Attack trading card time again and as readers of this blog know, or the owners of kids can attest, they’re like gold up and down the playgrounds of Aotearoa. Honestly, the things I do for that boy of mine. My old man would never have been so forthcoming. He would have told me to stop being a bloody poof over some poofy cards and given me ten lashings across the bare buttocks with his leather belt just for good measure.
Perhaps that’s one of the reasons I continued to wet my bed well into my teens. It only finally stopped the day I landed in ‘Nam. You don’t dare wet your bed whilst in ‘Nam. Charlie can smell Caucasian urine a mile away, even closer if you ate asparagus the night before. And don’t even think about taking a dump whilst on patrol. You either hold that turtle head in till you get back to the firebase or you eat it whilst it’s warm. For many years even after I returned to civilisation I continued to drink my own whizz, not because I had to but just because I liked the taste. War does that to a man.
WeetBix have always been associated with trading cards. Remember how every pack back in the day had a couple from some series that you never ever had the chance of completing. By the time you got through the box and bought another, the 30 card set of World War Two fighter planes that you were really gagging to complete had long gone and you were forced into starting on some gay set of trains, castles or seabirds. I don’t think there actually ever was a complete set of World War Two fighter planes; it was all a ruse created to disappoint heterosexual boys.
Another blast from the past is making its way back in 2009 - Telethon! How good was Telethon aye? 48 hours of crazy, wacky, hi-jinks perpetuated by New Zealand’s own B, C and D grade celebrities mixed in with a few nobodies from overseas from shows you never really watched anyway. Throw in hourly performances from the local line dancing troupe, crochet club and that mute juggler from Cuba Mall and you really had the precursor to the TV show that has become NZ Has Got Talent.
If you were really lucky you got to stay up late and watch the really risqué stuff that happened when all those celebrities stopped drinking coffee to stay awake and turned to the top shelf booze to keep them ‘spontaneous’. It was only then that they’d shave off each others moustaches and play that lame game where you pass the piece of fruit around the room using your neck cause it made it look like you were giving each other a hicky. Man that was some wacky backy stuff wasn’t it?! Whew, good times.
Let’s face it, everything between the first and last hour of every Telethon was shit and its not going to hold up to today’s standard of entertainment unless it starts, continues and finishes with one main ingredient; Titties. Lots of them, preferably naked but I think most of us will take what we can get on whomever they can get. Actually titties are so good that I’m genuinely surprised we’re having a Telethon because I think they could quite possibly cure the cancer they’re going to try and raise money for.
This thought occurred to me the other day when far from there being thousands out in Auckland protesting the Boobs on Bikes parade, there were actually thousands out supporting it, taking every vantage point possible and all of them getting more of an eyeful than I ever did when I snuck a peak at the Page 3 girl in the Sunday paper Dad always used to buy along with a loaf of unsliced fresh bread.
Now if only Weetbix did a Tittie Attack series of collector’s cards……
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Barack Bin Laden?
Man I can’t wait for the general election in October when I can finally vote for Barack Obama. Oh yeah, I feel so black right now.
What? He’s running for the American Presidency and not the New Zealand Prime Ministerial ship? So I won’t be able to vote for him? Well you could’ve fooled me because he’s on the bloody news every night; if not in person then it’s some Gaylord waxing on how he’s the first black Ron Jeremy and from his sack will flow the freedom seed. Or something to that affect
I can understand it must be a big deal if you live in America and give a shit, but we don’t, on both counts. But this is what happens when news programmes here in New Zealand staff themselves with lazy pricks who, rather than go out and find real stories, fill their bulletins with crap from the overseas networks so that they can spend more time at home beating up their girlfriends. Honestly, I think I got more of an education back in the day watching Zippy and Bungle pack a sad with each other.
Did you ever wonder why it was that Bungle always wrapped a towel around his waist to after a shower and wore jammies to bed, but yet walked around in the buff the rest of time? I didn’t at the time because I was only about eight, but now I do and I’m thinking he must have had a stiffy the whole time. Why else would he have had the towel on? Hey – we’ve all been there, been a little too attentive with the soap whilst washing a certain part of the anatomy and then tried to explain it away when the missus catches you as ‘I was just washing it…’.
The same thing happens with Formula One racing highlights. Ever since Formula One coverage got bought out by Sky and not TVNZ, we’ve had the English highlights package on the network news which is always about Lewis Hamilton, the UKs answer to Barack Obama, only he does car, not Presidential races. Admittedly he’s won a few races over the two seasons he’s been competing, so as far as the Poms are concerned its game over, call the competition off, there’s only one man in it. The fuck there is.
John Key, National leader, born and raised in middle class New Zealand and quite possibly whiter than the underside of my scrotum compared himself to Barack Obama this week. I never knew that John Keys smoked marijuana? How else would you come up with that kind of self comparison? It would have been more laughable if we weren’t all sniggering at that jammy bugger Winston Peters finally getting a little dose of karma up the jacksie. Winston reminds me of a guy I used to work with, who found shit hilarious when he was dishing it out but couldn’t handle the jandal when he had the piss taken out of him. I can’t stand guys like that.
That said though, credit where credit is due, Winston Peters is a survivor. Sgt Zeke Anderson was a survivor. Survivors are winners. He was very good at it but it helped that he had a certain amount of natural ability. If there was one thing he didn’t like it was dopers, because if you were a doper you were getting high and not listening to him which meant you were going to get him killed. And he wasn’t going to let that happen. A lot of good men died in Vietnam but Sgt Zeke Anderson was not one of them. He was a fictional character in a TV series, but I served with a lot of men like him.
A figure once put as high as 23% of Americans believe Barack Obama is Muslim and therefore – following the six degrees of separation rule – somehow tied to Al Qaeda. Down in the redneck states, the ones who put sexy in dyslexia, there is a percentage who thinks that ‘Obama’ and ‘Osama’ are just a little too close for their liking. And I can understand where they’re coming from too, a kid in my class at school was named Hitler Tampon and he was always getting grief about his name.
Funny then, what with all this kerfuffle that Barack would choose a running mate with a last name that does little to ease the situation. Thousands of people waving ‘Barack Biden’ placards are just going to piss off the illiterate voters of America more who are probably reading the signs as ‘Barack Bin Laden’.
What? He’s running for the American Presidency and not the New Zealand Prime Ministerial ship? So I won’t be able to vote for him? Well you could’ve fooled me because he’s on the bloody news every night; if not in person then it’s some Gaylord waxing on how he’s the first black Ron Jeremy and from his sack will flow the freedom seed. Or something to that affect
I can understand it must be a big deal if you live in America and give a shit, but we don’t, on both counts. But this is what happens when news programmes here in New Zealand staff themselves with lazy pricks who, rather than go out and find real stories, fill their bulletins with crap from the overseas networks so that they can spend more time at home beating up their girlfriends. Honestly, I think I got more of an education back in the day watching Zippy and Bungle pack a sad with each other.
Did you ever wonder why it was that Bungle always wrapped a towel around his waist to after a shower and wore jammies to bed, but yet walked around in the buff the rest of time? I didn’t at the time because I was only about eight, but now I do and I’m thinking he must have had a stiffy the whole time. Why else would he have had the towel on? Hey – we’ve all been there, been a little too attentive with the soap whilst washing a certain part of the anatomy and then tried to explain it away when the missus catches you as ‘I was just washing it…’.
The same thing happens with Formula One racing highlights. Ever since Formula One coverage got bought out by Sky and not TVNZ, we’ve had the English highlights package on the network news which is always about Lewis Hamilton, the UKs answer to Barack Obama, only he does car, not Presidential races. Admittedly he’s won a few races over the two seasons he’s been competing, so as far as the Poms are concerned its game over, call the competition off, there’s only one man in it. The fuck there is.
John Key, National leader, born and raised in middle class New Zealand and quite possibly whiter than the underside of my scrotum compared himself to Barack Obama this week. I never knew that John Keys smoked marijuana? How else would you come up with that kind of self comparison? It would have been more laughable if we weren’t all sniggering at that jammy bugger Winston Peters finally getting a little dose of karma up the jacksie. Winston reminds me of a guy I used to work with, who found shit hilarious when he was dishing it out but couldn’t handle the jandal when he had the piss taken out of him. I can’t stand guys like that.
That said though, credit where credit is due, Winston Peters is a survivor. Sgt Zeke Anderson was a survivor. Survivors are winners. He was very good at it but it helped that he had a certain amount of natural ability. If there was one thing he didn’t like it was dopers, because if you were a doper you were getting high and not listening to him which meant you were going to get him killed. And he wasn’t going to let that happen. A lot of good men died in Vietnam but Sgt Zeke Anderson was not one of them. He was a fictional character in a TV series, but I served with a lot of men like him.
A figure once put as high as 23% of Americans believe Barack Obama is Muslim and therefore – following the six degrees of separation rule – somehow tied to Al Qaeda. Down in the redneck states, the ones who put sexy in dyslexia, there is a percentage who thinks that ‘Obama’ and ‘Osama’ are just a little too close for their liking. And I can understand where they’re coming from too, a kid in my class at school was named Hitler Tampon and he was always getting grief about his name.
Funny then, what with all this kerfuffle that Barack would choose a running mate with a last name that does little to ease the situation. Thousands of people waving ‘Barack Biden’ placards are just going to piss off the illiterate voters of America more who are probably reading the signs as ‘Barack Bin Laden’.
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