I got bills to pay.

I only got charged for button mushrooms when I purchased field mushrooms today.
Kick rocks all the way down to Last Chance on William street tommorow and pay my rent.
Please.

Victor and Hugo,

Those bunglers in crime closely followed by those mischievous chimps, Bangers and Mash.
Which leads me to how I found this album i'm about to prescribe to you lads and ladesses.

First amongst all the Jay Z commotion was born the Grey Album by Dangermouse.
Then spawned from this, was the monstrosity known as the Jaydiohead album by Digi Fresh productions, which mashed Radiohead and the Rocafella together, fuck a competitor whatever.

Then came Jay-Zeezer and the Black and Blue album, which consisted of Weezer's infamous Blue album and Jay-Z's Album Noir facing off in one of those really bad but really good ways, the sort of way that makes listening to The Sweater Song a course in wanting to make you go out and shoot people, as opposed to holding hands with a girl and walking down the street in a festive manner.

Now, due to my obsession with chiptune and all things geek and analogue,
comes Weezer - The 8 Bit Album.
According to the Pterodactyl Collective, the cult responsible for this amazing piece of what the fuck eshay this is on level with the devil brand of ear fuck, they have taken it straight to Super Mario Two. All sorts of floating princesses and egg spitting dinosaur real speak.

The songs on this compilation have mostly been created using original videogame hardware running home-brew software, and vary radically in style, from minimal 'one man and his Game Boy' compositions to 8-bit inspired full band performances.


Cop it here.

Cigars, Coke Zero and Cognac.

While George Harrison's heart gently wept, the dandy lit another cigarette.
No one felt alerted by the presence of the noisy sparrow, it was just another day in the life. The eerily foreboding tone was undertaken on the sparrows wings, as he flew around and around, in an ever decreasing spiral into the darkness.

When we lifted the lid, he was quiet and free once again.

Damn the game if it don't mean nothing.

Flipping the script like a butterfingered pharmacist, the mood swung akin a pendulum.
Fluctuating motives dispersed among the paranoid kangaroo paws.
A moment in time, stuck on pause, slowly released like a wax covered tablet, from it's linear encapsulate.
Then, like ejaculate, explosive motion.

Stop, look, what's that sound, everybody knows what's going down.

Word on the street is, they bit my thesis.

An advisor for the layman and the weekend lay. We watched on as the bricklayer fought the soothsayer about the Western Derby.

Burgers for the bosses, salad calls for tossers, and they all sat around and ate.
Bloodworms and bloodlines that coincide on the front line, the foreground made no sound as the temperature went straight down.
Three hooded minstrels sang the chorus for the tour bus as they faded off into the night.

When I get more cold remedies, I'm making more than plain enemies.



As a side note, the Cordyceps fungus attacks insects of all kinds, controlling their minds and limbs in bouts of psychosis, making it's host climb as high as it can. Once there Cordyceps will grow out of its host and explode spores around the surrounding area, leaving any other insects below to inherit the fate of the previous host.

Sleep all day, sleep all night.

I awake to ninemsn telling me they are making two more episodes of Hey Hey it's Saturday.
Darryl Somers, the JFK of Australian television without the awesome headshot.
I really can't be fucked writing anything about how amazing/retarded/lifeless/entertaining this is going to be so i'm just going to sit and cry in the shower.

Rest in peace Shirley from the classic Channel Nine variety home improvement show, Our House.



Oh yeah, and he was in that band too.

Author, automaton or autistic?

Alphabet alpha males make major mistakes.
Assonance is assumed to be actively applicable in average day to day dilly dally diction decoration.
To avoid the aggressive alliance between mind and matter that an alter ego or alias can obtain,
first one must mark ones mind for manipulation. Outside material manages to orchestrate a chance to corrode what was once considered to be correct conciousness.

Delete the dictomy of deities from the distant future.
A dalek is still a dalek, even with a damn passport.
So pass the port, swill the scotch, viddy the vodka and steal the cider.
Sedation is the only way certain structured symbiotes can stop their silent sedition.
Revolution is not real, we rely on regulated roles to return us to a recycled recipe of reduced respect, retaliation and reckless retorts, leaving us with no reports of rapport, only neglected nitrous oxide newspapers that sing me to sleep with anthems of yesterdays goings on.

And you said I had nothing to say.
I'm still in my underwear, and your still in your armchair.
Who's the chairman when the only board you sit on belongs in the water?
So take me to the river, drop me in, and don't be surprised when what I've summised begins.

How do you like them apples.
Huh?

It's Always Sunny in the Internet.

Mac: This is the perfect opportunity! I'm gonna hang out in his office and pretend I'm the new guy.
Charlie: Uhhh, I don't think that's gonna work, dude.
Mac: Uhhh, have you seen The Secret of My Success?
Charlie: Uhhh, they're gonna catch on to you.
Mac: Uhhhh, yeah, but before they do, I will come up with an idea that'll save the company millions and they'll be forced to promote me!
Charlie: Uhhhhhhhhhhhh, are you sure? How's that movie end, dude?
Mac: Uhhh...I can't remember it. Oh yeah, he bangs that old lady, and then they play that song from the 80's. "Day Bow Bow".
Charlie: What the hell is "Day Bow Bow"?
Mac: [singing Yello's "Oh Yeah"] Day Bow Bow. Chik.
Charlie: Chika-chika.
Mac & Charlie Day Bow Bow. Chik. Chika-chika.

Intentionally left blank.

As I sit on the couch, smelling the deep heat, I feel at peace.
Pieces of my conciousness ooze out into oblivion, leaving not a trace apart from an outline of my own shadow.
Shadows and silouettes of Juliet, leaving Romeo out in the cold, shivering in the rain with a bunch of wilted weeds.
Confide in something as fickle as the Internet, the solace of faux anonimity, the many masks we wear, all worn at the same time,
without a care or a gronks mad dog stare.
The fish swim because they have to, and maybe we will end up back in the water one day.

A sailor went to sea, to see what he could see, and all that he could see, was the bottom of the deep blue sea.
See what I mean?

And we are left waiting outside, with a bunch of weeds in the rain.
But I'm happy, and that's what counts.
I'm just another captain of another ship, looking for another glass of port to sink in.
Hope that this sinks in.

Warp speed negative eight.

There is a house in New Orleans,

The ruin of many a poor boy.
Does anyone get that reference?


You understand?
It's me.
Me and all the others, trying to get away with yesterdays concessions.
They just upped the penalty. The revenue raised will go towards tasers for transits.

Ever heard a real time, real life announcement at a metropolitan train station in Perth?
I have.
They can turn on the speakers that are placed around the station and next to the ticket machine and tell you off for things, such as smoking, pissing and vandalism.
Big fucking woopdi-lah-fucking-dah I can hear you say, scared of getting yelled at by Big Brother?

But did you ever think about how they could just turn the microphone on?
The one that you use to talk to Transperth to let them know the ticket machine is playing up?

Letting it idle incessantly, capturing idle chit chat clandestinely in conjunction with the closed circuit collage montage.
The walls have ears, eyes and arms, and they reach out for clowns in costumes.

Be afraid when you hear the thwap of the Honda.

He knows your full name and your address, if your on Centrelink, if you haven't been paying your bills, if you have a court appearance, and he drives past your house everyday.

Fuck worrying about the Illuminati, climate change, racial tension and the recession, when Postman Pat's lurking the Project with a government blessing.

How's the serenity now?

Ikea sells Cod eggs in a tube.

Apparently it's good on wheat toast and crispbreads.


A young lady saw this hanging from the wall today and put half of the stuff she was going to buy, back down into the bottomless crate she was rifling through.

A fancy phone is only worth the dialogue that you have with other people that communicate with fancy phones.

You can't buy good conversation at the App Store.

I needed an iPhone just so I could work this out. It's just an FBI listening device anyway.

Where are we going?

Use by dates, used by dates, to get another rung.
You rang?
Ring ring ring?
Should'a put a ring on it?
I haven't spat my head and lung butter into the all seeing pie of the internet in a while.
I mean, so what.
I took a fucking holiday from my holiday.
You don't give a shit.
Everyday is a holiday, put the fo'fo away, and skeet shoot a hoe today, etc. etc.
What sort of enlightening experience could I convey to you with me sleeping on a couch for a while, taking the same old drugs and drinking the same old cheap beer that I do when i'm at home, a few towns away.

Maybe this is what I needed to tell you all.

Oscar Wilde is quoted as saying "A poet can survive anything but a misprint".

You know nothing but what you already know, when someone tells you something that changes that dusty lightbulb in your head, you are merely reinforcing facts you already know.
Too bad for you.
You are born with the gift to construct your own reality around what you know to be true. If this truth were to be delayed with a foot pedal or some generic drug, your truth is communicated to others by the feelings of the Holy Communion. You move on up through your gutter junk, your filthy self righteousness, squeezing cheese into jars of Vegemite for Americans, just to spite your undying love of patriotism. The eons of time pass you by like lens flares as you sit at your bus stop, waiting for your number to come up. The driver of the bus is not named Godot.

No one stopped to stare at the scene that was caused.
If you think about all the emphasis on Ikea and the one company that produces all, flat packs your lives into little Legoland facsimiles of each others lives, and provides Swedish food to the obviously uncultured Australian, it gets scary.
The Germans obviously weren't the master race.
And who doesn't find some blonde chick in wooden shoes with a windmill for a house hot.
Is that even Swedish?

Who said if you sit on the fence for too long it breaks and leaves you in the thick of it?
Fuck, now I'm getting Sweden and Switzerland confused.

Double Dutch?

The wars of today are fought by brand allegiance, taxes and media slander.
We will never have another World War, because the Boer War never finished.
People don't even remember the bloodshed of Agincourt.
Places just become memorials for other peoples clouded memories.
Medals just become mementos of other peoples bloodied fallacies.

We didn't start these fucking wars, why should we end them.

It's not your fault the hot dogs don't taste like the photo.

Why I didn't get to see snow.

I decided I wanted to build a snowman.
They had snow falling 3500km's away, so I bailed for a week and a half.

Next thing I know, I ended up on a plane to Melbourne at a moments notice. Packed my bags, had a bacon and egg roll and jumped on at Gate 17. There was a child grabbing at my jacket as I was queuing up to board the plane. For once, I wasn't repulsed by the sight of an infant looking interested in something other than a babies tendency to live vicariously through it's almost autistic outlook on the world.
I actually smiled at the ugly little bastard.
He just wanted a safety pin.



I think I caught the plane at around 1.30pm, downed a few of these and a handful of Valium.
I was sitting next to this Middle Eastern woman, seperated by an empty seat.
She was chanting from arabic cuecards, and when I looked over at her and gave her a smile she retreated back into her palmcards, rhythmically nodding to what I can only assume was the tune of the chant. She didn't want any Valium either. Talk about economy snobbery.

DONNY CAN FUCK HIMSELF.
This will pan out into a logical statement toward the end of this entry. Anyway, Donny is a cabin "leader", or "facist homosexual who wears a wedding ring to counteract any stigma" for Virgin Airlines.

My plane arrived 15 minutes early due to wind or something.

My plan was to surprise a bunch of cunts when I landed and crash at their houses until I could make it up or down or whatever the fuck direction Falls Creek is.



And this is how I spent most of my time waiting. Sitting at random pubs, everyone I knew over there having phones stolen or turned off, drinking Bulmers after Bulmers, until Evestay reckoned it was a feasible option to drop my shit off at his house just outside of the CBD until I made it to the snow. It is situations like this that I slightly contemplate the idea of creating a Facespace. That's when the next pint settles me down and reassures me I don't need it. The females at the next table could accept my friend request, but if you never ask, you never know.

Poke.

The day before I buy my ticket to Mount Beauty, I call Arcyday to check out the sitch on how I get around the joint, what's what, who's who and where gronks keep their bags so I could get myself a snowboard.

Adlay here apparently got his junk out and thought it would be a good idea to wave it in the face of the girl he was staying with, all the while pissing in her makeup case and playing with her mascara.
This girl subsequently made a complaint to the manager of the resort and two old mates lost their jobs for letting Arcyday and Apobay stay at their little sharehouse.

SO I WAS FUCKED. MY ACCOMMADATION WAS FUCKED UP I HAD NO IDEA WHAT I WAS GOING TO DO. I PROMISED MY MOTHER I WOULDN'T GET ARRESTED THIS TIME.
And the lure of Victoria Street was a hard one to avoid.

Now my old mate lives it swank right. Him and his flatmate get free internet and free foxtel. The opiate of the masses for those who can't score the sedatives. The children all end up dead somehow. Old mate lives above some old cougar smackies, who tend to fry sardines alot. Old mate is a vegan. I missed his cooking from back when I couchtripped with him and double hache Rach in North Fitzroy. The only problem was that with all the carrot and celery and potato and eggplant and cous cous, I was left with no real protien. I craved the dead flesh of an animal carelessly slaughtered quite often.



Enter the Six Dollar Feed Bonanza Shack of Port Phillip Arcade.
Everything on the menu is six dollars.
EVERYTHING.
Above is the chicken steaks and fried rice. Imagine a crunchy fillet of Kentucky's finest, double the size of it, then times it by two. Add rice, egg, shredded pork and soy sauce and you have a meal fit for human consumption. Cash only, no split bills. Alot of Connex workers eat there. I didn't get a chance to nick one of their jackets but there is always next time.
Dweebies, dickheads, they all adore this place. They think it's righteous.

This girl moved there a few weeks ago.



I ate crocodile. It was as if they had just given me chicken in X.O chilli sauce, so I got a bit aggro, then I kept eating and it was all like, hang on, they put fish in it as well, now it's a fishy chicken, more fish, more chicken, chickeny fishy meat tofu on rice. That's the shit that fucks up my game yo. If it wasn't crocodile then why would I eat it? I might as well just be like those dudes on It's Always Sunny and eat people from the morgue.



Fuck I enjoy eating weird shit. I wish I had some lamb's tongue and some purple stuff.
I wonder if Painstop would be a good marinade.
I could make a mint.



Jehst made me buy this drink. Heads will know the lyrics.
I hate burdock but the dandelion sweetens it up a touch.
I like to think that it's selling points are three qualities that are reflected in my own self centered, egocentric perception of a collective reality, in pursuance of the goal of a true self image, manifested.

That or I just like the taste.



Rush looks like it's going to be a good season this year. Cops getting shot, cops having sex, cops getting shot.
Amazing.

I read a pamphlet about starting brothels over in Victoria. For 200 dollars you can apply for a High End Escort licence and operate it with two workers from a private residence. The advantage of this is that the working girls and boys can choose their clients and that due to the fact it is a private residence you can claim, wait for it, 100% of your rent, 100% of your taxis and transportation, 100% of your S&M gear and 50% of your makeup back on tax.

Any takers?



Impair your ability to think, talk or walk, you're wack and it's all your fault.



Me and old mates were scoping the front of this exhibition trying to find a way around the cash money issue. I'd just beaten Arcyday at chess down at Bar E55, and gotten cockblocked by some hipstur from the amazing girl with homadez pouring beer. I felt down on my luck and kept on going hard at the pokies at Clocks on Flinders. After some proton pills and a few more jugs I was contemplating wading through the wishing pond for change until i spied these princesses from afar. And after a bit of banter and such, some cheecky compliments and brazen sexual innuendo, they offered to give us their tickets. I took a photo of a Dali sketch and left after his short films. Disney massacared what could of been an amazing visual exercise for the mind and left me thinking I was watching the cutting room floor scraps of Hercules.
So bitter was I after this, I ended up getting myself a discount on a keyring.



This guys mother made me a burger in South Melbourne.
What title would his mother have then?
She couldn't be the queen, that would be all weird and shit.
Dame? Lady?
Grey Poupon?



I spent a bit of time catching up with people I had lost contact with over the years.
This occured on Johnston Street.
This involved Uno, you know?, Uno?, Murder in the Dark, my filters and papers getting greased on the regular, salami pizza and Melbourne Bitter.



The kids graduated to kings in a matter of moments.

On the night before I left I clashed heads with a character who seemed familiar in Northcote, and after a few beers it was evident he used to live in Maylands around the corner from me and snitched on my good self after I got a bit too enthusiastic with my behaviour at a certain Perth weeknight drinking locale.
He apologised, shook my hand and we continued to drink.
Onya Bryan.

I really can't be fucked with this so I'm going to wrap it up now.
Although there is much more to type about to influence your Tourism Australia potential with all these Rudd sponsored journeys, i'm going to finish my story about FUCKING DONNY THE STUPID CUNT AND THEN GO WATCH SOME SHITTY YOUTUBE STREAM CRIME SHOWS OR SOMETHING.



RUDEST CUNT I HAVE EVER MET. HIS MATE WAS SOME LIKE, 55 YEAR OLD LADY, I THOUGHT THEY BANNED ALL THAT SORT OF AGE GROUP BECAUSE IT DIDN'T SELL WELL TO THE YOUNG JETSETTERS OF OUR GENERATION? ANYWAY THE FUCKING BASTARD PURPOSELY IGNORED MY REQUESTS FOR FOOD AND BEVERAGE. I HAD ONLY HAD 2 HOURS SLEEP BEFORE THIS FLIGHT AND I NEEDED FOOD.



THIS WAS AT 7AM WAITING FOR THE TRAM TO GO TO THE SKYBUS, I HAD NOTHING LEFT TO THROW UP AND DONNY THE FUCKING NAZI WAS DENYING YM THE HOT BREAKFAST.
I had even made sure I had withdrawn 50 dollars in order to obtain Foxtel and copious amounts of overpriced food and drink. Yet Donny, who had been Cabin Leader or whatever the fuck on my flight there, was now taking his fucking time serving myself. AND I WAS SITTING IN THE AISLE IN ROW FUCKING FIVE. THATS PRACTICALLY IN THE FUCKING COCKPIT.
It took half an hour to get my opiate screen on. Forty five minutes to get some shitty service station wrap, some off nuts and a Sprite. And when I wanted a noodle cup, he made out like it was such an effort to go to the back of the plane and get one.

So I tried to take a photo of him to flame him on the internet. Apparently the old duck snitched on me to him, but due to the glory of Foxtel headsets being the wonderful anti-social self serving devices they are, all I managed to make out was "I DONT THINK YOUR ALLOWED TO DO THAT WITHOUT PERMISSION", but not in a stern, i'm talking to you way.
In like a, two faced, hectic snide, snakey, acid tongued witch of eastwick way.
Donny decided to throwdown.
"MY COWORKER HAS INSINUATED YOU HAVE BEEN TAKING PHOTOS OF ME!?"
"I've never flown on a plane before. I took a photo of the plane."
"Oh.. that's.. ok then."

IN YOUR FACE FUCKARSE I WAS ON YOUR PLANE A WEEK AGO.
Fucking reminds me alot of alot of people I know.
You know who you are fuckarses. I ain't wasting no time on Donny's.
I definately need to go travel to some shitty cultural hubs more often.
Like the prisons they build and call housing commissions.


I wonder what GZA's going to be like in September.
I'll remember more about something else that happened or explain something else another time, my back hurts, I need a cigarette and a Maybach.

It's my birthday in an hour and fifteen minutes.

A tissue, a tissue, we all fall down.

Im still not immunised for Hepatitis B.
AND I DON'T THINK IM GOING TO NEED TAMIFLU.