Saturday, February 27, 2010


Do the right thing like Ikespay Eelay.

Politician, politician, politician.

Thursday, February 25, 2010

Fuck Perth literary wankers.

This is a transcript from when I tried to submit work to a, lets say, nameless webzine based in Perth. I need a manager, because I can't deal WITH FUCKING NOBODIES WHO HAVEN'T EVEN LIVED THEIR WORK.

I digress, and now begin the transcript.
P.S The names have been changed to protect, well, fuck them. They know who they are. THEY EVEN STARTED WRITING LIKE ME AFTER I SHOWED THEM MY WORK.

Email One
Civilization isn't just a computer game.
The bright lights of big cities blinding anything but your soul. Petula Clark would have squinted at you, then asked for some spare change. The parts we play, the drone of the drones of our hummingbird idealism, all contribute to our city. The putrid mess of glassings, gang violence, bikie controlled tattoo parlours and single fathers.
Do you ever think about why we group together?
The people you see, who know people you've seen, who've been places you will never see.
The essence of the guilty only resonates in the people who judge.

Everyone is a celebrity these days. Look at your Facebook civilization. Built from the ground up.
There will be a generation of children who could be taught that the Internet has been around forever.
But to be civilized you have to abide by rules, regulations, recent events and retaliate when pushed into the corner.
Pushing packets on the corner?
It's a sight I've seen too many times, the crumbs of society left to rot, every Friday the fried heads get fried by tasers.
Civilization's foundation is on shaky ground. We have built it on handshakes and money. Old money, new money, money printed on paper, papyrus scrolls with value scrawled on it by a machine.
One day, Anarchy will come.
Come on, for fucks sake.
Class War.
Sustained, move to strike.
The whole idea of civilization is built on class. Class exists. It might not be the caste system we observe overseas, but it still raises its Skull and Bones flag every time a favour is needed.
Unions prove this.
Classroom antics in primary school. Remember the kid you picked on? The one you thought would be serving your selfish spawn McZingers?
Think about his family.
His dad might know someone, who knew someone else, who was the Bursar at an elite school.
All of a sudden, that kid is smiling the loudest.
Civilizations are built to self destruct. If there was no need to make money from building things your patriotism blew up in the first place, there would be no need to see the space left in your nepotism. There are many ways you could describe the sorry state of affairs we have placed ourselves in, but just look back at the Mesopotamians, the Aztecs, the Mayans.
Where are their belltowers and ferris wheels?
Are they our pyramids, our libraries of Alexandria, our Towers of Babylon?
Our contribution to the future master species of the world will be pillars of salted iPods.
We have come this far only to want to revert back to the idea of minimalism, which apparently was invented by Steve Jobs.
What ever happened to the architecture that suited the land it was built on.
I can't see the forest for the trees, due to the array of cranes scarring the skyline so subtlety. Our glass houses, our glass offices, our glass pipes, all for the hedonism of now.
What happens when Will Smith ends up hunting deer through the Northbridge tunnel?
I'll be riding shotgun with my trusty rusty, looking hazy through the dusty remnants of our society.
The pounding of the new world order on our door, the flags we wave all have the same colours.
People exclaiming how these colours never run, but I painted your flag with mascara.
I can't normalise my ideas for you and I won't try to.
The end has always been nigh, the sandwich boarders boarding at my house who are always welcome, the people who dedicated the time they have left on this earth to letting us know we have none left.
I have been one of those soothsayers with a toothache, letting go of it all just to sample the post it notes I've written on the street, for all you to see.
By visually invading your space, the kids and adults who choose to lose the plot and perpetrate larceny are freer than you ever will be. The downfall of civilization and society means nothing to me.
When it comes down to brass tacks,
as long as I can hand in my Centrelink form with both limbs intact,
I'll know that I haven't cracked.

Cry, you've seen my blog. You know I can write.

Jimmy Hats.

Reply One
Some good writing in there.
It doesn't hold together well enough for the blog.
Keep writing.


Email Two
Can you explain how it doesn't hold together for the blog?
Jimmy Hats.

Reply Two
Fragments. Non-sequiturs. No theme or setting. No narrative hook.
Plus quite a few of your statements are indefensible. As in, "Civilization isn't just a computer game". This implies that it is generally believed that civilization is a computer game, which is not actually the case. That is just one of many examples.

(This fuckwit doesn't even remember that Civilization was a Real Time Strategy PC Game released around 1995.)

Email Three
Whom do I have the utmost pleasure of communicating with?
(To which I didn't recieve a reply to)

Email Four
So you won't own up to an anonomous parody of opinion but you'll hide behind a psudeonym of editor?
Is this so I can't nitpick your work and make your sorry excuse for a collective realize your degrees don't mean shit In the real world, and not everyone likes to read contrived masturbatory rants about what they did that nearly got them arrested.

There's my submission, straight to brass tacks, and it seems like it is you lot that end up on your backs.
Take it like a bitch cos that's all the submitting your gonna get.

Can't even own up who you are.
Dr. Jimmy Hats, Esquire.

Bunch of pretentious western suburbs spoonfed cunts. You plagarize my shit anyway and try to nitpick my work?

Own up who you are and we'll see who can nitpick, you peon.

So I get angry.
It's not my fault.

Vented, now I can sleep better.

Now, that's a vent.

The blog time forgot.

The cult of the celebrity. The possibility of everyone being FAMOUS. Fan pages on Fakebook.
The fame game is just a drain on your membrane. I am having trouble understanding this obsession.

If you are on you are looking at yourself looking at a camera. You are now self conscious.
You have woken up.
You perceive yourself and now adjust yourself according to what you have seen and how you think you are perceived by your webcam counterpart.

This is a film making term.
Hopefully you are familiar with it.
If you aren't,
"The presence of the fourth wall is an established convention of fiction and drama, which has led some artists to draw direct attention to it for dramatic or comedic effect. When this boundary is "broken", for example by an actor onstage speaking to the audience directly, or doing the same through the camera in a film or television program, it is called "breaking the fourth wall."

Your actions are now self monitored, you act out in ways you probably wouldn't and your perceptions are now askew.
Welcome to the society of the Panopticon.

You a plastic thought regurgitator with no hope or recognition,
the sins you blessed were that of divine definition,
so come the raw prawn singing Waltzing Matilda, without salvation,
Stand in the sun of the all seeing eye horoscope, one world nation.

Twenty twelve, what becomes of thee,
Another bullshit pagan Mayan government regiment philosophy,
So stop the soliloquy and pay attention with your wallets,
It's Y2K again, conglomerate raking and raping in mass profits.

The prophet was never born, and my namesake the same,
If James was Jesus' brother, than I'm slightly insane.

Diagnostic agnostic priests of belief in deceit receive relief by way of government rationed beef.

Trick or Retreat, the price is always wrong,
because time after time my head's clouded from paint fumes and homemade Gatorade bongs.

The diatribe you confer to me is one of pure energy, focused on points, like a magnifying glass beam and the ants it anoints. I can speak without speaking and know how you really act, the whole stage is a show and your life is the final act, no intermission, the last time the sun revolved the earth, Da Vinci discovered nuclear fission.

Fusion, better than soul, so sell your scuffed soles through the glory hole at the Superbowl.

People think I'm paranoid, I'm just a realist,
so when I'm being a pessimist, I'm just pissing in your nest.

Rest in Peace Else, Kmit, Mishen and Hazedus.
And all the rest, lest we forget.

Sunday, February 21, 2010

You know who needs a bodybag?

Something I found that I wrote as a comment on someone's blog, some idiot who writes meaningless messages on post it notes, then photographs them and writes down their location. I'm not gratifying them with a link, but rest assured that this cat is a phony, I ain't bullshit. The poor bastard has 4000 fans on Fakebook.

I'll eat your cunt with a spoon.

Anonymous said...

Hello, I think what you're doing is really meaningful it makes people smile when they read this and they remind us of those we forget. Keep it up dear, this is really sweet

Jimmy Hats said...

I believe this is very trite, with no real sentiment or message.
There is a beauty in impermanence, however to simply promote a collation of similar post it notes on a blog detracts any subtext I could even try to read into from your work.

From banality comes creative merit, and from this same creative merit spawns a chance to remove the idea of simply making a glorified advertisement for how alternative you are. It is one thing to conjure thought, and another when the thought conjure nought, except making art a sport. Thumb up but then thumb down, period.

Anonymous said...

Ouuuuch Jimmy Hats. Can't say I disagree though, good point.

The king is dead, long live the king.

Tuesday, February 16, 2010

Friday, February 12, 2010

RZA Part II.

Recieved a text message from my good friend who went to go get a book signed over east on the RZA tour.

"Man, Bobby has your zines packed in his hand luggage to read for the flight home, and he said you held your own on the board!"

Does life need anything else?

Wednesday, February 10, 2010

I played Chess with the RZA.

Hope you enjoyed the zines Bbbbbobby.
Twenty-four hour flight, at least you got some light reading.

I already hear "Bullshit" being called about the title.
But trust.

The ever present Gracey from was in RZA's hotel room last night.
They needed to get lifted. I was called. I was already lifted so I thought they were playing a joke on me. I caught a Taxi to the Sheraton with this rad taxi driver. I told him who I was going to see, but he feigned ignorance. I, out of shock since this taxi driver was twenty five, yelled WU TANG CLAN at him. He suddenly jogged his mind round the projects, worked out he knew RZA and kept smiling at me.

Jesse Chip from was already there, with Gracey and beautiful Rosie Bates. Your breasts looked amazing Jesse. But I already said that.

If I wasn't so sedated I would of beaten him or at least stalemated him. I may have lost but I got my Tiger style on and showed him I wouldn't let him walk all over me. Stewie, bad luck mate.
Fucks sake, he's the grandmaster, the grandmaster of the Gravediggaz.
I showed him moves he hadn't seen before.

Quote unquote.

I showed the RZA moves he ain't seen before.
I had him stunned.

The RZA seemingly respected my game yo. I was in a haze of confusion and delight. The banter wasn't spoken much with words, but mainly with moves. There was this dude that was pestering me, Stewie, and trying to give me advice, even though he seemed to be a muppet. I was right. Stewie goes and gets checkmated in two moves. The Abbot recognized real. One of the highlights for me would be The Big Payback blaring out the speakers, crew know. Me and RZA both bopped to Brown.

Zigga Zag Zig even honoured my blackbook.
Life is complete.
I got lifted with a member of the Wu, RZA of all people, and went a round of Chessboxing with him at two in the morning at the Sheraton hotel.
No need to set goals for a while.

Friday, February 5, 2010


My local fish and chip shop, ahh scallops with the lots of flavour on top, has a poster of birds. These are their stories.

I imagine this bird to be exactly like my ever longed after Maggie G, in the motion picture Secretary.
You'd fucking hope so.

Audrey Allen, this bird weirds me out.

Hahah. I made it say "Cock" and "Pecker".

Even if it's the size of this, it's okay, as long as they;

Do girls with Swallow tattoos swallow? I need to gather intel.

The bird that represents every pseudo ex-pat from Western Australia, no extra hipstur points sorry. You realise the Pigeon is a rat with wings, don't you? Right?

King of PARADISE. Nuff' said.

Dude, it's like an Eagle and an Owl. Imagine an old American biker and a HxC Neo Traditionalist fan talking about tattoos and this bird just perching between them. Who would win?

Insomnia sucks. Big 'tings 'gwan soon so stay tuned.

Thursday, February 4, 2010