Wednesday, November 30, 2005

Where The Hell Did I Leave My Funny?

I have forgotten why I started this blog. I think I thought it was going to be fun. I think I have forgotten how to have fun. Certainly I appear to have forgotten how to write anything funny, which is a major bummer given that the latest plan to rescue my sanity was to somehow get lots of freelance work writing funny stuff. Well not just funny stuff, serious stuff as well. Just freelance writing from home and avoiding going into an office. Mainly funny stuff because writing funny stuff can pull me out of these moods.

Am talking to the arts mag now that they are over deadline. The editor is keen about a regular humorous column, but it's only a quarterly. It's good news and a small step in the right direction, but it's hardly going to solve anything.

I should write more, and I should write about the party on the weekend (I have to write an Acid Tongue column for the music mag about something that happened at the party), but I am going to go and cook a vegetable curry instead, and drink a kick ass vodka and orange.

Thursday, November 24, 2005

What Brings You Here?

It's funny looking through both the posts that people go to on this blog, and looking at search words that have brought people here. For a while there, I swear the list of search words went something like:







How to fix a slow leaking tyre


Tia Leonie





Tia Leonie Movies


I particularly felt for the person who thought they were going to find the way to fix a slow leaking tyre because that post (think it was called Mr Fix It) was not going to contribute to leak-fixing at all... unless shaking your head at the actions of a mechanical idiot is somehow going to do the trick - and hey, this is me we're talking about so who knows? Head-shaking might be the way you fix a slow leaking tyre. I hope that person at least got a smile out of my ineptitude.

As for the rest of you... you dirty-minded little people ought to be ashamed of yourselves.

I'm off to the wasteland in a few hours. As I said, there is no internet connection at this three day music festival. I once told someone that if I ever stage a bush party, I'm going to make sure there's internet connection and an internet cafe and that's going to be the selling point above the DJ lineup. They looked at me like they thought I was completely missing the point of bush parties and maybe even life in general. I reassured them I was only joking.

I was only half joking.

Back in a few days. Leave comments saying you miss me. And for godsake stop thinking about clits, Tia Leonie and wanking. Sheesh.

Wednesday, November 23, 2005


Hahahahahahaha... I just accidentally got some CSI Investigation or whatever it's called in my eye, and there was a scene with the noddiest of nodding hip-hop going on in a warehouse party, and the booty shakin' women (ho's I guess) were waving GLOW STICKS around exclamation mark. What the hell is going on? Glow sticks. Hip-hop. Like I said... hahahahahahaha...

Or is America weirder than I realise?

Addendum: Okay, so it just goes to show how long it's been since I've been to a hip-hop night. It seems at the cheesier end of the spectrum, glowsticks are not us frowned upon as I had imagined. Sure, I could just delete this post, but I llllllllllllike the feeling of egg dribbling down my face.

Tuesday, November 22, 2005

This Post Is Brought To You By The Letter Y

Thursday night sees me leaving for a dance festival in Victoria, about 10 hours' drive away. The Dreaded One and I are leaving at about 1am to get there middayish Friday. Couple of friends are coming in the car with us who have not been to this particular festival before, and holy crap they're excited. Me? I'm jaded because I am a seasoned veteran of one prior of this particular event... that was an awful sentence, but fuck it. Whatever.

Anyway, if it's the same as last year it's going to be hot and dusty and psytrancey and everythingelsey (music-wise) and rivery and meeting-strangersy and rivery again because it's so hot and dusty, and a bit nudie and a lot messy and really quite fun.

And hopefully (fucking hell - how many more words ending in y can I get in here?) it's going to whet my appetite for Turkey... bloody hell, more y words.

Yup. Going to Soulclipse in Turkey March next year - total solar eclipse psytrance music fest. It's going to be awesome. Also going to go to Spain, UK (don't really like UK but a really lovely person lives there who I would like to catch up with a lot is that OK with you Bird is that being nice enough hmm?) and Paris would be good too because I loved Paris last time. It's going to be the opposite end of the year to last time, so I guess the weather's going to be crap. But that's good. I want to experience crap Euroweather. So long as it's not too crap.

I have no idea how we are going to afford this. But it's got to be done.

Oh and for anyone who has been reading this blog for any length of the short time I've been writing it - the glossie paid me already. Story doesn't come out until January, but the money's in the bank. Crap, these guys are good. I thought the deal was payment on publication. Must get onto the next story.

Downside of the weekend festival is that there is no internet connection and no mobile access. Last year someone said there was a place just next to the ATM that you could stand on one leg holding a wooden spoon and get mobile phone access, and I actually got my phone out and started walking up there before deciding that that was being silly.

Still, I shall miss my phonebillicall connection to the cyberverse.

Sunday, November 20, 2005

Oral Sex Advice

Even though you feel you're not too bad at something, it's sometimes good to read up a bit or check how others do the same thing, just in case you've gotten lazy or there have been new developments in your particular field of interest.

I recently came across some advice on cunnilingus in The Vice Guide To Sex And Drugs And Rock And Roll written by the gifted Gavin McInnes, which I feel has enhanced my oral sex skills enormously. I hope these tips help you too.

Amongst other things, Gavin advises that, "Eating pussy is so gentle it can make you feel like a bit of a fag. If you're tired of being ballerina boy, take it out on the clit. Figure out how much abuse it can take without making her uncomfortable and show the little bastard who's boss.

"After all, Mr Elusive is precisely what makes muff diving so difficult. He's surrounded by labia and even after you find him, all the pressure can pop him over to the side. All of a sudden you're giving the pee hole the seeing-to of its life."

See? I feel better already; personifying the little guy has got to help. Gavin goes on to talk about two clit types, one being clits that need a serious going over. "These are the most fun because you can be creative. Pretend your tongue is the bad cop and the clit is the guy who killed your partner. Separate him from his buddies (the lips) and suck him right into your mouth.Now he's on your turf. Keep him erect by creating an airtight vacuum chamber in your mouth. Slap the little bugger upside the head with one big tongue bonk. He's not going to tell you anything because he's a clit and he has no idea what you're talking about, but kick his ass anyway. After a few teasers, rat-a-tat-tat him senseless like a boxer whacking a speed bag."

It can take a long time sometimes, and the you-killed-my-partner scenario is an excellent way to pass the time. Of course you can always throw in some cowboys and Indians too, with Gavin recommending, "To keep the rhythym going, try repeating a chant in your head that goes with the movement of your tongue like a Micmac Indian (hi-yi-yi-ya, hi-yi-yi-ya, hi-yi-yi-ya)."

When the fireworks are over, Gavin suggests that you come up for air and "wipe your face like a pirate."

I dunno - cops, baddies, Indians and pirates... I didn't reallise chewing snooch could be this much fun.

Thank you Gavin McInnes, you funny, funny bastard.

Saturday, November 19, 2005


So you decide you'll go out for a bit of a dance, and you drop a pinger and wait because you want the ride at home, with all the hot, sweaty, eye-quivering silliness and stupid banter that entails. You wait and you wait and after an hour and a half you realise that these are duds and nothing's going to happen. So you get ready and head out into the night, and as you walk up the road, that's when the little bastard starts to kick in. Great, going to be peaking in a damn cab. You call into the BP first to get some money out and brilliant - inside, the white light is blinding and there are a couple of the most terrifyingly enormous cops you've ever seen in your entire life hanging around waiting for coffee or food or something. They look at you as you enter. Just act natural, you think feverishly as you ramp up the naturalness. Also, you tell yourself, for god's sake don't look at them. But don't avoid eye contact either. And keep talking but make it normal talking, like you haven't even noticed that there are gigantic cops who could bend you in half just two feet away from you. And don't talk fast and don't laugh because you just thought of the donut obsessed cop from The Simpsons but don't act shifty either and don't bump into anything and don't draw attention to yourself and especially don't draw attention to yourself by trying not to draw attention to yourself because they are right onto that sort of thing it's like they've got a sixth sense in situations like this...

Apparently that sort of thing happens to some people.

Friday, November 18, 2005

Missed Moments

Went to a performance last night. It was good. Might post the review beneath this post.

On the way to the show, this old guy ran by and slammed into me and just kept running. I was walking and talking to The Dreaded One, trying to claw my way out of the deep ditch of sludge that appears to be my permanent state of mind at the moment, and the bastard jogged past in his old codger gait wearing his old codger clothes and slammed me. Fucker. I just felt my temper flare. I was outraged. He didn’t even glance over his shoulder to say sorry. I swore and took off after him. I had just had enough of people being rude, and clumsily slamming into someone in the street is the height of rudeness.

He wasn’t doing a bad pace for a rude old codger, but he was not going to get away with it. I put on a bit more speed, weaving through the crowd and bumping a couple of people... but I turned apologised, didn’t I. I got up behind him, then went in low, tackling the fucker around his old codger, arthritic knees and taking him down hard.

“What IS your fucking problem?” I shouted as I rolled his little old body over and beat the shit...

Okay, it’s an indication of how angry it made me that I imagined that at all. I did shout at him though as he hobbled off into the crowd. Must have looked pretty funny to anyone not realising he slammed into me. Just me, no reason at all, shouting, “What’s your fucking problem! Arsehole!” so loudly that I could feel my neck veins stand out.

I’m having problems with old people lately. Old guy came into the shop last week (I have a shop with a couple of partners that sells crazy clubbing gear) because he said he found the clothes in the window “Just fascinating.” I smiled at him and agreed that they are pretty out there.

He wandered around the shop, checking stuff out, wandered over to the desk and said, “I could never get away with wearing this kind of clothing.”

“No? Why not?”

“Well I’m old. I’m 78, you see.”

He was well spoken and had his head together. He was looking at me with clear blue eyes, his face old but with pink, healthy looking skin. “Oh I dunno,” I told him. “This is Newtown. You could probably get away with it.”

“Mmm,” he grunted back as I returned to the computer and he turned around. “Yes. Well. I did get away with it.”

He kept walking and I was already completely absorbed by whatever I was doing on the computer. He asked if I designed the clothes. I told him I didn’t, that we buy them from overseas and locally, but that we do encourage local designers. He nodded to this and left the store.

And I felt like a prick. Old guy probably wanted me to ask about him. What have you done? What do you do with yourself? What do you mean you did get away with it? Tell me your story.

But I didn’t because, more than likely I was adding to this blog, telling more of my story. Or making one up. I don’t know. When I realised that he probably wanted to share some of himself with someone and I had shown such an amazing lack of interest... well it was just not very cool. I know sometimes it’s a mistake to invite someone to tell you about them, but on this occasion it felt like a mistake not to have asked. He seemed like a really sweet old guy, sharp and intelligent and he could well have lived a far more interesting life than anyone I know. Hell, he could have been a designer of cutting edge clothes once upon a time. If I see him again, I’ll probably smile and say hello and ask him how he is in a way that lets him know that I want to know. But I’ll probably never see him again.

Missed moments... I’m good at those.

Wednesday, November 16, 2005

Moopert Murdoch

The man on the telly just said Moopert Murdoch instead of Rupert Murdoch. Newsreader guy. Just like that. "Blah blah blah Moopert Murdoch blah blah." Just carried on as though nothing untoward had just taken place. As though no one had heard. Well, I heard, and I think it was bloody funny. Moopert. "Moopert Murdoch makes moospapers." I think Moopert Murdoch is even funnier than if the newsreader guy had an authentic speech impediment and called him Woopert Murdoch... then again, Woopert's pretty damn funny too.

Of course, I could have imagined the whole thing. I was feeling a little woozy. The weather here has gone from gloriously clear and warm to middle-of-winter miserable in the space of a couple of days, all the rain and wind has stirred up spring time (could be summer - never was good with seasons) pollen and general sneezy stuff and I have had louzy hayfever all day. I took one 24 hour antihistamine and five "fast acting" 60mg psuedoephedrine pills. Maximum of four to be taken in 24hours, but I factored in the safety buffer that I'm sure must exist. I reckon they factor in a buffer of twice as many. But anyway, I was feeling very strange there for a while. Just after The Moopert Murdoch Incident I started drifting into a very strange head place, my heart pounding at my chest. Every now and then my existence would implode and I would wake up with a jump.

It was quite a pleasant state to be in, aside from the slight cramping in my stomach. And the fact that (and I realise this is risky because only a couple of posts ago I was using penis size as a source of humour, but the Dear God post was a lighthearted but heartfelt apology to a friend and quite obviously whimsical, whereas this is a genuine physical side effect) my penis has shrunk. This happens every time I dope myself up on anti-sneeze medication, so you would think it would stop coming as such a shock. But noooo. I wander into the bathroom, fish about for a bit before frowning in panic and thinking, "What the hell has happened to my dick?" Gets me every time.

I am supposed to be writing something for the magzine... a half page bit of nonsense and a CD review, but right now I seem incapable of anything more sophisticated than Moopert Murdoch and pseudoephedrine-induced penile shrinkage.

I'm sure he said Moopert Murdoch.

I hope it grows back.

Monday, November 14, 2005

Golly Goth

Yesterday there was a massive festival in Newtown called – appropriately enough – The Newtown Festival. Newtown is a reasonably arty suburb populated by interesting fringe dweller types. Loads of Goths. I quite like Goths. They can look a little silly sometimes, but they can also look pretty cool, and some of the girls can look dead sexy (pardon the pun).

Anyway, at the festival The Dreaded One and I took a wrong turn and wandered into an old cemetery next to the park where the festival was taking place, and my god, how funny... Goths everywhere, sitting on the sandstone graves or lying fully draped across them as though trying to absorb the death emanating from them. It was pretty quiet in spite of how many people were in there, with everyone just kind of murmuring amongst themselves, drinking and just being generally as Gothic as they could be. Very strange on a day that was clear and sunny enough to get pleasantly sunburned.

I’ve sometimes wondered if I should be a Goth. I don’t smile or laugh a lot naturally, and the way my features are arranged I do look very serious. In fact I have been asked by total strangers, “What’s wrong?” or “Cheer up – it can’t be that bad,” when I’ve been in a perfectly fine mood. At least if I were a Goth, people wouldn’t expect me to look cheerful.

I don’t know how they manage to avoid sweating and making their makeup run though.

Saturday, November 12, 2005

Deeply Disturbed

The Dreaded One... oh get this: she's got really short blond hair with trippy fluro dreadlocks, has had them for about a year now, and because they keep tying them back in when she gets the blond bit re-done, she's actually growing real dreads. Too cool.

Anyway, her new job is with a huge catering company that does all the Opera House catering (you know the big pointy buiding near the Harbour Bridge?), and she just texted to tell me there's some fuck off swanky wedding down there and they have a rose petal cannon... fuck off! Who has a fucking rose petal fucking cannon? What the hell is wrong with people? God - things like rose petal cannons make me so cranky it feels like my head's going to explode. It's a concept so bizarre and just generally horrible that I don't think I can cope.

But this is nice: The e-zine crybloxsome (link at the side if you're interested) accepted another story and now that they have a forum to discuss stories I was kind of nervous about it. I have a tendency to be a bit negative about my stuff and I had decided the story was no good. I didn't look all week, but just then I did, and it seems all of the readers think it's pretty good. One guy said that he voted as 'good' but should have voted 'murder' (murder in this case is the highest vote) because "this story is awesome."

That's two good things in one week. Makes me feel warm n goohey.

But rose petal cannons? Fuck the hell off you evil people!

Feelin' Groovy

“Hi Quick,

I'm definitely interested. I'm right on deadline at the moment, though. So let’s talk in a couple of weeks. Thanks for getting in touch. Love the idea of a new column, like your thinking....

Best wishes,


Okay, so she used my real name and not Quick, but that was a reply from a magazine editor I approached about freelance art writing during the week. I also sent along one of the columns I write for the clubbing mag and offered to write one for each issue, a humorous column with an arts theme. They don’t have such a column but I said I think it could work, and she must have seen the potential in the sample I sent.

I don’t generally get stupidly happy, but that’s exactly how this reply made me feel. It’s a particular kind of happiness. It’s a bit like when you find out the person you like likes you back. It suddenly becomes the thing that makes everything else bearable. You can feel a bit down but you have this thing to come back to and you feel that buzz of happiness again.

I have no idea what this will lead to (if anything) but right now it just feels so good. There is a vibe. At the very least I feel I’ll be able to get a regular column and the occasional freelance feature, and that just feels good. Really good.

Wednesday, November 09, 2005

Don't You Forget About Me

Sitting at the edge of the harbour after a sensational seafood meal, sipping some more wine as we made sniggering comments about the passing parade of fashion victims, the conversation turned to funerals, and what kind we would like when we are gone.

"Who could possibly care what their funeral is going to be like?" I reasoned, not unreasonably. "I don't care what happens to me after I'm gone."

The Dreaded One was not happy about this. "What - so if I go first you're going to just put me in a box and just, like, dispose of me?"

"What difference will it make? I mean, I love you and everything, but you will have gone."

"I don't want to be put in a box and be disposed of."

"It won't matter. You won't know the difference."

"Fuck that. I'm going to find a boyfriend who is going to give me a nice funeral."

She appeared to be serious about this, and I don't know, I just think that there are better reasons for breaking up.

"Okay," I placated before it was too late. "Sorry. You're right. These things are very important. Look, we'll have the best party ever. Really big affair in the bush. Some pristine site where the wombats have never heard the twisted sounds of psytrance..."

The dreaded one was smiling now.

"... and Simon Posford will be playing, and so will I because by that time I will also be a globe trotting psytrance DJ and producer, and we'll rack up lines of your ashes and snort them and our euphoria at having bathed in the glory that is The Dreaded One will take us to new levels of such hitherto unknown levels of levelness..."

I could see that she was not happy about this. Clearly, we were having too much fun without her. She'd started off being happy, but I had to stop having quite so much fun.

"And what about mine," I said, craftily changing the course of the conversation. "What's my funeral going to be like?"

"What? You said you didn't want one. It's a cardboard box and insto-disposal for you."

"That's not fair. I'm giving you a wonderful send off, people dancing and rejoicing and no doubt there will be big blue mushrooms and fire twirlers and faeries atop giant mushrooms which have started glowing at some point in proceedings... and you're putting me in a box?"

"Well what do you want?"

"That's not fair. I did you, now you have to do me. What are you going to do for my funeral?"

"No. You design you own "funeral."" (The " done with fingers just behind the ears, though I don't really know why).

"Oh. Okay. I don't know. Um... I think I want nudity. Like, everyone has to be nude. I think that will be nice."

The Dreaded One considers this. "Okay," she says. "Everyone at your funeral will be nude."

"And on pogo sticks."


"Nude and on pogo sticks. It's the least you could do."

So there you have it. We have planned our funerals. And here I was thinking I was disorganised.

Monday, November 07, 2005

Real Name Or Anonymous?

The editor of the glossy tells me my story will be coming out in the February issue which hits the newsstands in January. They start putting it together in December, which means I have to decide on the byline by then. This is not as easy as it sounds.

The story is strong and – at the risk of sounding conceited – well written. You know when you’ve done a good piece of writing, nothing wrong with admitting it. If it’s humour it will make you laugh each time. If it has emotional impact, it will still affect you each time you read it. It’s not actually conceited to admit that you like what you’ve written. I’m not saying it’s the best piece of writing you’ll ever read, but enough people have given honest feedback for me to acknowledge that it affects everyone in the same way. I think that’s what we aim for, isn’t it? A universality? Even when it’s deeply personal, you’re trying to connect with that thing we all have in common. I think I nailed with this story – even though I wasn’t really trying. I just wrote an account of something that happened, wrote it for me, and then I realised that there might be something there for other people.

So I’m obviously proud of the quality of the story; why the dilemma about the byline? It’s because it’s a deeply personal story. I’m a reasonably private person (ironic given the nature of this blog, and the fact that my fiction usually contains glimmers of the personal in it), and to put my name to it is to admit publicly that I fucked up. That’s not a very cool thing to have to admit to. I’m not a particularly stupid person, but I did a particularly stupid thing, something I’m not proud of. I didn’t save myself, others saved me. Others hauled my sorry arse back from the edge. Left to look after myself, I would have stumbled over the edge. No question.

The editor says he’s cool either way about the byline but that he thinks it will resonate more if I use my real name. I’m not sure about this. If I was famous, sure, I’d agree with him. But I’m just me, a bit published but basically just one of the millions of fellow humans you’ll never meet, so what difference is it going to make if it’s my real name or a false name that sounds real?

I have until December to decide. That’s a lot of changes of mind... although I think writing this post is taking a step in a certain direction.

(I realise I used expletives here after saying I was going to try not to, but I actually wrote this two days ago and put it aside, so it’s exempt from the Pottymouth Clause).


Just glanced over a couple of my posts, and my God I swear a lot. I'm such a fucking pottymouth. I am going to swear less from now on.

A friend has been nominated for an award and would like it very much if you voted for her. Her website is caled Zender Bender. I'm not sure what popularity or voting contests achieve (like the DJ Mag Top 100... what does it really prove?) but if I didn't say something about it I would never hear the end of it. As it is I'm probably going to get into trouble for not being more enthusiastic. Anyway, if anyone is reading this silly blog, please go and vote for her. It would be nice if she won because she deserves nice things. It's here:

There is an eclipse party in Turkey at the end of March. There is a very real possibility that The Dreaded One (Cameron, Tea etc; she has white hair and fluro dreadlocks... I am going to call her The Dreaded One for a while and see how it feels) and I will be looking at going. Not sure how we're going to pull it off, but it would be a blast. Six day festival, killer lineup, gorgeous site... what an adventure. I think a few of our Australian doofers will be going, and I think that would be awesome, to dance with friends in another country. The Zender Bender might also meet us there. That, too, would be quite okay.

I guess that's two bitch slaps for lack of enthusiasm.

Saturday, November 05, 2005

Pogo Boy

Often when I get stoned, I talk a lot. After a big night out, a few wind down spliffs actually wind me up and my brain and mouth go into overdrive. This is pretty strange and usually confusing for me because on the whole, I don’t talk a hell of a lot. I once read that someone said of Australian film director Rolph De Heer, “Rolph doesn’t do small talk.” I thought that was dead cool, and I like to think people say the same of me. “Quick doesn’t do small talk.” That’d be cooler than penguin pooh.

Anyway, I get stoned and the torrent of idiotic small talk is staggering. I hear myself talking and talking and I’m thinking holy fuck where is this coming from? Make it stop. And Cameron usually looks at me with this kind of wide-eyed bemusement, her head shaking slightly, and I can tell she’s thinking holy fuck he’s doing it again – he’s doing a month’s worth of talking every passing minute. I’ve got, like, brain hands snatching at passing random thoughts and… well that was a freaky little metaphor that was clearly never going to go anywhere. Brain hands? Point is, I just go on and on and on at a dizzying pace pausing only to smoke some more and quickly start talking again because it’s very very important that I just keep telling Cameron everything I can possibly think of until I realise that I’m doing it again and I really must make an effort to stop and let her have a go at this talking thing which is the most fun you can have with your mouth and finally after many failed attempts I actually manage to shut it.


Clenched jaw. Fists. Force mind to be blank. No thinking. Fingernails digging into palms. Make mind blank. Perspiration. Bite lips. Bite tongue.

And finally when I just can’t stay silent for another moment, and when it becomes obvious that Cameron is not going to help me by speaking, I tell her, “Well at least I’ve been upholding my end of the conversational pogo stick.”

I actually said that once. It was quite spectacular. I was so impressed that I texted it to a friend, and for a while was known as Pogo Boy.

Speaking of text messages, I was cooking dinner the other night while Cameron was indoor rock climbing. Tinkering with a creamy pasta sauce, my phone buzzed. The message said: Sorry. I have the salt grinder with me.

I pursed my lips and pulled a fish face for a few moments before writing: Okay, thanks for telling. I’ll have to use thigh sweat then.

I still haven’t found out why she took the salt grinder rock climbing.

Tuesday, November 01, 2005

Dear God

Dear God,

I'd like it if you could make a few modifications to the current model me please.

1. Caring. I'd like to care a little less please. In theory, caring (about humans in particular) is a very nice concept, but when it's coupled with the level of fuckwittedness you have bestowed upon me it just becomes inconvenient. It would just make being me a lot easier if I didn’t care when I upset people and could just say fuck ‘em, they need to toughen up. I reckon Utter Bastards must also be the happiest bastards around because they just don’t let things like upsetting people ruin an otherwise perfectly fine day.

2. Fuckwittedness. If you absolutely refuse to tweak my facility for caring so much about the few people I do care about, could you maybe consider making me less of a fuckwit please? Or maybe a complete fuckwit? Complete Fuckwits, like Utter Bastards, must be pretty damn happy folk, but you’ve given me just enough fuckwittedness to make it really annoying. Like, 90% of the time I’m a reasonably nice person, and 10% of the time I am Superfuckwit. Fuckwiticisms fall from my mouth like lies from a politician’s. So if I’m going to be a fuckwit, can it be all the time please?

3. Penis Size. Okay, so here’s the deal, God. You fucked up in the above two areas, but for some reason built me with a penis that – let’s face it – is nothing short of colossal. It’s stunning. Breathtaking. She really is quite a beauty. I mean, thanks and everything – The Tripod was a very cool primary school nickname which made me feel like a Transformer or something – but I’ve just never really felt that I need quiiiite this much penis. So the thing is, you can take some of it back if you like, in return for fixing up the above. Maybe leave me with just enough to amuse myself, but give all the rest to someone who really needs a bit more penis to make them feel good about themself... like George Bush. And who knows - maybe then he’ll stop bombing the shit out of everything.

I hope you can help.

Yours in anticipation,


PS, Thanks for penguins. Love your work.