Driving for your life

I'll be honest with you, when I first faced the prospect of driving I was a little apprehensive. After all, this is something I should have done way back in the 1990s, a time long before the iPod and high-speed broadband. Goodness, back then I still believed all gorgeous, long-legged blondes named Britney that I had cyber sex with were what they seemed, and not truckers from Adelaide named Big Jed - but then again, what did I know? I was sans license in those days. Alas, all that has changed now and I'm well on my way to becoming a John Q. Nobody on the road. The early twenties phobia of driving is long behind me and I'm ready and eager to start my own midnight drag club.

For the life of me, I can't remember why I found the idea of driving so terrifying in the first place - minus images of horrific accidents every time I would drive with certain friends (looking in your direction. Mr. Mathews), whatever the case, I found myself receeding into a life spent moving the car from behind a control pad rather than the steering wheel. However, it turns out that my years of Xbox and all-round suburban Bumdom did yield some precursive tools which I now find help me on the road: renegade drivers and small children running out in traffic are not dissimilar to the infected zombies of Resident Evil parts one and three (not so much the second one), in that both scenarios require you to slow down, address the hazard and give way if necessary.

Not only has my many years of gaming given me the abilty to aviod harazards - be it fresh-eaters ,stray pets or otherwise - but it has also bestowed upon me a way of looking at the roads that your average "I just turned 18, look at me" driver (or child born after 1987 for that matter) could never hope to achieve. I refer to the following image taken from today's lesson.

Note, I still have all my lives and have already equalled the high score...

Pending I don't have to park off any moving logs and past any jaw-gaping crocodiles, I may be the safest driver in the world. Well, that is, the safest driver in the world in the event that zombies do eventually take over...

and God willing, they will.

Ripley's believe it or not...

After nearly a decade of promise, I've finally got the ball rolling:

Seeing as I owe nearly everone living in the Melbourne Metropolitan area countless lifts from years of mooching, I will endeavour to return the favour by securing a small buisness loan and driving every single one of you to work everyday for a year. I realise that this doesn't really balance out, but think of it a bit like when Allen Bond got busted and promised to pay back .10 on the dollar.

The countdown to my Ps has begun.

Why? Because Ben Affleck says so...

Sure, Ben Affleck has made some trash - and it should be said, nobody loaths Michael Bay movies more than me (well, that was until I found out that you can circle Armageddon on your calander sooner than you think!!!).

- and yes, I'll grant whoever stands in objection to my claims that Bounce and Forces of Nature are as bad for your health as chain smoking, but mark my words, I will fight anyone: man, woman or child, who wants to attack The Affleck's awe-inspring "goon" performances in Dazed and Confused and Mallrats, and remember before he was an Oscar winner, he stole the show from Kristy Swanson with his "just take it, man" delivery as Basketball Player #10 in the original Buffy the Vampire Slayer - all amazing performaces, all of them.

But somewhere along the line, and for reasons beyond even the most avid fan's imagination, the people forgot Ben; cast him aside like Deuce Bigalow sequel; stopped downloading DivX rips of his movies and started going to Colin Farrell movies instead. These were dark days indeed.

Yet, it seems that now, after much waiting by the fans, that Hollywoodland is a surefire winner, with The Allfeck's characterisation of George Reeves said to be right up there with his Chasing Amy and Phantom days winning big ups at the Venice Film Festial. Not only this, but besides being a lucky enough [dare] devil as to hook, line and sinker the often smoking Jennifer Garner, 2006 also saw The Allfeck's return to director's chair with the shooting of Gone, Baby, Gone a feat he has not indulged in since I Killed My Lesbian Wide, Hung Her on a Meat Hook, and Now I Have a Three Picture Deal at Disney way back when Ace of Base topped the Billboard charts with All That She Wants, or 1993 if you prefer a numerical timeline. Thankfully, it seems that the Affleck is set for a much deserved return to the limelight.

...But all of this provisional, lest we forgot the reason the world fell in love with the man in the first place. If your memory fails you, quickly, sign up any highspeed broadband contract availible, care not about the small print, and press the following link as fast as you can:

Life Lessons 101

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For those who can't wait for the realese of Hollywoodland, you get a dose of The Affleck's radio performances here.

Don't laugh, It's a serious problem, Baby

I was thinking earlier tonight of the old adage that the average male thinks of sex once every seven seconds. Immediately I thought of sex. Then I thought of sex again...

and then again...

….but after about 20-25 minutes of catholic school girls playing a naughty game of Twister, I realized that I probably thought about sex closer to seven times each second.

Concerned by these figures I spent the next two hours taking online sex surveys, to assure myself I'm part of the "lie back and think of England" status quo. I won't bother linking any of the quizzes as a Google search will yield more than enough for a thorough diagnosis, but suffice to say, if your thoughts are anything like mine you may expect a reading like this:

* You should consult your General Practitioner about your sex addiction.

(Note: apprently it is healthy to see Margret Thatcher, John Major, James Callaghan and other former Prime Ministers of the U.K. in the following ink blots:

- Am I the only one turned on by these? You dirty tart number three)

Terrified, questions started to circulate my smutty little brain: “what’s wrong with me, surely I’m not in the not that far gone that I would be called an addict?” and “Holy Jesus, what can I do about this?”

I continued to take a more of these tests with similar results, until eventually I realized that many of them were run by private sex addiction clinics and almost always recommended help at one of their clinics. I guess that's what they call synergy in the big city.

Of course, there were a few tests I took that arrived at the same perverted conclusions, but by that time I had found the picture of this guy on one of the respected sites; and if he’s out there, I know I’ve still got some time to go before I join Sex Addicts Anonymous.

...Then again it could be a sound place to meet women???

Steve Irwin is dead!

By now I'm sure you've all heard the devastating news: Steve Irwin has brutally murdered by a savage, wrong side of the tracks, reform school juvenile, emo-esque stingray. A fucking stingray!

Apparently, the man loved the world over for his 'crikey' catchprase, was filming a documentary off the coast of Port Douglas when a stingray's barb pierced his chest.

If you're like me, then the news of Steve's death isn't all that shocking; it had to happen sooner or later, right? The way he wrestled those crocks, one had to think that he would be caught in a triple-lock death suflex sooner or later. Hell, I'm sure even Steve wanted to go out in the jaws of one of the crocodiles he loved so much, but a stingray - please, this is outrageous.

The only explanation I can fathom is a global conspiracy involving the numerous governments and global corporations and probably even those pale geezers from the Davinci Code, which all feared (and held back) Steve's ability to end the war on terrorism and secure world peace.

Steve Irwin's chest cannot be pierced by a stingray's barb.

Steve Irwin's love for taunting crocodiles, like the love his millions of fans around the world had for his larrikin antics, will live on long past this truly darkest of dark days...

...But rest assured:

I will hunt down and kill every motherf$%#@g stingray I can get my hands on (...Including the Philadelphia Stingrays Hockey team, if I have to), until I rain down venegeance on that no good sonofabitch that has denied the world of ever seeing a sequel to the critically aclaimed Collision Course.You know, I don't know what a barb is, but it better be loaded because when I find you, Stingy, your a one dead sea bed dwelling tit.

Theme Time Radio Hour

You know that niggling feeling you get sometimes when you wake in the middle of the night, that feeling that you are disconnected from every soul on the planet, and if only for that time, while the sun is hiding, you can't help but feel totally alone?

Well, finally there is a cure for the blues; and not just lonesome blues, but all the blues: homesick blues, financial blues, my dog peed on the carpet blues, and what Hank Williams diagnosed as the lovesick blues - all of these and more, can now be mended with one weekly dose of radio. Well, to be precise, one weekly dose of Bob Dylan's Theme Time Radio Hour.

Playing through an assortment of themes on a weekly basis and handing out wisdoms like free candy, Dylan is touring the radio waves and providing free medical care to any that care to listen. Girlfriend left you for an another man? Car's being repossessed? Megatron Basketball whipped you by 30 points? Well, perhaps a little blend of Calypso and Bluegrass will help turn that frown upside down. Results guaranteed.

Get your dose here.

(If pain persists please see a doctor)

'T.S. Elliot once said, “radio is a medium of entertainment, which permits millions of people to listen to the same joke at the same time and yet remain lonesome.” Well you’re never lonesome when you listen to Theme Time Radio Hour.'

Amen, Bob.