Konnichi wa Bitちes!

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Oh Japan, sweet land of cherry blossom, majestic temples and bottom rinsing. I’m here, and it’s every bit as good as the infommercials. This isn’t my first rodeo, but the last time I was in Asia, I was swiftly whisked away from the airport to an island paradise where everyone spoke Asian Australian and laughed behind my back in English (it was disconcerting, but at least I could understand.) I’m in real Asia now, and these guys don’t mess around – you can’t just tack “le” on to the beginning of everything and hope they’ll understand. They’ll just look at you blankly, blankly but politely, in a way that says ‘you’re an idiot, but I still love and respect you and your extended family.’

And the politeness is next level. These guys make Canadians look bad. They bow after everything I say. And I’m just asking where the toilet is. Now I’ve started saying, “bend before me mortal, for you are in the presence of the Gods.” It’s really fun, except when I said it to an American who just flipped me off and said, “yeah, Buddha, maybe.” I consoled myself by eating two enormous sushi rolls.

Highlights of Japan so far:

Aforementioned douching – It says something about me that my cultural highlight so far was not traversing the breathtaking grounds of Osaka Castle, but the sweet sensation of warm water hitting my nether regions. If only we could combine the two.

Street drinking – like all culturally-advanced societies, one is free to imbibe in public places. And imbibe I have. In the street, on the train, in the toilet, and probably in an auditorium, just before I do my presentation (not sure how the crowd here will react to my driver’s licences.) Like Tom Cruise, it could go either way.

“Ladies Only” carriages on trains – this was really convenient, because I couldn’t wait to debrief the ending of Gossip Girl with someone. Sadly, all I got was blank stares. And the other women were too busy trading tampons and crying for no reason.

Sugary treats – My body would be a trainwreck if I was left unattended over here. Vending machine cakes. VENDING MACHINE CAKES.

Dogs – I actually like the Japanese ones. They’ve got bows in their hair and they look like tiny teddy bears. I even stopped to pat one. Which was difficult because I had two cans of Asahi in my hand at the time. The lady smiled at me and then walked briskly off. Briskly, but politely. Then laughed about me in Japanese to her friend.

In short, it’s cool. Just left Osaka (pronounce Osaka) and about to hit up Kobe with my dear friend Leonie, who has kindly flown over from Melbourne, and who can also apparently say hello and goodbye fluently in Japanese. Should be smooth sailing from hereon out.

Knot without my bun.

hate crime

For those who haven’t heard, my brother’s coiffeur has been the subject of a malicious, unprovoked attack that affronted not only his tiny man bun, but questioned his sense of style, his grooming habits and – dare I say it – his sanity. We are not sure yet who the hater is, but we know this much: we are on the hunt for someone who uses scare quotes around established words, we are tracking down the sole person keeping Australia Post in business, and WE WILL FIND CAPS LOCK.


The entire Green family has felt the weight of this attack, as each of us has sported questionable haircuts over the years. I had a mullet in 2003, it was at one stage difficult to distinguish Lucy’s head from a bowl, Sez’s mercifully short-lived fringe looked like discount Spotlight curtains, and my mum gets told at petrol stations to take off her helmet before entering.

Theories abound: primary suspect being Tony Abbott, who thought it came over in a boat. Second, Rolf Harris, penning another belle lettres from prison, and lastly (and this one I find a little dubious) Mum, who is sick of getting asked by Miik how much Lego pays her in royalties.



My money is on a Facebook friend, which proves what we’ve all long suspected – that Facebook contains 1% real friends, 98% people you don’t know, and a few people that really hate your guts. I also think that it has to be a girl (possibly with a receding hairline which should narrow things down) because we cry when a split end we were fond of gets chopped, and because surely no guy would care enough to think about what another man’s hair gets up to on the weekend. As I mentioned to Miik while he was weeping and cramming chunks of cake into his face, to not expose the perpetrator is to let the terrorists win, and so we will be launching a full-scale criminal investigation. And by “we” I mean Miik, who has promised me that once I’ve finished this blog, he will ring the police station and ask them to investigate this as a hate crime. I have no doubt that the good folk at Midland police station will take the matter seriously as there are no other problems in the area.

What is particularly troubling about the attack is that the perp didn’t just focus on Miik. An innocent bun got hurt in the debacle, which is not really fair, because what did the knot ever do? All he does is ride around atop the head of an artist, which means that the amount of wanky conversations he’s had to suffer through are already turning him grey. If you’re reading this, manbun hater, we will not kowtow, and we will not back down. All this has done is prolong man bun’s stay of execution. Also know that the long arm of the law will soon be coming your way. The letter on which this hateful note came has already been dusted for fingerprints, and the vitriol with which you no doubt drafted this attack will allow us to swab your flecks of saliva for DNA.

Lastly, I’m curious to know what haircut you would like your mate to sport once the “topknot” is gone. I have several excellent suggestions:




Ice Ice Maybe?


Define terror?

Then again, Miik could just go back to his classic mid-90s bob, which was a massive hit with the ladies.


Don’t ask.

It’s a hard knock life.

Filling a car with 'Coalene' petrol, 1935.

Since scholarship money only extends so far, and I’ve become accustomed to a certain lifestyle (eating), I’ve taken a weekend job at *undisclosed petrol station* #humblepie. I joined for the uniform, primarily. It’s the way it sits on you. It’s the cut of the fabric, the way it takes every one of your best features and says nothing to see here. Which is a shame because if there’s any time you wouldn’t mind looking a little sexy, it’s while you’re on the forecourt. Dragging a bin behind you. In a fluoro vest that stops people from running you over. #tasteslikemamas

I have learned some hard truths on the beat: gas is transparent, 90% of the population are tools (don’t be one of them), and old ladies do drive offs.

Old Ladies

I didn’t see that one coming either, but as age increases, so too does the likelihood that your perp will be a woman. Don’t be fooled by their faltering gait, these are psychotic thrill-seekers in Homypeds and control briefs. These are rheumy-eyed dames that’ll pinch $100 premium from under your nose and smile at you on their way out.

The rules of who will and won’t do drive offs, I’ve realised, are often counterintuitive, and vary from station to station, but the following works as a general guideline.

People that don’t do drive-offs:

Bald head

Receding hairline head

Combover head

Sensible pants


Old men

Young women





Missing fingers

People that do:


I hate people that drive commodores. Don’t you mean you hate commodores? NO. I hate people that drive Commodores. I drove one for a while, out of necessity, and even I hated me. Sometimes I would just stay at home, attach electrodes to myself and look at images of Commodores while slowly increasing the voltage. Eventually it worked and I sold it to some hoodlum who threatened to come bash me up with his friends when it died on him. Then I got my brother to call him. Then he messaged me five minutes later begging me to forgive him. (Sometimes it’s best not to know.)

Other drive off red flags:

Very old cars

Very new cars

Missing teeth


Oakley glasses

Greasy hair

Rear spoilers

Statement tees

Let it also be known that if that place blows, I have zero idea what’s going on, so don’t come to me for help. I’ll be the person on the ground screaming “it’s the apocalypse, we’re all doomed” while people run past me saying doesn’t she work here? And even if nothing’s on fire I’ll be stopping dropping and rolling, because that’s all I seem to remember from any of the safety instructions I’ve ever been given. Tsunami – SDR, attempted mugging – SDR, bad hair day – SDR. You can roll your way out of anything, really, providing you do it with chutzpah.

On a less flammable note, I also have a bone to pick with pharmaceutical companies. Or rather, one of my customers does. You would think that on a bottle of lubricant (not the stuff for cars) they would make the barcode extra large and extra flat so that transactions could take place quickly and discretely. Not the case. If anything they’ve made the barcodes deliberately small and wrapped them around almost the entire bottle.

Which is what I discovered one fateful night when a softly-spoken taxi driver dropped by to purchase a pack of condoms. He’d just paid for his fuel, and after looking over both shoulders shuffled what I can only imagine he thought were illegal goods across the counter, whispering that he wanted a bag, which was weird because it made me whisper too even though we were the only people in the store. But whatevs. Condoms went through fine, but the lubricant (still not for cars) wasn’t so compliant. I tried numerous angles, I did the side swipe, the up and down swipe, the whirlpool swipe, the close-up-then-far-away swipe, and the magic swipe where I don’t even swipe it at all. In the end, I had to enter it manually, and I couldn’t remember where the button for doing that was so I had to fuss around for a while poking things like ‘staff member discount’ and ‘price override’ until I found it, during which time a small queue had started to form behind him. I really wanted to say “slippery little sucker” but he looked like he was about to cry, so I just winked at him and said, have fun with that you pervert.

I have many more tales from *undisclosed petrol station* to tell, including the one where I locked myself out of the building at night and then accidentally shut the pumps down with the back of my head while I was waiting to be rescued, as well as the one where I locked my lunch in the staff room and had to wave an IOU sticker at the camera so they didn’t think I was stealing their chips.

I have no idea why I’m still single.

I actually don’t. I’m bloody brilliant.

I knew what epistolary meant before you.


Hi Grace,

You might not remember me, but I met you at Jill Landers’ party two weeks back – I was the one wearing the hessian scarf, stone-wash overalls and a shirt featuring the entire cast of Hey Dad. It was an outfit inspired by my late grandad, a humble wheat farmer, whose earthy ensembles have heavily influenced my fashion sense. The point of my email is that my friend apparently overheard you referring to it as a bit too “now?” I insisted she misheard, but she was adamant. Just hoping to settle this bet (I’ve got $50 riding on it!)

P.S. I couldn’t stop ogling your fedora – where did you get it?

Yours enquiringly,



Hi Stephanie,

I do remember you, and that shirt. What a brilliant aesthetic nod to a truly legendary Australian show (albeit one that harboured a paedophile). In regards to the above comment, I wouldn’t be caught dead saying anything so gauche. If I was pushed, however, to find a fault – and I’m reaching here – it would possibly be that your gloves were a tad obvious (if you get my drift.) Perhaps something you might see in an indie film, but one that has been too successful. The rest of your outfit was impeccable, however, and this minor gaffe shouldn’t detract from what was an otherwise arresting ensemble.

P.S. As for the fedora, I’d love to divulge, but my dealer has sworn me to secrecy. (As you can imagine, the more clients she has, the less successful she’ll be.)

Hoping for your understanding,



Hi Grace,

Thanks for taking the time to get back to me. I would have replied sooner, but I’m currently writing a dissertation on the religious leanings of underground 80s punk band Crimson Moon. You may not have heard of them as they were only famous for one week, and even then only among five people, (one of whom includes yours truly.) A small heads-up: I may have accidentally found your fedora!! And when I say your fedora, I mean its duplicate, at Target. People were buying it in their droves! Uh oh!

Love Stephanie


Hi Stephanie,

Cheers for the heads-up, but I burnt it several weeks ago (almost immediately after leaving the party), as my faultless fashion radar augured its eventual dribble into the mainstream. It would have been classic if you’d purchased it though. ROFL.

(I am quite literally ROFLING at the moment – I’m trying to break in a pair of dungarees I bought from a homeless man. It has nothing to recommend it other than the brutally distressed look I’m currently applying).

Yours from the floor,



Hi Grace

I went back and bought the Fedora soon after sending you this email. It was a figurative finger to consumerism, and since the herd will soon have discarded it in their migration to the next mass trend, I plan on wearing it ironically at the very instant it becomes redundant. Perhaps with a pair of bifocals that only allows me to see half the world clearly. (A metaphor for the intellectual blindness that envelops the general public).



Dear Stephanie,

It was with a sense of sadness that I read your latest correspondence. I fear you may have fallen prey to an avaricious sale assistant offloading last year’s stock. How awful to be thwarted in your attempt to stick it to the man/woman/transgendered. Love to write more, but I’m currently in Paris. (The plane ticket was so dear I had to make my oeufs brouillés from caged eggs. Gasp.)



Hi Grace

I pray to anything or anyone that may or may not listen (I’m currently an agnostic pantheist) that you aren’t in Paris for the purpose of shopping. In 1987, when I began my sartorial quest, viciously jettisoning the foul booties my mother was attempting to shod me with, I vowed never to support a country that so brazenly railroads the avant-garde individual, whose lack of money in no way reflects his stylistic vision.

Yours from the under pits of an Armadale op shop,



Hi Stephanie,

Your presumption that I am doing Paris as the everyman shows an appalling lack of insight into my self-effacing aesthetic. Far from relying on the vulgar greenback, I’m currently eschewing worldly pleasures in a hostel that has attempted to recreate the squalor of early 1900s Montmartre. The unassuming couple who run it rely solely on good faith donations and the profits from their medicinal marijuana business. My quarters are frequented by a Tibetan monk, an ex-KKK member, a failed fashion designer and a four-fingered prostitute. Need I say more? All of which have inspired me to create this outfit (photo attached) which, I think you’ll appreciate, could not have found its inspiration in Armadale.

And yes, that gentleman begging in the background is a genuine leper.

Love Grace


Hi Grace,

Please refer to me now as Marcel – I recently changed it in honour of the great Marcel Duchamp, whose ground-breaking piece, Fountain, changed forever the face of modern art. (One need not travel 9000 miles in order to be inspired by the denizens of that great land). By adopting a unisex name, I simultaneously challenge the shackles of gender dichotomisation. I think you’ll find that the sexism inherent in unambiguously “female” names (see Grace) may foster sexual harassment, rape and even literal/figurative death.



Hi Marcel,

And I can hardly bring myself to say that name without revisiting my dinner. That particular name, at least according to the New Yorker, featured in the top 100 baby names of 2014. Whoops. I’m sure you can have it rescinded. I just lit some Fair Trade incense in the hope that you can.


Hi Grace

Oh no!! I think my message may have been too revolutionary for you!!! Let me elucidate: I was already aware that it was in the top 100 names – (I’ve been subscribed to the New Yorker since 1993, when, as a young girl, I realised that Enid Blyton’s overtly misogynistic works were retarding my intellectual and spiritual growth). In a startlingly bold move, I have intentionally chosen the most popular contemporary name, ergo undermining the fetish for the “novel” which so dominates mass culture.

Have you come across the writings of Slavoj Zizek? In one of his more ground-breaking claims he suggests that overt conformity tacitly operates to subvert conformity. I strongly recommend it, especially if you’ve been consisting solely on a diet of that notorious fraud Hegel, whose work, frankly, leaves me cold.

Enlighteningly yours,



Hi Marcel,

Impotent missions aside, I believe it was the revered writer Elmore Leonard who advised that one should use no more than three exclamation marks per 100,000 words of prose. Unless you plan on rewriting War and Peace (and I highly doubt this given the quality of your emails), you will still have far exceeded your quota. Ironic exclamation mark!! It is also clear to any discerning woman that the exclamation mark is a phallic symbol that represses woman at the very moment of its employment. I hope you don’t mind me speaking bluntly, but I’m a little shocked at your ignorance.

In the hope of your grammatical emancipation,



Hi Grace

This supposedly phallic symbol, I think you’ll find, is complete with a period at the bottom. If the stamp of the female was ever more clearly inscribed, I’d eat my ironic fedora!! Among the vulgus this might be construed as male dominance, but the period clearly overrides this, functioning as the base from which all (re)productive male exploits find their source. It’s a fact generally overlooked by those who haven’t proceeded beyond an undergraduate degree.

A free-form Haiku I wrote on this exact topic has recently been published in online Zine, “Plato’s Lunchbox” and they have kindly agreed to donate my fees to the fund of my choice, most of which will go to “free the caged chickens and their compliant oppressors.” Considering that situational ethics are the refuge of the moral pauper, I found that your week-on/ week-off support of chickens’ wellbeing, inexcusable. But that’s just me and the chickens talking. The rest I spread out across numerous aid organisations, as to privilege one charity over the other would no doubt plummet us into that very same caste system which currently holds the Indian people to ransom.

The Ganges, on a side note, is a personal Mecca, and I look forward to swimming with these noble people, who, despite their tragic attire, exhibit a true artistic spirit.




To implicitly support the work of late 16th century missionary Vasco de Ataíde, who ingratiated himself with the locals of that hallowed land as a purely self-gratifying venture, you enact a neo-colonialism that is as appalling as it is tasteless. It is also a dreadfully common offense. If you no longer wish to be shackled by the burden of conventionalism; one which is obviously taxing your mental health, let me take this opportunity to invite you to a small seminar I’m delivering this afternoon entitled “society’s salamander; shedding orthodoxy in the age of (un)reason.” I think the error of your ways will soon become evident.




I mean no offence when I say that I think your seminar will be little more than the ravings of a madman and that I would rather drink cat’s piss than come.




Hi Marcel,

No offence taken. As the great Alexander Pope once said, to err is human, to forgive, divine. With this in mind I overlooked your obviously self-directed anger; anger that was, no doubt, the result of gross inebriation and the humiliation of another rejected manuscript.

P.S. I am currently in the process of writing a book called “Dante’s Inferno Revisited.” In it, I detail a Tenth circle of Hell which involves all its citizens having to wear those gloves and listen to your voice (which I imagine resembles the mating call of a particularly libidinous bird) ad infinitum. After a day, I imagine the residents will be gagging for some good old fashioned hellfire.



Hi Grace (Exercised below)

Touring inside the cesspool of your mind was a Kafkaesque nightmare from which I may never recover. Consequently, I face Robert Frost’s proverbial fork in the road: one path tells me to raise funds for your immediate lobotomisation. The other involves me telling you that you’re a Grade A shithead and I hope you lose whichever hand is responsible for penning the relentless excrement that you label “literature.” Let me confess that I did not take the road less travelled.

Much Love,



Dear Mrs Jones,

Please accept my sincerest apologies on the passing of your daughter Marcel (nee Stephanie). I am sure that as she was being trampled to death under the feet of her contemporaries, she felt the warm embrace of knowing that her persistent rallying would, sooner or later, lead to the eradication of Hegel from all tertiary syllabi. Please kindly let me know when and where the funeral ceremony is, so I can pay my last respects to this extraordinary woman. I hope it’s not too much to ask that I be able to say a few words at the funeral? I know that no one was a more fervent supporter of my literary pursuits than your daughter. It will be a small and moving excerpt from my recently-published novel: “The ironic fedora: Cosmic justice in the age of skepticism.” I think she’d have got a real kick out of it.


Ecstatic (nee Grace).






How I owned a Gumtree Swindler – a series of correspondence.


untitled gum

There are some questionable characters on Gumtree: I found this one in the process of selling my car.

This is the story of “Ben” and what can only be described as THE reverse swindle of 2014.

* In memory of Aunty Sandy’s near-swindle of 2013 and Susannah Morcombe’s very real swindle of 2006. May this give you the closure you so desperately seek.


Date: Sun, 12 Jan 2014 19:18:13 +1100
Subject: Re: Car
From: pitt.ben624@gmail.com
To: megsjessie@hotmail.com

Hi – I was enquiring about your car – what’s the present condition and final price of your Gumtree Ad, best way to get me is via this email.


My Astra is in great condition and the final price is 11,000

Kind Regards,



Date: Mon, 13 Jan 2014 19:34:13 +1100
Subject: Re: Car
From: pitt.ben624@gmail.com
To: megsjessie@hotmail.com

Thanks for getting back,i’m cool with the price likewise the condition as described on the advert,i work with New Zealand Oil and Gas (NZOG) and we are presently offshore in New Zealand Taranaki Basin on kupe project.We do not have access to phone at the momement and that’s why I contacted you with internet messaging facility.Regarding the payment,i will be paying you through PayPal linked up with my ANZ bank account,please get back to me with your paypal details so i can process the payment,you can alternatively send your bsb acct name and number if you have no PayPal acct.I have also contacted my courier who will come for pick up and deliver it to my place in Darwin after the whole fund has been cleared into your acct. Await your reply



That sounds amazing – I’ll even throw in some car mats!

Kind Regards,



Date: Mon, 13 Jan 2014 21:15:00 +1100 Subject: Re: Car
From: pitt.ben624@gmail.com
To: megsjessie@hotmail.com

Advise acct details


My price has gone up – I want $11,500 for it. Let me know if you’re still fine to go ahead.

Kind Regards,



Date: Mon, 13 Jan 2014 23:33:58 +1100

Subject: Re: Car
From: pitt.ben624@gmail.com
To: megsjessie@hotmail.com

Ok no worries


Thanks for being flexible.

Unfortunately I’ve just had an offer from another guy who can come round and pick it up tomorrow and he said he’s happy to pay the original asking price of $12,000 😦 SORRY!!!

I hate to do this, but I think I’m going to have to go with him, purely because I’m a struggling uni student. Lol!

Kind Regards,



Date: Tue, 14 Jan 2014 10:01:51 +1100

Subject: Re: Car
From: pitt.ben624@gmail.com
To: megsjessie@hotmail.com

Ok no worries i’ll do $12500 for quicksale


Make it $13,000 and you’ve got a deal 🙂

Kind Regards,



Date: Tue, 14 Jan 2014 10:04:13 +1100

Subject: Re: Car
From: pitt.ben624@gmail.com
To: megsjessie@hotmail.com

ok fine


I’m so sorry to do this to you, but I forgot about the mags :/ :/ :/ :/

They are apparently valued at $250 each, which would mean that I forgot to include another $1000 total to the asking price. I must, in all fairness, request $14,000 for it.

I completely understand if this is now too much, but I’m sure I can find other people who are willing to buy it at that price…

Kind Regards,



Date: Tue, 14 Jan 2014 10:09:15 +1100

Subject: Re: Car
From: pitt.ben624@gmail.com
To: megsjessie@hotmail.com

appy sale then


Ok, ok – you called my bluff. I’ll take the $13000 firm.

Kind Regards,



Date: Tue, 14 Jan 2014 10:14:26 +1100
Subject: Re: Car
From: pitt.ben624@gmail.com
To: megsjessie@hotmail.com

Advise acct details


Just to let you know – I went to New Zealand six months ago, and we just thought it was the most beautiful place ever!!!

(My lover actually proposed to me there and we’re about to be married next month which is why I’m selling the car in such a hurry. Baby on the way!!)

Kind Regards,



Date: Tue, 14 Jan 2014 10:29:07 +1100

Subject: Re:
From: pitt.ben624@gmail.com
To: megsjessie@hotmail.com

Wow congrats


Thanks! We’re pretty excited – one month til beautiful baby Shaniqua comes along!

Is it alright if I give you Rodriguez’s account details instead? He reckons he knows it off by heart. Let me know if you have any problems, though, and I’ll get him to properly check it when we get home from the gyny 🙂

Account No: 84999973
BSB: 017-431

Kind Regards,



Date: Tue, 14 Jan 2014 11:26:43 +1100

Subject: Re:
From: pitt.ben624@gmail.com
To: megsjessie@hotmail.com

Advise the acct name


It’s Manuel-Pedro Rodriguez

Kind Regards,



Date: Tue, 14 Jan 2014 11:43:15 +1100

Subject: Re: Car
From: pitt.ben624@gmail.com
To: megsjessie@hotmail.com

Ok good,i will let you know when payment has been made and also contact my pickup agent regarding pickup arrangement but am trying to sort out with the pick up agent hope to sort it out soon.You will receive a confirmation email when done.


Awesome – let me know if Rodriguez missed any numbers out, and I’ll wait to hear from you about pickup.

Kind Regards,


Date: Tue, Jan 14, 2014 11:48 +1100
Subject: Re:
From: pitt.ben624@gmail.com
To: megsjessie@hotmail.com



Date: Tue, Jan 14, 2014 12:04:14 +1100
Subject: Re:
From: pitt.ben624@gmail.com
To: megsjessie@hotmail.com

I was just about to pay when i had this little problem with the picking up,my pick up agent says i will need to pay for the pick up before they can schedule a pick up date and time with you to deliver to Northern Territory,Australia,they charged me $950 for pick up and delivery,and payments for pick up made through them is made to their corporate international headquarters which is in China and the payments is made through western union money transfer,i will add the $950 to the money i will send through the transfer as soon as i have made the payments,i will email you and let you know and please i will need you to help me send the money to my pick up agent Headquarters in China through western union money transfer,this can be done at any western union section at the post office or online (http://www.westernunion.com.au),there is always western union money transfer section in most post offices.Thanks.

Let me know if it will not be a problem helping me,so i can initiate the transfer.


Sounds legit.

So does that mean that you need me to pay the $950 and you’ll reimburse me when you pay the cost for the car (ie. you’ll pay me the $13000 plus $950?)

Rodriguez told me to watch out for internet scams, but I believe in the innate goodness of humanity. I’m happy to do it, but you’ll have to give me a few days to get the money together. We’re in the middle of decorating the nursery and that little scamp is bleeding us dry before she’s even been born!

Kind Regards, Megan.


Hi Ben, ready to send $ through – just wanted to confirm that you will be paying me the $950 on top of the $13000. Please let me know asap.
Also, when will the car be getting picked up by your guy?

Kind Regards,


Date: Wed, 15 Jan 2014 06:22:17 +1100
Subject: Re:
From: pitt.ben624@gmail.com
To: megsjessie@hotmail.com

Yes. Will reimburse. It will be picked asap


Hi Ben,

Manuel Pedro-Rodriguez has just noticed that he has a rather large goiter on the side of his neck.

The only doctor that operates on this particular type of goiter is located in Paris, so we have to find a way to get some extra cash quickly.

I will now have to charge you $15000 for the car. Is this ok?

Kind Regards, Megan.


Hi Ben – I haven’t heard back from you. I’m assuming it’s because you think that paying for someone else’s goiter removal is unfair???

Guess what? So is stealing.

Moooohahahaha – playa got plaaaaaaaaaaaaayed.

I wrote a special ditty for you. It’s called “Ben and the case of the backfired Gumtree swindle.” Enjoy:

I once met a guy called “Ben,” who was a dirty, stinking schemer.

All his friends routinely mocked him cos he had a teeny wiener.

What led to his life of online crime? We may never understand.

A bit like wondering how Nickelback ever made it as a band.

I hope he gets a real job and stops telling naughty lies

I hear The Colonel’s hiring – I can see him shovelling fries.

If Benji hears this message then I recommend he listens

I’d hate for him to serve hard time in a grotty all-male prison.

P.S. Happy has an ‘h’ in it. ‘Appy’ is not a word.

P.P.S Your grammar is also a crime.

P.P.P.S Let’s keep in touch.

Mills and Boon have a lot to answer for.


I don’t know who Sandra Hill is and whether she’s laughing and making a packet, or whether she truly believes that love comes in the form of a (blessedly) thin book about randy she whales – yes, this features in the blurb. One thing is certain, though, her statement “Get ready for the time of your life” is presumptuous, to say the least.

If you’re having the time of your life reading a book, there’s something wrong with you. If you’re having the time of your life reading Truly Madly Viking, there’s something seriously wrong with you. If you’re having the time of your life writing a blog about these books, you’re human.

Anyhow, Sandra’s not the only nutter – I’ve searched the net and here are a collection of some of my favourite M&B offerings:



Most people don’t like getting jilted, and when they do, they don’t put on their gumboots and sit on a hay bale thinking that was awesome, and grinning like a buffoon. This book was followed up by ‘Battered to Death,’ the cover of which had the same girl laughing uncontrollably and holding a poster that said ‘let’s do this again some time.


Say that ten times.



Being blind is bad enough – but to be blind and buttonless…

The tragedy is that no one seems to want to buy this stud a new shirt, not even one that says “I’m blind and all they got me was this lousy blouse.” And really, Carol Finch might as well have just called it The Blind Horseman, because being shirtless in a Mills and Boon is par for the course. I have yet to see one of these books set in the Antarctic, although I’m sure they’d still find a way to strip the lead back. It’d go something like this:

Antonio scaled the cliff face, his rippling muscles aiding him in his perilous quest.  Caught on a craggy rock, his shirt tore, revealing the bronzed body of a Norse god. “You’ll freeze to death,” said Juanita, tears threatening to cloud her large, impossibly blue eyes. “Ha ha, you beguiling she-vixen,” said Antonio, “not with my invisible shirt I won’t.”

Man I should give up my day job. Oh, that’s right, I don’t have one.



The devil wouldn’t be caught dead in velvet – it’s highly flammable.


grace before meat

Give me the ham and no one gets hurt.

If there’s one thing I know about grace, it’s that it originates somewhere in your heart, not your digestive tract. I doubt anyone has ever said, “I’d love to let you off, but I’ve just had lunch.” If anything, it should be called Grace after Meat, because someone who’s just eaten is far more likely to overlook an offence. Hence the catchphrase, “you’re not you when you’re hungry.” For all we know Hitler was just a guy in need of a Mars Bar.



What’s that in kilos?



Hand me the Marlboros. Quickly.

When Fabio gets oiled up, and stares into your soul with all the intelligence of a half-eaten pizza, you pay attention; mostly because he looks like the love-child of Billy Ray Cyrus and a cross-eyed tangerine. The opportunities for memes here are endless, but I’m trying to wean myself off them, and sometimes that means not superimposing Mills & Goon across his forehead.

There we have it, and I haven’t even begun to explore Harlequin romance novels. Sorry for anyone that actually does read these books – I’m sure you’re normal, and that you’re just in need of  your own craggy Antonio. Don’t worry, I had a quick scout and I’ve found just the guy.



You’re welcome.

The Shining? Grade Seven? Really?

I’ve discovered scary movies late in life: I still don’t love the ones where people’s heads are being used as punch bowls, but I don’t mind the occasional (tasteful) blood bath. This doesn’t sound that earth-shattering unless you appreciate that my childhood aversion to horror movies was less a dislike than a full-blown mental disorder.

All my neuroses, I like to think, are a result of early exposure to the genre, although apparently I was already messed up in utero: Legend has it I came out wearing a cravat saying, “I’d kill for a stiff drink – the interior decoration in that joint was apalling.” That never happened, but there have been several other signs of mental fragility, and since my parents are both fairly normal, most people assume the apple kind of projectiled off the tree and rolled down a hill into a ditch somewhere far, far away.

Abnormalities aside, I don’t think I’m the only kid that’s been traumatised by watching these films at a young age. I’m not sure what the go is now at primary school parties, but in my day it almost always involved watching a horror movie at the end of the night, which meant that I had to sit in the toilet for the last few hours singing the theme tune to “Pirates of Penzance” until someone picked me up.

In the interest of upcoming generations, I’ve devised some not-so-scary alternatives to the classics. Basically, I’ve left the chilli in and removed the seeds. (It’s a rubbish analogy but I’ve lost my creative mojo after reading about things like Wittgenstein’s notion of the essentially philosphical nature of humour): let’s just say that the guy wouldn’t survive on the comedy circuit.


A Nightmare on Oak Street.











Running parallel to Elm Street, Oak street is the birthplace of acne-riddled Frederico Kruger, a lonely Hispanic boy with scissors for hands. His dreams of becoming a proctologist in tatters, he now uses his digits for other pursuits, such as decoupage and paper tole.


The Sixth Pence







What happened to my career?

Impoverished Jewish girl in Dickensian London spends five pence on a box of matches before blowing the remaining one on a pack of Twisties. Fagan takes her into his pack of car thieves, and not long after, she and Oliver Twist run off to Vegas to get hitched. Six months later, he swaps her for a bowl of porridge. “Moving”, “genre-defying” and “courageous”, this anachronistic masterpiece will leave moviegoers worldwide saying “please sir may I have some more.”


Snakes on a Train (in Maine)








Continuing his obsession with abstract titles, the director of “Snakes on a Plane” brings us “Snakes on a Train in Maine.” The plot is as follows: a guy from New England finds two snakes on a train, throws them out of the carriage and the movie ends just after the opening credits. A lesson David Ellis could have profited from the first time round.













Do not be fooled by Elizabethtown’s location in the “rom-com” section. Noone who has laboured through the original will deny its capacity for inflicting trauma on the least discerning of movie critics. My re-imagined offering, “Dullsville”, centres around a group of townsfolk forced to sit in a darkened room watching Elizabethtown on repeat while being forcefed biltong. (While the premise may be equally chilling as the original, no clips from the 2003 film are featured.)


Friday 31st: Hockey just got real mixed up.









Dyslexic Jason Vorhees misreads his hockey grand final date (Friday 13th), turning up weeks later on the 31st. Still reeling from the truancy of their star player, his embittered team mates beat him with pucks, one of which hits his temple, claiming his life. Frederico Kreuger makes paper chains for his funeral.


The Chair Switch Project











Somebody picks up one chair and switches it with another. Nothing happens in this minimalist masterpiece, much like the original.


The Philatelist









Linda Blair is just a normal girl, or is she? She isn’t, and her mother is worried. With only a collection of stamps and an elderly mailman for friends, Blair starts to exhibit increasingly bizarre behaviour, one of which is watching season 1 through 8 of Gilmore Girls. A priest is called and burns every copy at the house as well as those in all DVD stores within an 8 mile radius. Slowly recovering, her fetish for philately reawakened, she falls in love with the mailman but dies shortly thereafter from spinal injuries originating in her neck. She donates her collection to the Gilmore Girl recovery centre in Nevada.

See now… isn’t that nice? Now I’ve just to figure out a plot for “When Carrie met Sally.” *

*All contributions considered.

Bub Crawl.










My heart sinks whenever I get one of these invitations in the mail. Sinks. I don’t know what that says about me, but I think I’d rather get stoned to death with tictacs than have to go to one more. The worst thing about admitting that you’re not into baby showers, though, is that it looks like you’re unmoved by the miracle of birth and people start to suspect that you do this kind of thing in your spare time:








He loved it.

I don’t have any beef with babies, and I’m always up for celebrating with friends, but something disturbing and potentially lethal happens when the two are combined; a bit like trying to mix Hydrogen peroxide and Sulfuric acid.

My first gripe is with the opening ceremony, which is something you endure, much like you endure canker sores or tinea. Everybody sits in a circle while soon-to-be mum unwraps her stash, leaving a pause in between EVERY single gift so that EVERYBODY can comment on EVERYTHING: from pyjamas to rattles to bum rash cream – you name it and someone’s going to find it adorable because it’s vaguely baby-related. The whole thing drags on for so long you wonder who’ll be driving her to the hospital when her water breaks. And there’s the person – there’s always one – that goes overboard and makes your present look crap. I usually buy something normal, like an outfit of some kind, but I always seem to be sitting next to the person that’s bought a cot, or a diamond in the shape of a dummy, and you know that the pink onesie you bought is just going to be used to shine it.

The second issue is more of an OHS concern, involving potential RSI to the muscles around your mouth responsible for smiling. For some reason, other people genuinely seem to love going to these things, which means that  you’re forced  to walk around all day looking like a demented circus clown just to keep up. If you’ve ever been in a bridal party, you’ll know the adverse effects of a day of forced smiling. It’s all fun and games at first, but by the  reception you feel like giving the bird to the next person that asks you to say cheese. Never have photos taken at baby showers: you might be able to get away with that expression in real life, but the camera, which never lies, will capture your boredom for posterity.

The worst part of a baby shower, though, even worse than the present opening – no mean feat – is the games. Here are two corkers:

I’m always on edge when the first of these games comes up because it is fraught with danger. “Guess the width” involves people guessing the measurement of the pregnant woman’s belly and, as you can imagine, things have the potential to get very weird, very quickly. My personal theory, backed up by decades of hard research, is that pregnant or not, no woman wants someone to guess that their belly is double its actual size. I imagine that many a godmothership has been revoked as a result of this game. That’s why I always go way under: my standard is 30cm. “What? Not 30? Get out of town –show me that tape.” I go too far the other way, though, and they smell a rat, which is why I am currently godmother to zero children.

The other killer is the nappy game. I don’t know whether this is a staple or I’ve just been incredibly unfortunate, but for those lucky uninitiated souls, it involves identifying poo-hued sauces off a nappy. This happens. The problem here, as with games of any kind, is that you look like a spoil sport if you don’t join in, so I like to say that I feel a stomach ache coming on or pretend that with my uncanny sixth sense I have realised that I will be allergic to all of the foods on offer. If someone challenges me on this, I just pat them on the back and say ‘oh you,’ then walk away to eat food off something that wasn’t purpose-built to absorb a kilo of crap.

*If you are having a baby shower soon, this blog doesn’t apply to you. Your baby shower will be awesome.

4 things that shouldn’t exist that do.

Directory Assistance

This “service” is a bit like the kid that sticks his fingers in his ear and starts singing the theme tune to Thomas the Tank Engine as soon as you try to talk. The other day I asked for the number for “Dominos,” and it said “Sorry did you say Auto One?” and I said “No, if I wanted Auto One, I would have said bloody Auto One,” to which it replied, “sorry I didn’t catch that” and we started all over again.

I’m pretty sure these companies just hire guys that can do good R2D2 impersonations and give them the brief “whatever you do, do not give them the right number.” I say this because no machine could come up with some of the truly inspired alternatives they provide.








Liquorland, not Disneyland!!

If you ask for the number for Pizza Hut, for example, they will say, “did you ask for the clinic for childhood obesity?” Similarly, the guy that wants to find the location of their local Langtrees will be given the number of a psychologist that specialises in sex addiction. It’s funny, except for when I’m trying to find my nearest Langtrees.

Medical Receptionists

It’s a bit harsh to say that medical receptionists should be vaporised, but I don’t mean all of them, I just mean the EVIL ones, who, I’m pretty sure, start the day sitting in a circle and reciting some kind of anti-Hippocratic oath which goes along the lines of: “we’ll strive to veto bulk bill fees, no matter how poor our patients be, we must eschew all sympathy, and in their sickness take much glee.”










Sorry, we just can’t squeeze you in.

The irony is, (are you paying attention, Alanis,) that if anywhere needed people that had a scrap of compassion it would be at a place like a doctor’s surgery. Unfortunately it continues to attract Bundyesque types, which makes me think that some part of the screening process involves making sure these woman tick yes to statements like “I hate humans” or “If I could, I would eradicate world peace”  before they get the job. I don’t like to make sweeping statements, but this particular profession is chock full of rotten apples.


If you’ve ever been on school camp, you will know the familiar thud of carbs smacking your steel tray and a woman who has never washed her hands yelling “NEXT!” while you scurry off wondering how you’re going to feed it to the dog without getting caught.

Sizzlers is a kind of sophisticated take on this scenario. Clearly the health department has not visited in decades, has forgotten they exist, or have some kind of agreement with the owners whereby they turn a blind eye in exchange for getting, not only a free meal, but one where they can eat all they want!!! (They still haven’t quite got the concept of Sizzlers.)










New expanded menu

I don’t think I’ve ever been there and not seen flies loitering around what looks like a partially cooked chicken on a bed of very distressed potatoe or Maggi noodles and Chum posing as spaghetti bolognaise. But because no boundaries have been set, (and this is why Sizzler’s needs to be eliminated – because it plays Jedi mind tricks on you,) you want, nay, must have, your money’s worth.

It’s a sad fact of life that at the heart of every person that doesn’t want to get food poisoning is another part of them whispering “but it’s freeeeee,” and, sadly, that one usually wins out; which is exactly why they should never make aspestosis or tinea free.

Nancy Gantz Pantz

For years, larger ladies have found comfort in the fact that while Weight Watchers may not work, they can always fall back on an elasticated 10kg drop, courtesy of Nancy Gantz. What they don’t know, (at least until they own a pair of her products,) is that Nancy grew up torturing  kittens before deciding to move on to humans.









Also great for double chins.

I hope these products never fall into the hands of our enemies, because waterboarding would be a walk in the park compared to a day out in one of these bad boys. “Pliers or Gantz Pantz” they’ll say, laughing maniacally, and before you have a chance to answer they’ve pulled out her patent tummy tuckers, snapped the elastic, and, much like Pavlov’s dogs, the sound alone will make you crap your pants.

There’s so many more, but you’ve got to start somewhere. Without going into details, here are several other blights on humanity’s landscape:

How I Met Your Mother

Lady? Gaga

Bollywood films

Garden gnomes

Any movie J-Lo has ever made


Red Bull ads

It’s not extensive, but I’m a very important person, and I’ve got very important other things to attend to, so that’ll have to do for now.


* Oh, and that kid in Year 4 that stole my pack of chips

It’s not me, it’s you.


Getting out of a bad conversation is a bit like breaking up with someone with whom you’ve had a very brief, very dysfunctional, relationship. “The magic’s gone,” you want to say, “I just don’t think I can do this anymore.” Unfortunately it’s not that simple, because the person you dumped sees you with someone else literally minutes later, which is an offensively short turnaround period, even for a known lothario.

I’ve never bailed on someone just because they’re boring. Enduring killer yawn-fests is a specialty of mine, and I can do some of the most convincing “interested” faces you’ll see this side of Broadway. The reason these conversations are bearable, though, is that the other party is at least throwing the ball back; and I pay that, regardless of how I feel about your new twelve-sided Rubix cube.

Then there’s the other breed – the ones you can’t squeeze anything out of, regardless of how much bait you dangle. These people have the potential to take a beautiful little number like, “I heard you’re running for parliament, that’s great – what kind of changes are you thinking of making when you come into power?” and answer it in under ten seconds. It’s a skill to convey your message with this degree of brevity, but the downside is that you’re only a few words away from sounding like “me Tarzan, you Jane.”

This situation is still not bail-warranting. I enjoy the challenge these people present, and their social graces are such that I doubt they notice the proverbial elephant that is our pathetic attempt at conversation. In fact, even if there was literally an elephant in the room, you probably wouldn’t get much more out of them than “Look – there elephant. Me confused.”

There are really only two situations where I feel like an exit is justified. The first is when there is nothing left for either party to talk about. And I do mean nothing. We both know it, and we’re both frantically shuffling through all known files on the other person trying to find something, anything, to talk about. My desperation was once so great, that I was overjoyed to remember that a member of their family was seriously ill: (enquiries of this nature will buy you at least another five minutes.)

My trademark excuses in this situation are “I’ve gotta go to the loo,” “can I get you a drink?” and, if I’m really stuck, “Is that the time.” None of these are particularly convincing, but I find that the other person is so relieved they’ve found an out, they’d buy it even if you said that your nan had just called from onboard the HMS Cutlass where she was being held for ransom by pirates.

The second pike-worthy situation involves a group of people I refer to as “drifters,” because their nomadic lifestyle means that they camp in a place for only so long as they continue to find the living conditions suitable, and because their eyes kind of roam around the room while you’re talking, landing on anything that’s more interesting.

I think I would rather the drifter just said to me, “I’ve got to go – this is killing me,” because at least they wouldn’t be making a mockery out of both of us: the person who hangs around, on the other hand, has essentially left only a shell behind while the rest of him is teleported somewhere else, somewhere better.

The way to identify a genuine drifter from someone with a lazy eye is to say something like “It’s hard being a nun in the 21st century,” or “I can’t believe I got scoliosis and rabies at the same time.” If they say “uh huh,” or “me too,” you can either stick around and have a bit more fun with them or quietly bail while their attention is elsewhere, so at least when they turn around they’re standing by themselves, dumped, in the middle of the dancefloor.

I’d like to think that I fall into none of the above categories, but, then again, most of the population probably feels the same. The only one I’m positive I’m innocent of is being a drifter: that kind of imagined superiority requires a degree of arrogance I’m incapable of.

Mind you, I was pretty into myself when that guy told me his life wouldn’t be worth living if it weren’t for this blog.*

*This never happened.

10% relevance, 90% Colin Firth. Enjoy. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hasKmDr1yrA