Queries and Qualms of the Great Unwashed # 2

Another month is upon us, and with it comes another quintet of queries and qualms from devastatingly downtrodden and disaffected dudes and dudettes. It would be nice if alliteration could solve all our problems. In the meantime, we’ll have to rely on the three-time Grammy award-winning solutions of the Mobar Gazette staffers. Achtung.





Dear You Guys,

There is a woman in my office who is always laughing. Okay, so she may not always be laughing, but when she’s not laughing, she has this stupid half grin on her face. All the time. Smiling like a moron. There’s nothing to smile about in our office, let alone laugh. Every time I see her, I feel compelled to punch her in the face. Is this normal? Am I the crazy one here?

Yours in frustration,

Gordon Ficklewaite, Gloucester


Dear Gordon,

I bet you’ve expressed these thoughts out loud before, and you’ve probably been shot down, haven’t you? Written off by one or more colleagues as an emotionally crippled loner with a tendency towards violent misogyny. Well, their laissez-faire brand of psychological profiling at the water cooler may be right on the money, but so are you. A woman knows.

This stupid cow may look happy, but in actual fact she is almost certainly plagued by a deep inner torment, strong feelings of isolation, depression and occasional suicidal thoughts. She hides this at work by smiling like a dog with a chop bone caught in its mouth. I imagine that she shares her home with no-one, apart from her enormous grief and the hard liquor that she binges on to block out the pain.

Repress your hatred for her. One day, she shall fail to show at work. You can revel in the hollow victory that her death or lengthy hospitalisation will afford you. Or you can swallow your pride and prescription painkillers and ask this broken woman if she would like to come over to yours tonight and share a bottle of gin and stories of intense self-loathing and misery.

Warm and kind regards,

Annette Curtain


G’day Cobbers,

My bloody government is giving me 900 dollarydoos as a flamin’ incentive to inject into the bloody economy to stop it from bloody collapsing. Whaddya reckon I should spend it on?

Hooroo,

Keith Boon, Leeton


Dear Keith,

We had a staff meeting the other day, during which I proposed that any future articles should carry no references whatsoever to fiscal policy or editorial opinion on the various recessions/depressions currently engulfing the world. More than ample space has already been devoted to this topic, and further unqualified analysis and comment shall henceforth be avoided unless absolutely necessary. Unfortunately, you were not at that staff meeting.

I take it from your uneducated lilt that you are of Australian descent. I have no interest in your reprehensible acquisitiveness stemming from yet another ill-conceived government initiative. It is thoroughly unlikely that an eighth generation convict such as yourself even possesses the basic literacy necessary to comprehend any of the preceding sentences.

In conclusion, spend it on beer, “barbies”, “sheilas” and thongs, you flaming drongo.

Yours in unashamed cultural elitism,

Logan Bluetooth



Dear Lady & Gentleman,

In your opinion, what is the greatest song ever written by a human?

Kind regards,

Klaus Farfenglüffen, Düsseldorf




Gutentag Klaus,

Compliment du jour to you, and many thanks for specifying “by a human”. The greatest song ever written by a non-human was of course Rock Lobster, which was effortlessly penned by The B-52’s faithful wah-wah pedal, Waylon.

We’re not talking iconic effects pedals though, are we, darling? We’re talking hairy, cancer-prone, steak munching, talk show hosting, car crashing, mortgage paying humanoids, with the hugging and the kissing and the double clicking and the text messaging and the inappropriate touching.

My answer is Straight Outta Compton by NWA. I prefer Sinéad O’Connor’s cover of it though.

Yours fabulously,

Peter File



Hullo there,

I’ve a bunion on my right foot, it’s a big bastard like. I had tae cut a hole in my shoe tae make room for it. It hurts tae buggery, I cannae get rid of it. I dinnae ken what tae do!

Yours truly,

Angus McDaid, Midlothian


Angus,

Marone. Sounds to me like this guy is causing you some problems, am I right? I ain’t saying this is really my, how they say, field of expert ease, but I think I might be able to help you out. I come across problems like this in my line of work, and I do what I gotta do, I take care of them.

Now, me and couple of the boys, we could pay this bunyip character a visit, see if we can’t work something out. I ain’t saying we’re gonna get rough or nothin’, but sometimes you gotta understand that some people, they don’t respond so well to, let’s say, conventional negotiations and such.

Anyway pal, give me a call and let me know what sort of budget we’re talkin’ here.

Regards,

Eddie Two Names



Sirs,

I am a partner in the law firm that occupies the offices directly beneath you. We are finding it increasingly difficult to attend to our professional duties due to the excessive noise, vibrations, and peculiar odours being emitted from your premises.

There is also a rather concupiscent gentleman of pallid complexion that loiters outside our offices and often pesters our junior staff. I believe he is in some way engaged by your company.

Kindly see to it that the points raised in this missive are addressed in a satisfactory manner.

Sincerely,

J. David Urqheart
Senior Partner
Urqheart, Urqheart & Hennessy


Dear Lowly Reptile,

It gave me great pleasure to think of you as being physically (and metaphorically) beneath myself and my enormous staff. It gave me almost as much pleasure to begin a letter with such a lurid and demeaning double entendre.

I was most dismayed to discover that our various emissions are offending the delicate senses of those that occupy the offices of Ambulance Chaser, Ambulance Chaser & Bottom Feeder. That is of course if dismayed is a synonym for overjoyed.

The Mobar Gazette is a living, breathing organism; its staff and their varied habits are the various muscles, vital organs and sticky bodily fluids contained within. Thus, they may occasionally emit odours and noises that run the risk of upsetting the more precious amongst us. We make no apologies for our existence.

As for the “concupiscent gentleman of pallid complexion”, I assume you are referring to our entertainment editor, Peter File, or as the gals in the typing pool refer to him – Letch Luthor. Mr File’s job requires him to be across all areas in order to sniff out a good story, whether it is on the red carpet at an awards ceremony, or in this case, in the seat fabric of your office juniors.

I trust this has satisfied all your frivolous queries, however if it has not, please do not hesitate to produce a guttural scream of frustration for the pure enjoyment of those located in the plush offices directly above you.

Yours in utter contempt for you and your profession,

Logan Bluetooth

The Art of Letter Writing # 3.14 - Samsung vs. The Apostrophe

Written by Eoinín McAlpine

Dear Samsung Mobile Phone Department,


Re: Samsung L810 AKA Samsung Steel


Bob Dylan once sang “the times, they are a changing”. I didn’t particularly like that song very much. David Bowie once sang “ch-ch-ch-ch-changes”. That was a much better song, but that’s Bowie for you, isn’t it?

I suppose you’re wondering what these two iconic singers could possibly have to do with your range of mobile phones. Nothing, I guess. But I have recently gone through a change that could truly define my existence as a person. Gender reassignment surgery? Acceptance of a new religion? Curly fries instead of regular?

No. I have purchased my first non-Nokia mobile phone.

Hold off on those high-fives for the moment. I’ve hardly gone to the effort of constructing an introductory paragraph with quoted song lyrics to congratulate you on being seven shades of awesome, now have I?

That is not to say I am not rather impressed with this phone. I can make and receive phone calls. I can take high-quality photos of people when they fall asleep on the train. I even have Raffi’s subtle ballad Bananaphone as my ring tone.

Yes, it would seem that all the pro-Nokia propaganda spread about the place has little or no truth to it at all. My genitals have not liquefied, I haven’t contracted hand herpes, and my Nokia-owning friends are still willing to communicate with me in person and by phone.

However, it’s not all beer and skittles. Let’s talk about text messages. By and large, there is very little difference between sending an SMS on this phone and on any Nokia I have ever owned. I understand that you have to be a little different, so the space bar is a different key. No bother, in time I’ll adjust to that.

My gripe lies with the inexplicable location in which one finds the apostrophe. Not under the 1 key as I would have expected. My old friends the full stop, comma, exclamation mark and question mark are there. So are the hyphen, colon, brackets, backslash and even the @ symbol.

Apostrophe: Missing In Action.

Finally, I found it. One can take the protracted route of going through the options menu and inserting it as a symbol. The more familiar with this phone (and other Samsung models, I presume) will be aware that holding down the # key and scrolling through the symbols gets you there a little quicker.

A quick English lesson – the apostrophe is not a symbol. It is a punctuation mark, and a bloody good one too. The apostrophe can do all sorts of useful things, like denoting possession of something, or replacing one or more letters to make multiple words into one. The efficient nature of the apostrophe makes it an essential ingredient of a text message.

@, on the other hand, is indeed nothing more than a symbol. It has only two purposes – a substitute for spelling at in its entirety, or a crude representation of a Danish pastry. While laziness may be at an all time high, most people can still be bothered typing out both letters contained in at. I can’t comment on the prevalence of pastry-related text messages, but I’m willing to bet there’s a greater need for apostrophes.

I’m fully aware predictive text could solve my problem, but as you’ve probably gathered, I’m not a predictive text kind of guy. The Rise of the Machines is an inevitable event, but I’m not about to concede defeat by giving a phone the satisfaction of accurately predicting what I want to say.

I don’t know much about the construction of mobile phones. It would probably be fair to say that I know absolutely nothing. But if one manufacturer can do it, then I’m fairly confident you can too. It’s hardly breaking the atom. And no, @om is not in common usage. The apostrophe is.

I’m not asking for my phone to be repaired, I’ll live with this technological handicap for the time being. All I ask is that on future models, you give the apostrophe the respect it deserves. It’s what separates us from the apes.

Yours sincerely,

Eoinín McAlpine

Logan Bluetooth's Bulging Stimulus Package

Unsurprisingly Written by Logan Bluetooth

As the editor of such a topical, ear to the ground, finger on the pulse kind of publication as this one, it is considerably difficult to avoid making almost constant references to the current dire economic situation we find ourselves in. So unavoidable in fact that I have decided to devote an entire article to it.

Rather than bore the trousers off you with paragraph after bloody paragraph of sensible fiscal policy, radical nationalisation of financial institutions and the opportunistic brewing of panic amongst the masses that seems to be so in vogue with the media at the moment, let’s enjoy ourselves.

I’ll be the first to tell you that clouds are comprised mainly of dust particles and moisture and are therefore incapable of retaining any sort of metal lining, but there’s no reason not to do the Japanese thing and view this crisis exactly how one should – as an opportunity.

Exiting gracefully from a recession is traditionally accomplished by way of waging a war or two. Unfortunately, the various administrations that got us into this mess have done the war thing to death, quite literally it would seem.

So with the armed forces stretched to breaking point and the list of easily invaded and conquered/liberated nations shrinking by the day, we must turn our attention to our countrymen and women.

Am I suggesting civil war? Well, not exactly. But there are certainly a few expendable groups of citizens that by their very nature are volunteering to take one for the team and get things back on track.

Firstly, renters. No country ever achieved greatness due to the hard work of renters. These people are the kind of commitment-shy, fence-sitting, flip-flopping, oh-not-right-now-I’ll-do-it-later, prepaid mobile phone plan using layabouts that caused half the problems we face today.

Secondly, personal injury lawyers. Thanks to these eels, we are already lumbered with such a litigious society that an individual who lacks the nous (and presumably the necessary opposable thumbs) to operate a cup of coffee without scalding themselves is rendered an instant millionaire. A recession brings with it desperation, and desperation brings with it the motivation to sue someone for utterly ludicrous reasons. The last thing we need is people or organisations being sued for money they don’t have.

Finally, anyone worth two bob at Apple. That such an expensive device designed to electronically soil itself almost immediately after purchase became the status symbol of a generation is a damning indictment on the most recent economic boom. A new advertising campaign of silhouetted imbeciles with white headphones dancing their way up to the unemployment office is in order.

Casting aside our collection of villains for the moment, let us turn our attention to my proposed remedy for our current woes – construction. Ignore the fact that grossly inflated property prices were to an extent a partial cause of this maelstrom of debt. Building more housing developments will do nothing other than give renters yet another opportunity to um and ah. What I propose is the state sponsored construction of coliseums in the capital cities of all developed nations.

The Colosseum in Rome was constructed over the course of a decade. Given the advances in construction technology, today one could expect a similar project to be completed in a year. Allowing for the interference of unions and organised crime, a safe estimate would be two years. If the self-proclaimed experts are to be believed, this is also roughly how long the recession is expected to last.

In addition to established construction firms, any individual left jobless as a result of the downturn would be given the opportunity to work on this project. As well as affecting the unemployment rate, wages paid to workers would in turn be injected into the ailing economy.

Temporary rises in employment and cash flow shall obviously be a positive, as will the civic pride generated by the presence of such a noble structure. However these alone will not cure the overall problems currently facing the economy. This is where the gaggle of bloodsucking bottom feeders mentioned earlier come into play.

A coliseum is nothing but a notable achievement in architecture until it is filled with entertainment. In ancient Rome, fearsome gladiators not unlike airborne telephone enthusiast Russell Crowe would entertain the masses by way of slaying all manner of foes in gruesome battles.

Tedious human rights campaigners have done their best to erode good old fashioned fun over the last couple of millennia, but with the collapse of the economy, their sun-dried tomato-nibbling, Chardonnay-swilling time has thankfully passed. All bets are off, and the salivating masses need their suppressed blood-lust appeased.

Whilst one is tempted to suggest instantly gratifying mob justice solutions, such as having any bank executive that has received a large bonus become the recipient of an even larger public stoning, that would be rather unsophisticated. We can do better. You forget that we now have a coliseum at our disposal.

The masses shall be ushered in, paying a nominal fee upon entering. Though wearing bed sheets and wreaths of laurel will be encouraged, it will not be compulsory. Snack food will be included in the price and comprised entirely of grapes hand-fed to the punters.

The renters, the ambulance chasers and Apple’s corporate hierarchy shall be clad in Romanesque attire and assembled in the arena. If necessary, some shall be chained to objects to prevent their cowardly escape.

When the audience is settled, the entertainment may begin. Armour clad warriors, armed to the teeth with swords, shields and maces shall pour into the arena and begin to circle the doomed collection of villains.

Hidden trapdoors shall be flung open, revealing all manner of beasts – leaf tigers, Peruvian groin-gnawing squirrels, hoop anacondas, venomous flying bears, and sabre-toothed Siberian fighting penguins.

And so the orgy of gore shall ensue: blood shall be spilled as the renters are rounded up and run through by the gladiators, begging for their lives and tenancy agreements as the anacondas roll towards them with an evil glint in their eyes. The lawyers shall realise the futility of a class action against the manufacturers of the swords that decapitate half of them, the remainder enduring a painful, groinless demise at the teeth of the Peruvian contingent.

Meanwhile, the entrails of Apple’s corporate dream team shall spill onto the dusty surface of the arena before their soulless bodies are picked bare by a flock of furious penguins. Any plucky survivors will be viciously mauled by cunningly camouflaged leaf tigers and precision attacks from swooping venomous bears.

There may be some that view such a plan as needlessly barbaric and a giant step backwards for humanity. Ignore them. They are almost certainly the kind of folk that would be of more use being slaughtered for your entertainment than sitting around cooing about printing more money and insuring toxic assets.

There is endless fodder for these brutal exhibitions. Think of them not as uncivilised manifestations of a misplaced thirst for scapegoatery, but more as a tactical removal of specific groups and individuals that could potentially cause another recession in the not too distant future.

Raising capital to arouse our limp world economy need not be handled by men in suits behind closed doors when it can just as easily be accomplished by men and women clad in bed sheets and laurel wreaths, cheering on courageous gladiators engaged in a thrilling bloodsport for our own amusement.

The Art of Letter Writing # 8a

Written by Eoinín McAlpine

Dear Sirs,


I write with regards to your perpetually popular product, Rowntree’s Fruit Pastilles.

It is true that it is a more than adequate sweet. One would even go so far as to place it in the same league as other triumphs of tubed sweets: Rolos, fruit Mentos (but not mint Mentos), and even the humble Mint Imperial.

That said, I feel there are some fundamental issues that are hampering the potential immortality of the fruit pastille.

First and foremost, let us discuss the ratio of flavours available in a packet. You probably know what’s coming, but hear me out. I am neither a blackcurrant devotee nor a member of the anti-lime brigade. Far from it. Truth be told, I am quite the citrus enthusiast.

Call me crazy, but I have a dream. I have a dream that one day, a person will open a packet of fruit pastilles and not fear that the blackcurrant pastille they are greeted with will be the only one they will encounter in the entire packet. I have a dream that should one discover a lime pastille, they will not expect it to be followed by eight more of the same flavour.

I note that you now offer bags of blackcurrant and strawberry pastilles, and entire tubes of blackcurrant pastilles. This is a grave mistake and a knee-jerk reaction to a much more complex problem. Why do you think consumers dislike lime pastilles with such passion? It is not the flavour that promotes such an aversion to a particular sweet. It is the quantity.

One mustn’t take data gleaned from marketing taste tests at face value. Of course people will tell you that blackcurrant is their favourite flavour. Say you gave someone nothing but chocolate milk for a week, and occasionally offered them a glass of water. Ask them which one they’d prefer. We both know chocolate milk is a far superior beverage, but there is such a thing as having too much of a good thing.

By offering entire packets of blackcurrant and strawberry, you devalue both flavours by flooding the market. At the same time, traditional pastille users are still faced with the same overabundance of lime in standard packets. This leaves you with only orange and lemon as alternatives, neither of which can be expected to support an entire brand of sweets.

You must resist the urge to capitulate to the whims of ill-informed consumers and the silver-tongued high-fiving hubris of the marketing department.

The public need balance and equality from their sweets, not some marginalised ghetto of downtrodden lime warring with the blackcurrant elite. If there cannot be harmony in a packet of fruit pastilles, then what hope is there for the Israel/Palestine conflict?

It is a simple concept. Equal parts lime, blackcurrant, strawberry, orange and lemon in each packet. Don’t tell me that you’re a slave to the random whims of your factory machinery, because we both know that’s a cop out. If robots can serve us drinks and perform any number of other menial tasks, you can get the balance right in a packet of pastilles.

Any increased manufacturing costs resulting from the inception of pastille harmony would be negated by the rise in sales once word gets around of your magnanimous shift in policy.

We are in the midst of a serious economical crisis, the likes of which most of us have never seen before. When so many things in this world are so uncertain, the public need a sweet to offer them solace and the promise of better things to come. Let Rowntree’s Fruit Pastilles be that rock.


Yours sincerely,


Eoinin McAlpine

Queries and Qualms of the Great Unwashed # 1

Glittering promises abound in cyberspace. They range from the seemingly innocuous (increase your length with a free university degree in electronic Viagra distribution) to the potentially life destroying. Yes, I’m looking at you, Mr. Policeman masquerading as farm…well, that doesn’t really matter.

The point is that the world is a dangerous, sexy, and sometimes even dangerously sexy place. One can’t be expected to know the difference between a Nigerian 419 scam artist and a genuinely benevolent prince offering to split US$42.6 million with you. Nor can one be expected to distinguish between a legitimate suitor and a law enforcement official that should have better things to do than entrapping innocent members of chat rooms catering for farm…well, that doesn’t really matter.

Gathered here in the Mobar Gazette headquarters are gifted men and women of differing codpiece and breastplate sizes. They are the indisputable leaders of their chosen fields. Alone, they are formidable opponents. Combined, they are akin to some sort of intellectual Mighty Morphin Power Rangers, though perhaps with more spandex and a fondness for farm…well, that doesn’t really matter.

What’s the point? The intelligentsia hath aligned for your benefit – ask that they may solve your problems, and ye shall receive solutions of a satisfactory standard.

Commence.


Dear Sirs,

How do I find out whether I'm paying too much tax?

Also, what is the most efficient way to clean your bathroom?

Alistair An, East Kew


Dear Alistair

There are a few ways to determine whether you are paying too much tax. Firstly, you may consider contacting the tax office. I would advise against this option as tax office employees generally have a rather biased opinion when it comes to this subject.

I find the most effective way is to submerge your most recent pay slip in a combination of household bleach and canned pineapple pieces. Allow it to absorb the mixture for approximately ten seconds. Remove the pay slip. If your tax deductions are still visible, you are paying too much tax.

With regards to the cleaning of the bathroom, I have an extremely effective method. If you happen to have a combination of household bleach and canned pineapple pieces available, try spraying it on all surfaces in your bathroom. Allow it to absorb the mixture for approximately ten seconds. Shout loudly at the bathroom. This should do the trick. For more stubborn stains, add sump oil.

Yours faithfully,

Stefan Markovski

* * *

To Whom It May Concern:

Do I smell? People at work have moved their desks away from me. They say it’s because the printer is noisy, but I’m worried that I pong.

Kim MacMuir, Rongapui Heights


Hello Kim,

Long before the human race had to concern themselves with such trivial items as printers and cans of deodorant, they possessed but two things – their wits and their instincts. Unfortunately, many lacked the necessary wits to avoid the ever present threat of being abducted and eaten by Pterodactyls.

Thus, they relied on their most primal instincts to avoid such attacks. Did it work? Well, I don’t see any Pterodactyls hosting So You Think You Can Ovulate, do you?

Revel in this victory for humanity, Kim. Revel in it by using your wits to recognize that your instincts are absolutely spot on – you stink to high bloody heaven. Have a bath, you filthy wench.

Cheerio,

Logan Bluetooth

* * *


Sirs,

What is wrong with my houseplant?

Mr. Patel, Hyderabad






Dear Mr. Patel,

No plant owner wants to hear this, but I’ll lay it on the line – your plant is clearly manic depressive with possible suicidal tendencies. The scorched leaves with bite marks betray the inner torment the poor little blighter is going through.

Self-harm amongst plants is rare, but this chap obviously favours extinguishing cigarettes upon his limbs and biting himself. Note his fringe and collection of A Simple Plant albums – a telling sign that he is a member of the eco-emo subculture.

I know you’d like to hear me say “oh, it’s just a phase, he’ll grow out of it”, but roots protruding from the soil and wrapping themselves around his stem suggest he wants out. I need not mention the lake of water in the tray underneath the pot he is clearly trying to drown himself in.

Get a cactus. They’re awesome.

Your pal,

Peter File

* * *


Alright lads,

How long is a piece of string?

Gary Kribisch, Somerset


Hiya Gary,

A piece of string is 18.3cm long.

Regards,

Eoinín McAlpine

* * *

Dear Sir/Madam,

I think more than one person is following me wherever I go. Also, I work in a 4th floor corner office and often think I see people watching me from adjacent rooftops. Am I just being paranoid or is someone really after me?

David Cheddar, West Missouri


Dear Dave,

Kurt Cobain once sang “just because you’re paranoid, don’t mean they’re not after you”. Not long after, he was found dead, undoubtedly the victim of an elaborate plot hatched by professional trollop Courtney Love to disguise his murder at her grubby hands as suicide.

This is not to say that Courtney Love has similar plans for you, but it can’t be ruled out completely. A more likely scenario is that you are under surveillance by an elite counter terrorism unit with vast resources at their disposal.

The chaps you suspect are watching you from the rooftops are undoubtedly highly trained sharp shooters, trigger fingers itching madly as they wait for the green light to put a slug in you.

My hunch is that you unfortunately bear a striking resemblance to a nefarious individual who is considered a high value target for this black-ops outfit. A maniacal warlord, or perhaps an international cocaine distributor.

You can take solace in the fact that death will come quickly and painlessly. Messy, but probably painless. See that your affairs are in order.

Sincerely,

Frank “Missouri” La Fayette