The Mobar Gazette

Sub-editors overdose on astronauts getting high and spaced out

2011-03-16T10:27:00.005Z

Written by Peter File

THE Australian Press Council has appealed for calm after news agency AFP released a story concerning the discovery of a bag of white powder at NASA’s Kennedy Space Centre in Florida.

Journalists were initially worked into a scotch-tainted lather at the prospect of a story containing the previously unused phrase “intergalactic terrorism”, however a late update to the story has caused massive unrest amongst sub-editors.

The powder was found not to be anthrax, but rather 6.5 grams of cocaine. Police investigating the find later revised that figure to 4.2 grams.

Scores of sub-editors have been hospitalised after suffering minor strokes and heart attacks in the wake of the story.

Neurologists claim to have witnessed the phenomenon several times before, citing the inability of the sub-editor mind to cope with a multitude of possible headlines containing more than one pun.

“It was unnamed until recently,” said Dr Paul Woodward, consultant at the Royal Melbourne Hospital. “However owing to the fact that the severity of the condition is in direct proportion to the number of puns within puns within puns, it is now known as Inception Syndrome.”

Online shoppers responsible for apocalypse, says robber baron

2011-01-06T12:01:00.003Z

Written by Logan Bluetooth

BILLIONAIRE and all around nice guy Gerry Harvey claims to have irrefutable proof that Australians shopping online are solely responsible for the imminent apocalypse and expected destruction of the planet.

Earlier this week, Harvey and several other members of his retail oligarchy took out full-page newspaper advertisements to warn the public that continuing to make online purchases of under $1000 would lead to a gruesome end for the human race, with demonic pterodactyls and fiery pits of molten lava almost a certainty.

Undeterred by the well-financed prophecies of Harvey and his grim band of doomsayers, several online retailers decided to tempt fate by targeting Australian consumers with “Nothing over $1000!” sales.

Infuriated by what he saw as a blatant and callous disregard for Mother Earth, Harvey cited several recent cases of previously unexplainable instances of mass animal deaths around the world that he now believes are the work of online shoppers.

Flocks of birds, casts of crabs and schools of fish have all died en masse in the past week, baffling scientists and setting the loins of conspiracy theorists a tingling.

Harvey wore a black cloak as he presented the evidence at a press conference this morning, ominously announcing, “It hath begun…” before bowing his head and slowly pacing off stage whilst reciting various unintelligible but presumably ancient prayers for mercy.

Letters From The Editor: Bear vs Lion

2010-11-18T09:36:00.010Z

To Whom In The Watchtower It May Concern,

I write in response to the pamphlet one of your willing servants recently placed in my letterbox. I understand that you may distribute many of these unsolicited gems across our fair land, so to narrow it down, this particular pamphlet was entitled “Life in a Peaceful New World”. Despite the temptation, I have no intention of judging you for your bizarre use of italics and bold, lest I be judged.

Before I reach my point, however, I must take issue with your policy of not providing an email address for correspondence. What is this, The Dark Ages? Every other cult on the planet has an email address, what makes you so special? If you’re going to drop unsolicited religious material in letterboxes, it’s only fair that you receive unsolicited emails from the many daughters of the former Nigerian finance minister like the rest of us. Anyhow, enough digression. The point.

I consider animal safety to be one of the most overlooked and important issues that we as a species face today. As the housing estate-covered tentacles of humanity creep further into the wild, it is inevitable that Man shall come into contact with all manner of beasts, some of which cannot be neutralised by conventional jet-ski attacks alone. These creatures cannot be tamed, unless they are raised by humans, have their teeth and claws removed at birth and their jaws wired shut.

Whilst I understand the necessity of conveying a harmonious, strife-free utopia to potential disciples, the illustrations contained within this pamphlet serve only to obfuscate and put the slow-witted at risk of being disembowelled by a hairy brute with paws the size of dinner plates. Perhaps the only accuracy in the scene depicting a woman and child petting and hand-feeding a grizzly bear is the expression on the face of the deer: partly shocked by the gross stupidity on display, but equally delighted there won’t be enough room in the bear’s stomach for a third course.

When you look at the scene on this tract, what feelings do you have? Does not your heart yearn for the peace, happiness, and prosperity seen there? Surely it does. But is it just a dream, or fantasy, to believe these conditions will ever exist on earth?

Let me answer your questions with several questions of my own: in which parallel universe would a father think it wise to wave his infant daughter under the snout of a lion? Have I been misinformed about your beliefs and practices, and is this man in actual fact offering a child sacrifice to your lion god? Do you honestly believe that a lion and a bear could share the same territory for more than five seconds without becoming embroiled in a fracas of epic proportions?

Frankly, this is by far one of the most preposterous, ill-considered and downright dangerous pamphlets I have ever come across. Bear and lion awareness in Australia is already at a treacherously low level, and this manner of tripe does nothing but assist its plummet to the bottom.

If Surf Life Saving Australia produced a pamphlet depicting floaty-clad children frolicking in the shallows with great white sharks and kraken, along with text suggesting that such harmony would be possible if people would only swim between the flags, they would be quite rightly be hung, drawn and quartered.

Cherish these halcyon days of irresponsible drawings and unaccountable junk mail, you cheeky Witnesses of Jehovah, because I can assure you they are numbered. The immunity you are afforded whilst clad in the cloak of religion shall last only as long as this country lacks a leader who has lost a loved one to the jaws of a beast that inhabits the pinnacle of the food chain.

Yours in artistic integrity,

Eoinín McAlpine

Ducks on lake: witnesses horrified, say they were eating soggy bread too

2010-11-04T12:14:00.004Z

Written by Annette Curtain

TRAUMATISED park-goers have bravely recounted their own experiences of what shall henceforth be known as Wet Tuesday, one of the darkest and soggiest days in Australia’s history. Shortly after midday on Tuesday, reports began to emerge that ducks had been sighted on several lakes across the country, openly paddling and in some cases – quacking and eating soggy bread.

Tony Burke, Federal Minister for Sustainability, Environment, Water, Population, Communities and Whatever Else You’ve Got, slammed the ducks for what he described as a “cynical bread grab” and said park enthusiasts had every right to be sickened and appalled by the behaviour of the waterbirds.

“I think working families who enjoy a walk in the park deserve a lot better, especially on Melbourne Cup day…it’s no wonder Australian mums and dads are so fed up with ducks when you see this sort of thing going on.”

Adding insult to injury, authorities have revealed they are powerless to act against the ducks that orchestrated the mass paddle-in. Having fled the country, the arrogant mallards remain at large, leaving behind a plethora of traumatised park-goers and a trail of soggy bread. There are rumours that the ducks have flown in a southerly direction, possibly in a V formation, in what will seem to their victims as an all too convenient seasonal migration.

While those who were exposed to the orgy of quacking expect to be in therapy for quite some time, others who regularly patronise parks have signalled their intent to vote with their feet and visit locations that are uninviting to ducks.

“We’ve had a bloody gutful of these bloody ducks,” said Keith, a working father of five from Narre Warren. “After a hard week at work, I just want to take the family to a large body of water without having to deal with bloody ducks terrorising us. So we’re switching from a lake to a pond; we definitely think we’ll be better off.”

Public urination, tits and glassings too much for Channel 10

2010-10-28T11:31:00.009+01:00

Written by Peter File

BARELY a week after premiering on Australian television, it has emerged that several episodes of Channel 10’s new reality show Undercover Boss have been shelved, possibly permanently. Although the network has a reputation for being as concerned with tasteful programming as they are with quantum physics and the plight of the Beluga Sturgeon, station bosses have canned at least two episodes, deeming them too risqué for Australian audiences.

The show centres on a senior executive or business owner going undercover in their own company as an entry-level fork and spoon operator, where they spend a few days lifting heavy objects and rubbing shoulders with the great unwashed. At the conclusion of their week roughing it, the executives reveal their true identity, allowing the unskilled workers to laugh, cry, or contact their union, depending on what transpired during the week.

While Channel 10’s publicity department have remained uncharacteristically tight-lipped on the matter, station sources have revealed the identities of the bosses left on the cutting room floor.

First to get the chop was Collingwood Football Club president Eddie McGuire, who went undercover as the club’s new centre-half forward. Despite being clad in an unflatteringly snug club jersey and failing to kick a single goal or point, McGuire’s rotund figure and constant wheezing failed to raise a single eyebrow amongst his new teammates. Ironically, McGuire was exposed only after objecting to Chris Dawes exposing himself and urinating on a waitress in a King street strip club. Dawes, despite now being aware of McGuire’s identity, responded by glassing the president.

In what must have been a tremendously difficult choice for the network – astronomical ratings but almost certain litigation from someone, somewhere – an episode featuring former David Jones chief executive and professional letch Mark McInnes was also dropped. The episode, filmed just weeks before the DJ’s boss was hit with a $37 million sexual harassment suit, featured McInnes going undercover in the women’s underwear department as a bra-fitter.

Had the case not been settled out of court, it is understood that the majority of Kristy Fraser-Kirk’s seven surprise witnesses were shop assistants who worked alongside McInnes during filming of the Undercover Boss episode. Several complaints were also received from customers, apparently unhappy with McInnes’ unorthodox technique for measuring breast size. David Jones refused to comment on the episode, however a spokesperson clarified that all bra-fitters employed by the store are required to use tape measures and are not permitted to perform “free-hand” evaluations under any circumstances.

Straight Outta Melbourne: From the CPT to the ALP

2010-08-19T12:17:00.004+01:00

Written by Peter File

LEATHERY former Prime Minister Bob “Punter” Hawke once famously wagered $500 on the larger of two blowflies crawling up the wall of his office. The proud Australian tradition of betting on dunny budgies is unremarkable in itself, until one considers the fact that prior to laying money down, Hawke had witnessed Paul Keating (treasurer at the time) flicking the fly in question with a wet tea towel. Undeterred and well-known for his love of an underdog, Hawke slapped his money down and watched in delight as the now mono-winged creature staged an improbable come from behind victory.

Until today, this was considered by most pundits to have been the biggest gamble ever taken in Australian politics. Fittingly, it is the Labor Party that has rewritten the history books again. Just two days out from one of the closest elections ever, they have disendorsed Cath Bowtell, their candidate for the seat of Melbourne, and replaced her with Ice Cube, former member of seminal gangsta rap ensemble NWA.

Labor heavyweights and political analysts are split on the move; Kerry O’Brien labelled it as “unadulterated political genius”, whilst heavyweight Laurie Oakes described it as “electoral suicide in its purest form”.

The precise reason for the sudden switch in candidates is not entirely clear as yet, however some have suggested that Labor strategists were concerned that Bowtell was perceived as being soft on crime and punishment. Cube, on the other hand, has made it abundantly clear that he intends to base the majority of his policies around crime and punishment. This is expected to play well in Melbourne, which is currently experiencing a large spike in serious assaults, robberies, and serious assaults and robberies with large spikes.

Opposition leader Tony Abbott struggled to find fault with Cube’s tough stance on absolutely everything, instead criticising the hastily prepared campaign material. Abbott’s previous admission that “I’m no Bill Gates” was reinforced after he claimed that Labor staffers had “clearly used some sort of high-tech computer version of Clag and a photocopier” to attach Cube’s head to a white woman’s body.

A Labor spokesperson criticised Mr Abbott for attempting to bring skin colour into the debate, but acknowledged some campaign material had undergone minor editing with Microsoft Paint due to budget constraints. Cube later issued a profanity-laden statement that described the opposition leader as a “nuttin’ but a mark-ass sucka who probably gonna get got if he keep runnin’ his mouth like that”.

Letters From The Editor: Informality Breeds Contempt

2010-08-11T12:18:00.003+01:00

Written by Eoinín McAlpine

Dear Emma Boardman, Head of Central Underwriting and bestower of munificence,

Thank you kindly for your recent letter. Although dated almost three weeks ago, its significantly profound contribution to the respective worlds of finance and linguistic interpretation had not diminished.

It was with great delight that I learnt that my “recent informal request for an overdraft” had been approved. And by great delight, I mean utter confusion and disbelief, considering the last communiqué I threw your way was what I considered to be a fairly formal request to have my account closed.

The subsequent paragraphs offered little to dull my sense of dissatisfaction. The convoluted explanation of what exactly constitutes an “informal request” according to HSBC was, at best, an excellent example of the type of half-arsed grammar and wasted words that organisations of your ilk are renowned for.

Most dictionaries define informal as, unsurprisingly, being without formality and ceremony, a bit casual. For example, say I wanted to make an informal request for an overdraft with a bank. Personally, I think making informal requests to banks is a bit daft, considering their track record of requiring ridiculous levels of formality for even the most immaterial request, but I’ll persist with this in order to make a point.

So, an informal request for an overdraft facility. One could saunter into their local branch, pay scant regard to any queue and sidle up to the teller, shoot the breeze about the weather or the local sporting team, and then just drop in casually at the end “Oh, yeah, can I have an overdraft?” before leaving without signing anything or providing any information to the teller other than one’s nickname. Pretty informal, I think you’ll agree.

Alas, this is not what happened between you and I. It was more like this:

ME: Hey, Emma, can you please shut that door? I don’t need it open ever again.
YOU: Hi Owen, we are pleased to announce that your informal request for an annual subscription to Marie Claire magazine has been approved!
ME: The door’s still open.

I must say that even whilst England lies in smouldering ruins from a crippling recession brought on by manifestly irresponsible lending practices, it is refreshing to come across a bank looking to forget that unfortunate chapter in financial history and get on with the job of handing out debt to those least able to service it, or in this case, people who didn’t ask for it in the first place.

Perhaps you could extend this glorious new policy of informality to other areas of your business. Review CCTV footage from branches, and issue a mortgage to any customer observed glancing at posters advertising your current variable interest rate. Or, alternatively, you could just close my account and never contact me ever again.

Yours informally,

Eoinín McAlpine

In-depth election coverage: woman wears outfits, says things in interview with women's magazine

2010-07-28T13:05:00.007+01:00

Russia and Romania on brink of war, hairy ass blamed

2010-07-20T10:24:00.003+01:00

Written by Nataliya Dmitrieva

SCARF-wearing continental Europeans are waiting with bated and probably cheesy breath as the region nervously awaits the outcome of a disagreement between Russia, a nuclear superpower, and Romania, a country whose chief export is the absurd.

Until recently, the two countries were engaged in civilised talks regarding growing concern in Russia that its close neighbour is developing a human/bear hybrid which has the ability to beg for change and perform demeaning roller skate-based tricks at the same time.

Romanian authorities admit they are in possession of many bears and roller-skates, but insist they are for peaceful purposes. Citing credible intelligence, Russia insisted that Romania allow UN weapons inspectors into the country to scrutinize the growing number of roller skate silos in the north of the country. Enraged by what he saw as bullying tactics by the Russians, Romanian President Traian Băsescu ordered his armed forces to unleash the full force of the Romanian arsenal upon Russia.

Late this afternoon, the full horror of that decision was realised, as a mature male donkey parachuted onto a Russian beach. Whether the intent was to have the donkey injure Russian soldiers or civilians by landing on top of them, or if it was trained by the Romanian armed forces to land behind enemy lines and bite people is unclear, but Russia has clearly been agitated by the attack.

Russian defence minister Anatoliy Serdyukov issued a statement expressing deep concern that Romania could launch further long-range donkeys, or even bears. When asked of the fate of the donkey, Serdyukov stated that he expected Prime Minister Vladimir Putin to ride the donkey, then hunt and shoot it to illustrate the extraordinary power of man.

Woman spotted wearing pants and running country, leaving kitchen ironically unmanned

2010-07-06T12:10:00.003+01:00

Written by Annette Curtain

BLATANTLY female Australian Prime Minister Julia Gillard is so drunk on power that she doesn’t care what she wears and will lead the country to a spectacularly fiery and horrible demise, says a woman who has her own website.

Imogen Lamport, image consultant and amateur political scientist, claims that major policy announcements will be ignored by the masses unless our dowdy PM sorts herself out. Already, it is thought that today’s announcement of Labor’s border protection policy was overshadowed by Gillard’s insistence on wearing trousers, long thought to be the domain of men.

It’s another nail in the coffin for Gillard, who has already admitted that she has no children and is in a gay relationship with a male hairdresser. Lamport believes that the PM should follow the example of Governor General Quentin Bryce, who is also a girl but wears nice bright skirts like a good girl should.

Lamport denied that she was a male masquerading as a woman in order to get away with throwing irrelevant but nonetheless damaging grenades at Sisterhood HQ, and said that if former PM and trouser-wearer Kevin Rudd was a woman then he would have received the same sage advice as Gillard.

Police declare war on tint, incorrectly fitted baseball caps

2010-06-29T11:43:00.003+01:00

Written by Frank Serpico

SQUELCHY leather clad policemen with extendable truncheons have responded to the rise in serious assaults occurring on public transport and Melbourne’s streets by declaring war – on tinted windows.

Victoria Police claim that a number of road collisions have involved vehicles with windows so dark that the driver’s view has been obscured. Precisely what that number is wasn’t revealed by police, but is thought to be close to the number of crashes caused by untethered armadillos wandering on freeways.

Police are cautiously optimistic that taking a hard line against motorists with tinted windows will cause the number of serious assaults committed by pedestrians to fall sharply. Leading Senior Constable Steve Hillman claims they’re not drawing a long bow either, citing the success of New York City Mayor Rudi Giuliani’s “Broken Windows” approach to petty crime.

“Take your average glasser on the street, about to carve up some poor bloke’s face with a schooner,” drawled Constable Hillman in his police issue monotone. “They see a cop booking someone for having tinted windows, they’re gonna stop and think, geez, if these blokes are that serious about tinted glass, what are they going to do if they see me put glass in some bloke’s face?”

Operation: Tinted Windows Are Illegal has been described by civil libertarians as “one of the most unimaginative titles for a police operation ever”.

White man gave black man money, says newspaper

2010-06-22T12:06:00.003+01:00

Written by Vortman De Ville

PILLORIED former football player and amateur comedian Mal Brown is actually not a racist at all, and a highly respected publication has just the story to prove it. Many were quick to condemn Brown after he referred to Aboriginal players as “cannibals”; one hopes that those same folk shall be just as hasty in forgiving him in light of this new evidence.

After hearing that former teammate Maurice Rioli’s penchant for an occasional flutter had developed into an unquenchable thirst for gambling riches and subsequently led to him having to hock some expensive golf clubs, Saint Mal stepped in. Rather than doing the predictable thing and calling Rioli a cannibal, Brown slapped down $7500 (allowing for inflation, almost $7700 today), securing the release of Rioli’s golf clubs.

Many are hoping that this heart-warming tale sets a precedent, whereby anybody that does or says anything nasty to anyone is exonerated should it later be discovered that they once did or said something nice to a person from the same ethnic or socio-economic background as their victim.

British Petroleum are said to be taking a keen interest in the case after learning that CEO Tony Hayward did a project on whales when he was in primary school.

Plot to steal the moon foiled by heroic leader

2010-06-07T12:26:00.002+01:00

Written by Katsuki Akimoto

GALLANT Premier of the Democratic Republic of Queensland, Anna Bligh, has thwarted a Machiavellian plot from the southern states to steal the moon from her people. Bligh first learnt of the plot after Independent MP Peter Wellington, who was possibly not independent at all, introduced a daylight saving Bill designed to enslave the chosen people of the north.

The cunning legislation would have forced Queenslanders to toil for up to 24 hours a day in blazing sunlight, disorienting them and depriving them of sleep until they collapsed from exhaustion. At this point, it is thought that strike teams from the lower states would have crossed the border and stolen the moon, before selling off its precious cheesy goodness at exorbitant prices to wealthy cheese prospectors from Europe.

Upon learning of the scheme, Chancellor Bligh had the legislation struck out and slew Wellington with her sword of obsidian and pewter. Wellington’s carcass shall be paraded throughout Brisbane as a timely reminder that the pointy state is not, and shall never be a place where daylight saving and other such southern wankery is tolerated in any form.

Curtain manufacturers, who stood to probably triple or even double their profit due to all the faded curtains that an extra hour of sunlight would have brought, said that they respected the Premier’s bravery and supported further acts of sun-kissed rebellion.

Al “Bundy” Langer, president of the Queensland Beef Growing Association, welcomed the slaying. He said that additional physical manifestations of defiance against southern values would ensure that the cows of Queensland need not fear the confusion and crippling illness that perpetual sunlight would surely bring.

Refrigerator pledges to govern for all, keep food and drinks cool also

2010-05-13T12:49:00.004+01:00

Written by Annette Curtain

FISHNET aficionado and chief side-parter of the Tories, David Cameron, has announced that his party has formed a coalition with a refrigerator, ending days of speculation as to who would govern Britain. Very few political commentators expected to see what is being heralded as the first Conservative/white good government in almost 60 years.

Lib-Dem leader, Nick Clegg, was said to be privately fuming at the public snub by the Tories. Explaining the party’s decision, Prime Minister Cameron noted that there was far too great a disparity in policy between his party and Mr Clegg’s.

“After examining the respective party manifestos, the decision was frightfully easy,” Cameron said. “Conservatives, refrigerators, and especially the British public, do not want their milk to be spoilt, nor their meat tainted.”

While stopping short of accusing Clegg and his party of encouraging some sort of socialist paradise where perishable products are left to go sour and develop culture unchecked, the implication was clear.

“Food temperature is not the issue here,” barked a clearly irate Clegg. “The issue is whether or not the British people want a bloody fridge holding the second highest position in the land, when it should be at home, in the kitchen, keeping food cold.”

Deputy PM Refrigerator responded immediately to Mr Clegg’s vitriolic tirade, claiming that the Lib-Dem leader was stuck in the past.

“This is the 21st century,” it hummed. “We live in an age where fridges, washing machines and even women need no longer fear having their dreams crushed by dinosaurs like Mr Clegg, who would rather we be at home, performing menial tasks so that he may have clean socks and unspoilt milk when he arrives home from doing his big boy job.”

Government anti-drug campaign up in smoke, hippies amused

2010-05-06T12:42:00.005+01:00

Written by Vortman De Ville

EMBARRASSED Australian Government health department officials have admitted that their most recent anti-drugs campaign may have slightly missed the mark. The latest “Marijuana: what a waste” campaign depicts a dishevelled youth, presumably stoned to within an inch of his life, contemplating his own unrealised potential as a world champion swimmer. The message is simple: smoke dope, relinquish dreams of sporting glory.

This was no doubt news to Michael Phelps, who somehow found time between smoking bongs and listening to Willie Nelson albums to win a record eight gold medals at the Beijing Olympics.

The health department issued a statement claiming that many other sports had been considered but were discounted after research uncovered a litany of substance-addled sports people, including but not limited to: dope-smoking sprinters and snowboarders, ecstasy-abusing rugby players, coked-up soccer players, and Dock Ellis, the US baseball player who once managed to pitch a no-hitter despite, by his own admission, being under the influence of LSD for the duration of the game.

Dr Frank Putney, department chief, dismissed rumours from the press gallery that swimming had been chosen after a junior staffer suggested that it would be impossible to smoke marijuana underwater.

Dr Putney similarly refused to be drawn on suggestions the department will use the same image with amended text for the remainder of the campaign, nor whether or not the slogan being considered is “Marijuana: it gives you man boobs”.

Michael Phelps refused to comment or giggle uncontrollably.

Letters From The Editor: I got 99 problems, and dead wasps are one of them

2010-03-25T10:21:00.002Z

Written by Eoinín McAlpine

Dear Real Estate Agent,

I write with regards to the property you recently leased to myself and my partner, on behalf of Charlie the Landlord. It cannot be denied that this is a fine abode, or as you would put it – an irresistibly brick townhouse containing numerous doors and windows, all within walking distance of public transport and local amenities.

As far as rental properties go, it is most satisfactory. Charlie Himself - hallowed be his name, socks and sandals - has dealt with the few minor problems that have arisen swiftly. The charming foibles of the oven, undoubtedly a priceless relic from the gold rush period, were no challenge for Our Charlie, whose dress sense and encyclopedic knowledge of prehistoric stoves betrayed his true vintage and/or time travelling abilities.

Enough pleasantries, Real Estate Agent. You know as well as I do that tenants don’t produce whimsical missives for the sake of it. We have a bone to pick, and this particular bone has six legs, two wings, stripes and a nasty stinging implement attached to it. If the penny hasn’t dropped yet, I commend the permanent state of professional denial that you have attained.

The real estate industry of the United States of America has a rather chequered history, as I’m sure you’ll agree. Amongst various regrettable incidents, surely the most well publicised was the short-sighted practice of building dwellings upon ancient Indian burial grounds. Cheap they might have been, but a diminutive mortgage is no consolation when you’re having to deal with blood dripping from the walls, knives flying through the air and understandably aggrieved spirits messing with you all because some silver-tongued real estate agent who was gagging for a modest commission said, yeah, what’s the big deal about building a three-bedroom bungalow with city views on top of somebody’s grave?

Which brings me to the wasps. As I cast my gaze over the exposed brickwork, faux spiral staircase, and cutting edge pine trim, it is impossible to put the construction of this building anywhere later than 1975. Which, by my calculations, allows the various owners and tenants more than three decades to bring to the attention of the real estate the fact that this is, without a shadow of doubt, THE PLACE WHERE WASPS COME TO DIE.

At first there were just a couple of them. They appeared spasmodically, lying atop a shelving unit in pairs, or in the tracks for the sliding doors. Undeniably dead, they posed no threat to us. But then the numbers increased, as did the locations. The desk, bedside tables, the window sill in the bathroom; the more exhibitionistic amongst them chose the middle of the living room floor as their final resting place.

I have sat at my dining table and watched in abject horror as yet another wasp stumbles across the threshold, writhing in pain, tiny little eyes bulging with terror as it suffers from spasm after spasm of searing, inexplicable pain, crying to me in its pathetic little buzzing waspy voice, “Why? Why me? Why here? WHY?”

It was, and still is, utterly perplexing. After crawling into open cans of soft drink uninvited, after ruining a plethora of summer picnics, after assassinating legions of relatively defenceless native bees, why do these undeniably useless and miserable stinging bastards decide upon our humble home as their final resting place?

You know. I know you do. I saw it in your shifty eyes as I signed the lease. I read it between the lines when you send me those infuriatingly impersonal invitations to those “wealth creation seminars” each month. Oh, I bet they’d be a real eye opener. I can just see the feckless high school dropouts that attend those things, hanging on your every slimy word.

When they asked, “Excuse me, Wealth Creation Guru, but what if a property you are attempting to lease is an obvious final resting place for the bulk of Australia’s wasp population?” you would violently slam your fist upon the lectern, and fix a steely gaze on their disgustingly penniless form.

“Well, my impoverished, BMWless protégé, that is quite simple,” you would slobber, forked tongue slapping against your oily lips. “You would tell those morons that the previous tenants probably applied an anti-insect surface spray to the perimeter of the premises.”

Smug prick.

Kind regards,

Eoinín McAlpine

Migrants predicted to steal the souls of white folk by 2050, expert warns

2010-03-23T12:29:00.003Z

Written by Peter File

WAVE upon wave of shifty, jihad-loving, Chiko Roll-hating immigrants plan to infiltrate and destroy Australia, a man has revealed. Dr Bob Birrell, president of the Australian Tabloid Sound Bite Institute, is the lone voice of reason in a filthy, amoral world that lost its way a long time ago.

Extensively researched research, carried out by Dr Birrell, proves that the days of having to worry about immigrants stealing your job, unemployment benefits and sexual partner are almost over. Unfortunately for lovers of freedom and meat pies, things are about to get a whole lot worse.

A new breed of immigrant, unsatisfied with the billions of taxpayer dollars showered upon it by bleeding-heart do-gooders with a penchant for shitake mushrooms floating in glasses of chardonnay, craves more. Saliva dripping from its yellowed, state-run teeth, the neo-immigrant fixes its crazed stare upon everything that you hold dear: the AFL, stubby-holders, utes with southern cross stickers, lamingtons, and yes, even David Boon.

The neo-immigrant wants all of these sacred items, though not to appreciate them as any decent Australian would. Not unlike the evil terminator in the Terminator movie franchise, it just wants to destroy you and all your stuff.

Dr Birrell said he was pleased as punch that journalists were drawing their own conclusions from his research, which clearly shows that by 2050, immigrants will probably number about 8 billion, and will almost certainly have enslaved white Australians and forced them to mine for weird immigrant minerals in the desert.

Flaunting his bipartisan credentials, Dr Birrell laid the blame for the imminent downfall of Australian society squarely at the expensive Italian leather shoes covering the feet of “Labor elites”, whom he thinks are more concerned with an immigration policy that will appease the hand-wringing pooves at their next short film festival, where they will undoubtedly serve delicate canapés and fizzy glasses of white guilt.

Top cop hijacks commercial airliner, says “LOL, sorry guyz”

2010-03-19T12:06:00.003Z

Written by Frank Serpico

SUPERCOP Simon Overland has sparked a minor aviation security scare after hijacking a domestic flight and attempting to reroute it to the socialist paradise of Cuba. The notorious prankster wore a sheepish smile when he fronted the media today, writing the incident off as a poorly timed attempt at comedy that would have been received well if it hadn’t occurred at 30,000 feet above the ground in a small metal cylinder filled with surprisingly nervy occupants.

The stunt earned him a predictably humourless rebuke from Community & Public Sector Union state secretary Karen Batt, a self-confessed communist and hater of champagne comedy.

“By his own admission, Mr Overland boarded the flight with carry-on luggage containing an AK-47 assault rifle and several live grenades. After the aircraft reached altitude, he brandished the machine gun and a grenade and shouted various pro-Cuban slogans at the understandably terrified passengers,” bleated the presumably unmarried Ms Batt.

Chief Commissioner Overland, or “Sergeant Funnypants” as he is known within the force, issued a partial apology to the handful of passengers that didn’t get the joke. He explained that the prank was a joint promotional exercise between the Melbourne International Comedy Festival and Victoria Police, whom he said “have a lot more going on than just taking bribes and beating up minorities.”

Anorexics not as funny as fat people, says media

2010-03-16T11:31:00.004Z

Written by Logan Bluetooth

WIDELY respected and thoroughly credible media outlets of the internet have played yet another game of “funny/not funny”, and the results are in. Morbidly obese people have been declared pants-splittingly funny, whilst sufferers of passé 20th century eating disorders such as anorexia are decidedly unfunny.

After weeks of painstaking examination of the case for and against both body profiles, journalists’ opinions were swayed by a woman with an elephantine hunger for success and double cheeseburgers.

Donna Simpson, allegedly a 42-year-old human female, currently weighs 273kg but is hoping to add the equivalent of twin baby elephants to her frustratingly svelte figure. By reaching her goal weight of 450kg (1000lb), Ms Simpson will hold the résumé-worthy title of world’s fattest woman. Her husband will hold a heavy goods vehicle licence.

The implausibly unemployed Ms Simpson offsets her gargantuan grocery bill by running a website where perfectly normal men pay to watch her shovel deep fried buckets of the top of the food pyramid down her gelatinous throat.

Various tabloid media outlets, such as this one, said they couldn’t see any ethical problem whatsoever with publishing such a story. They also claimed that they wouldn’t hesitate to run a similar story on an anorexic person striving for the title of world’s skinniest person, but that the eating disorders of the skeletal just weren’t as hilarious as humanoid/whale hybrids.

Australian government bans punctuation, YouTube users’ existence legitimised

2010-03-11T12:17:00.004Z

Written by Eoinín McAlpine

THE Federal Government of Australia, an uncouth, convict-infested island to the west of New Zealand, has announced it will proceed with controversial plans to censor all forms of punctuation on the internet after Government-commissioned research found that life on the web would be simpler without “all them dots and squiggles”.

Federal Uncommunications Minister, Stephen Conroy, said today he would introduce legislation just before the next election that will force Internet Service Providers to block a blacklist of punctuation marks for all Australian internet users.

The blacklist, featuring commas, semi-colons, apostrophes and other sick filth, would be compiled using submissions to the Government’s hugely popular “Dob In A Wanker” hotline and website. The campaign encouraged mum and dad internet users to report acts of aggravated pedantry, smug stickleriness, and undue displays of learning. It has been a huge success; over 5000 internet users alone have been fined for explaining the difference between his and he’s.

“Most decent Australians acknowledge that the majority of punctuation, if not all of it, has no place on the internet or in civilised society in this day and age,” Senator Conroy said.

“It is important that all Australians, particularly younger folk, are protected from this material. We’ve got members of Generation Y that have never seen an apostrophe used correctly, let alone a semi-colon. The last thing they need is some bicycle-riding, latte-swilling wanker from the inner-city confusing them with two different spellings of your.”

Members of paramilitary group the Apostrophista Army of National Liberation will be vigorously pursued by the censorship scheme. AANL’s website carries the bold statement that “no government shall silence the noble apostrophe”. The extremist organisation also claims to engage in correct usage of commas, full stops, paragraphs and even hyphens. Senator Conroy has pledged that any members of the group brought to justice will be forced to have bright yellow apostrophes sewn to the outside of their garments.

Deaf lion that thinks it's a singer forms adult contemporary rock band, gains no critical acclaim whatsoever

2010-03-04T11:17:00.006Z

Written by Peter File

ONE would be forgiven for thinking that African lions and adult contemporary rock bands were not natural bed fellows, especially after the singer from The Goo Goo Dolls was savagely mauled whilst on safari in 2003.

But a hearing-impaired lion that thinks it's a singer has adopted a litter of adult contemporary musicians, much to the delight of their hundreds of fans. The unusually scrawny lion, Chad, has taken to standing in front of the band and singing the “lyrics” he has penned, despite having no discernable talent whatsoever.

The band’s manager, Chase McCool, saved Chad from a cruel life of performing demeaning tricks for slack-jawed circus folk.

“I first came across Chad at a two-bit travelling circus in my home town,” said McCool. “He was clearly undernourished, and being forced to dance and do tricks with a circus ball. He kept trying to sing Don’t Stop Believin’ by Journey, but the lion tamer just kept whipping him on the snout every time he opened his jaws.”

Appalled, McCool bought Chad from the circus owner for $50, took him home and nursed him back to health on a steady diet of Simply Red and Matchbox 20. While still clearly on the wrong side of emaciated, Chad is now a picture of health when compared with his former self.

He now enjoys a decidedly blessed life, touring with his adopted band mates and partaking in his favourite pastime – shooting music videos. A natural performer, Chad thrills viewers with his signature moves The Air Chin-up, and Catching Invisible Blowflies.

Godzilla promises "less atomic breath" after nomination for Japanese prime minister

2010-03-02T11:53:00.009Z

Written by Nataliya Dmitrieva

MUTANT amphibious lizard and all-around troublemaker, Godzilla, is set to become prime minister of Japan after government officials agreed to nominate him for the position.

The Japanese Karaoke Reformist Party and the Progressive Japanese Manga Party officially nominated Godzilla today after months of discussion and dispute over who would be their joint candidate.

JKRP pushed hard for Godzilla while PJMP was equally adamant that the winged terror of Tokyo, Mothra, could govern for all Japanese people. Feminist factions of both parties also signalled their support for Mothra, who has been a strong role model for Japanese females, be they human or divine moth.

Under the Japanese prime ministerial rotation, a kaiju of some description must lead the country for a four-year term at least once a century.

Godzilla said he was honoured and humbled to receive the joint nomination, and would focus on not destroying infrastructure rather than the somewhat destructive approach he has taken in previous years.

The third-party candidate, Rodan, could not immediately be reached for comment.

Hipsters showed 'absolute elitism' by swimming into baited bogan trap

2009-12-28T08:09:00.008Z

Written by Peter File

TRENDY hipsters in skinny jeans who made elitist gestures from inside a baited bogan trap whilst their friend stood on top of the cage eating organic feta were criticised for their "absolute elitism" by furious authorities in the Northern Territory.

Bogans - considered by most historians to be the true natives of Australia - have become a major pest of late, especially in the waterways of the Northern Territory. Tourists have complained that drunken bogans, generally piloting jet skis, have behaved in a menacing fashion and encouraged female tourists to expose their breasts.

Authorities have responded by setting traps baited with six packs of Bundaberg rum and coke, Lleyton Hewitt calendars and Ed Hardy t-shirts. After successful capture, the bogans are generally released in bogan-friendly locations, such as the Australian F1 Grand Prix, or a casino.

An image of the three bogan-mocking hipsters, all wearing Ray-Ban Wayfarers or horn-rimmed glasses with no lenses, surfaced yesterday after being posted on Monobook - an obscure social networking website where members convey emotions by posting images of their left eyebrow in binary code.

The photo shows one hipster atop the floating metal cage listening to music of a yet to be discovered genre on a community radio station that doesn’t transmit on FM or AM, and two more hipsters inside, eating a dish from a country that you haven’t heard of and probably never will, you ape.

Northern Territory Parks and Wildlife rangers have labelled the act as "a typical load of southern wankery."

"It won't be tolerated anymore," senior ranger and self-appointed bogan guardian Bruce Leonard said. "If they want to be edgy, they should stick to creating unauthorised inner city art installations that become nutritious organic meals for the homeless once they have bypassed their cultural relevance."

"Mocking bogans is like shooting fish in a barrel. Or a cage."

"We will investigate this case and if we find out who they are, they will be punished accordingly.

"The agency has zero tolerance with hipsters interfering with bogan traps.”

Offenders could be banned from owning vinyl records or forced to live in a mock Tudor mansion in a housing estate with palm trees, the Northern Territory Parks and Wildlife Conservation Act states.

EXCLUSIVE: Aussie pilgrimage tipped to see Schapelle Corby become a saint

2009-12-20T03:31:00.005Z

Written by Craig Lovato

THOUSANDS of Australians are expected to descend on Bali next year to see convicted drug smuggler Schapelle Corby become the nation's first saint.

Pope Benedict XVI is due to soon confirm he will canonise the Gold Coast’s favourite daughter in a special service on Kuta Beach. Preparations are already underway after the Pope on the weekend decreed Corby's second miracle.

Corby had earned her stripes to become a saint and all Australians should try to behave more like her, self-confessed party animal and occasional Archbishop of Sydney Cardinal George Pell said today.

Cardinal Pell said Our Schapelle fought many battles with rival drug syndicates when establishing the infamous Sisters of Surfers Paradise, and should probably be seen as a role model for young women.

“At times she was treated badly, and what was remarkable about her was she was still able to remain firmly in control of an extremely profitable exportation syndicate,” Cardinal Pell giggled through a cloud of funny-smelling smoke to a group of reporters this morning.

“Probably the best thing we can do to preserve Schapelle Corby's memory is to try to act like she did.

“Try to disregard the laws of foreign countries where possible, and if the man gets all up in your face and starts hassling you, just say you didn’t do it.”

Cardinal Talksalot went on to say that Schappers had “earned her stripes” and the decree of her second miracle was “a shot in the arm for the Australian people, or at least the bogans amongst youse.”

Jubilant crowds from around the world will be drawn in to see several other misunderstood entrepreneurs be made saints at the same time, including Howard Marks, George Jung and former Colombian political lobbyist Pablo Escobar.

Australian pilgrims will all have a special matching item of clothing to show their support for Corby.

Sister Mercedes Corby, who led the canonisation campaign, said canonisation services were “heaps good, ay, they’re grouse!”

“All them other groups have their own symbols,” said Sr Mercedes, who attended a canonisation earlier this year and said it “went off”.

“Some of them wear scarves, some of them wear hats and some have backpacks and shit.

“We're looking at it. It has to be something that can be easily brought here to Indonesia and not attract too much attention from customs.”

Before the Pope emerges for the service, there are readings about the lives of those who are about to be canonised and ceremonial peace pipes lit in their honour.

Sr Mercedes said: “I'll be getting some tickets, so youse can get them off me if you want, but youse can just get them from Ticketek too, ay.

“There’s usually no limits because there’s shitloads of room at Kuta. But get there early so youse get a good seat.”

The second miracle relates to a literary agent having his job saved after more than 100 copies of Corby’s autobiography, I Didn’t Do It, Ay, were sold this year.

“He wants to remain unknown for the moment because he wants the focus to be on Schapelle,” Sr Mercedes said. “And her book.”

A little old lady got mutilated late last night

2009-12-14T09:51:00.004Z

Written by Annette Curtain

JOURNALISTS with a fondness for ridiculously sensational articles belong in tabloid rags, but researchers have discovered an eerie spike in broadsheet journalists drawing unreasonably long bows during the Christmas period.

Extremely clever experts looked at the cases of 91 scotch-sodden newsmen who turned in articles during December that would normally accompany pictures of stuff that caught on fire, tits, or tits that caught on fire.

Of these 91 who were seen over a 12-month period, they found that 21 (23 per cent) turned in excruciatingly stupid pieces during December - about double the number of cases seen during the rest of the year.

The study's authors, who were probably from a university or something, suggested their findings would most likely be ironically quoted out of context and transformed into the kind of dross that someone nursing a hangover from an office Christmas party would be looking for on a Monday morning.

Professional expert on cleverness Jennifer Dowsing, lead author of the study published today in the Journal of Serious Stuff Australia, said explanations for December Syndrome included the idea that as a typical journalist’s body contained 70 per cent scotch, the increase in workplace drinking during December would render the hacks so drunk that they would be capable only of picking out the most interesting word in a press release and then crafting a catchy headline and quasi-article around said word.

"Some of these journalists, they get steaming drunk because they know nobody is reading the paper, and they’re on holiday soon," she wrote. “P.S. WEREWOLVES LOL WTF!”

"Oh, Kent, I'd be lying if I said my men weren't committing crimes."

2009-12-07T10:06:00.004Z

Written by El Patrón

VENEZUELAN police officers are responsible for committing approximately a fifth of all crimes, said a government minister who was murdered by a policeman shortly after giving the interview. The official said police officers accounted for 15-20 percent of all crimes, notably major felonies such as kidnapping and murder.

Police Chief Raul Midon said he was extremely disappointed with the figures, and would be aiming for around the 50 percent mark next time.

Midon went on to reveal that he and his men were already discussing the diversification of their criminal activities so as to include drug trafficking, prostitution, racketeering and heavy sack beatings.

Prize fight cancelled, undying love blamed

2009-12-02T09:46:00.007Z

Written by Vortman De Ville

TOUGH guys fall in love too, or so it would seem. Professional punch swingers Danny Jones and Roy Green jnr have shocked the boxing world by calling off their much anticipated fight, with Green blaming “a burning passion which neither of us can ignore any longer”.

Posing for the media throng at today’s weigh-in, Jones and Green were unable to maintain the traditional stare-off, both becoming transfixed by the gaze of one another before passionately kissing.

“I just lost myself in his eyes,” stammered a flustered Jones. “One moment we were just standing there with our shirts off, looking at each other, and then we were kissing.”

Surprisingly, it was Green’s trainer, Lucius McDonald, who called off the fight. A four-decade veteran of the sport, McDonald claimed that once a boxer fell for another boxer, his career was over.

“I seen it before, yeah. Nothin’ to do with sustained head trauma, it’s just biology. You spend enough time in a ring with another man, things happen.” McDonald explained. “That’s life. You’re a lover, or you’re a fighter.”

Police to have power to get their nude on

2009-11-29T07:31:00.010Z

Written by Frank Serpico

POLICE will soon have sexy new powers to strip for people at random, even if there is no reasonable suspicion those targeted are into that sort of thing.

The ''stop and strip'' tactic is part of a steamy new law and order crackdown set to be passed by those dirty old perverts in State Parliament, despite the Government conceding that the legislation breaches the Human Rights Charter, albeit in a sexy way.

Legal experts have labelled the proposed laws, which will enable officers to strip for children and the disabled, as an unorthodox and surprisingly kinky reaction to the problem of drunken violence.

Under the legislation, police will also be given the right to use whipped cream, nipple tassels and other stripper props if they believe that wielding their batons in a suggestive manner won’t cut the mustard with their captive audience.

Police Minister and fishnet stocking enthusiast Archibald Roberts says the wide-ranging legislation was necessary to further degrade social standards, and the stripping powers were aimed at preventing an explosion in knife-related violence.

''Police are detecting more young people with knives and when you look at the research, there’s only one thing that the deranged young folk of today find more arousing than knife fights and Twitter, and that’s hardcore nudity,'' Mr Roberts said.

''We've seen that happen in some cities in the United States and especially in London. In London, instead of sticking blades in people, kids are sticking £5 notes in police crevices.

''It’s not just an effective tactic against knife attacks; it’s also a great way for police officers to collect bribes.''

But Mr Roberts' lurid fantasies have been rejected by straight-laced senior lawyers who believe the ''stop and strip'' powers will be misused and are likely to target randy minorities such as delivery drivers, plumbers, Trekkies, and milkmen.

Prudish barrister Paul Frame, president of professional buzz killers Liberty Victoria, said the bill was undemocratic. ''It will clearly involve significant intrusions on ordinary civil liberties and human rights, such as the right to walk the streets and not have a police officer force you to watch them get their kit off to You Sexy Thing,'' he said.

Mr Roberts, who acknowledges areas of his legislation fall outside the Charter of Human Rights, said: ''I acknowledge areas of my legislation fall outside the Charter of Human Rights. And?''

Fred Shellman, chief cold spoon dispenser at the Sex Addiction Legal Clinic, said Mr Roberts' reasoning was spurious. ''Talking about naughty cops in London and America is just vague political posturing that leads to people feeling horny, when statistics show there's no reason they should. It makes my job harder, quite literally in fact.''

The raunchy police powers are being introduced under the Summary Offences and Control of Almost Everything Acts Amendment Bill, which has the firm and passionate support of all the major political parties.

Under the bill, anyone can be subjected to an impromptu police strip show if they are in a designated area. Any area can be designated if it contains land on which a crime could potentially be committed. Big events such as the weekend or days occurring between Monday and Friday can also be targeted.

TMG believes perpetually grumpy police Chief Commissioner Herbert Britches pushed for the new powers after becoming frustrated with the lack of police nudity on his watch. Mr Britches refused to be interviewed about the legislation, sparing us the arduous task of remaining awake and taking notes whilst listening to his monotonous cop voice.

Jude Law tries to drown dog, attacks owner

2009-11-25T10:07:00.008Z

Written by Peter File

A FARMER was almost drowned by serial pants man Jude Law after he dived into his dam to save his pet dog.

Bruce McDougall, 49, of Arthur's Creek, is being assessed by Austin Hospital surgeons after being mauled by the diminutive lothario this morning. He only managed to end the attack when he elbowed Law in the throat as he tried to hold him under water.

By then he had already suffered a deep gash across his abdomen as Law tried to disembowel him with his carefully manicured fingernails, as well as a deep gash across his forehead and further deep cuts and scratches across his chest.

Speaking from the hospital's emergency department, Mr McDougall exclusively told TMG he was walking his dog Ralph at the back of his property when they awoke Law, who had been sleeping hidden in long grass near the dam.

When the startled actor ran into the dam, Ralph followed, barking before Law grabbed the dog with his delicately moisturised hands and held him under the water for about 20 seconds, until Mr McDougall arrived to save his dog.

"I thought I might take a hit or two dragging the dog out from under his grip, but I didn't expect him to actually attack me,'' Mr McDougall said.

"I was stuck having to hold onto the dog with both hands because it was half drowned and I couldn't really see anything because Jude Law was scratching at my face with his fingernails.

"It was a shock at the start because it was Jude Law. I mean, The Talented Mr Ripley? You wouldn’t expect him to attack a salad, let alone an actual person.

"Then all of a sudden I realised he’d opened up a wide gash above my eye and blinded me.

"I was flailing away underwater carrying a dog with Jude Law ripping into me.

"All I could do was just keep pushing for the bank while he was trying to tie his neckerchief around my throat at a jaunty angle, so at that point I elbowed him in the throat and that made him back off a little bit.

"I don't think I'll ever be able to watch Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow quite the same as I used to - it might bring back a couple of bad memories."

Wildlife authorities took the opportunity to remind the public that due to changing temperatures, Jude Law season now occurs between November and February and that sensible shoes and thick socks should be worn when walking in long grass.

Insurance company finds cure for depression: sun, sand and strippers

2009-11-23T10:44:00.005Z

Written by Annette Curtain

FACEBOOK has helped a Canadian insurance company discover a cure for depression, paving the way for the social networking behemoth and other civic-minded corporations to solve the ills of the world.

Nathalie Blanchard, 29, took long-term sick leave from her job at IBM more than a year ago for severe depression.

After noticing that her monthly benefits had ceased to be paid, Ms Blanchard called her insurance company, Manulife. She was both shocked and delighted to learn that she had helped Manulife find a cure for depression.

Manulife had been on Facebook with the intention of giving Ms Blanchard a virtual poke and buying some sheep for her virtual farm, but figured it may as well check out her photos too. As it trawled through her albums, Manulife found images of Ms Blanchard stuffing money in the sequined g-string of a Chippendale, celebrating her birthday and bathing in the sun in little more than a bikini.

Shockingly, Ms Blanchard was observed to be smiling in all of the photos.

It was previously thought that those suffering from clinical depression refused to observe birthdays and would avoid sunlight at all costs, not unlike vampires. The illness was also understood to cause previously healthy people to lose all interest in sequined g-strings.

However in light of these observations and in an embarrassing blow to those with actual medical qualifications, Manulife is confident that it has cured the disease once and for all.

Psychiatric patients across the country are now being clad in skimpy swimsuits and sent outside, where they are given wads of cash to stuff down the sequined unmentionables of gyrating strippers.

Dinosaur to taxi chief: RAWWWRRR!

2009-11-20T03:33:00.004Z

Written by Myles Long

PEOPLE are entitled to be concerned for their safety if a carnivorous dinosaur is allowed to drive a taxi, a court has heard.

Annabelle Crowe, who has a law degree, said safety and good personal hygiene were reasonable public expectations, and people who travelled in taxis with a dinosaur were vulnerable.

"What is the public at large likely to think about the accreditation of a prehistoric beast with a penchant for meat?" Ms Crowe said in the Supreme Court.

"Will they feel safe? Will the dinosaur use deodorant, or play ethnic music loudly?"

She argued the Victorian Civil and Administrative Tribunal had made legal errors in overturning the Director of Public Transport's refusal of a taxi accreditation to a feathered Velociraptor, who can be identified only as Mr Biteypants. The director is appealing against the VCAT ruling allowing the previously extinct creature to drive taxis.

Mr Biteypants, who ate a postman in 1990 but was acquitted of murder after successfully using the “But I’m a dinosaur!” defence, spent years in a theme park designed by Steven Spielberg.

Any person who eats a public servant is automatically refused taxi accreditation.

Ms Crowe said Mr Biteypants had eaten a public servant, and therefore should have to wear a muzzle and eat his meals through a straw from now on.

She said labelling dinosaurs on the basis of what they had done might be unfair to them, but that’s just how we roll down at Parliament.

Mr Biteypants’ barrister Peter Bellendé said eating postmen should not automatically disqualify a taxi driver.

"It’s discriminatory to carnivores," Mr Bellendé said. “Mr Biteypants can’t help who he is. Why should a Diplodocus get to drive a taxi just because they’re some gay vegan dinosaur?”

The hearing is expected to continue next week, assuming the defendant doesn’t eat the judge.

Freddo Frog charged with receiving stolen boy

2009-11-17T02:09:00.006Z

Written by Eoinín McAlpine

A GIANT chocolate frog has been charged with receiving an Aboriginal boy allegedly stolen from a supermarket in regional Western Australia.

Wildlife experts say the delicious frog has no prior convictions.

Freddo been charged with receiving the boy, allegedly stolen by his friend, Perth racing identity Kevin ‘Caramello’ Koala, and faces a second charge involving the receipt of a 1kg bag of insects stolen from a fishing supplies store.

The frog will face Northam Amphibian Court, about 100km from Perth, on Monday.

His lawyer, Amphibian Legal Service chief Jeremy Fisher, has asked police to withdraw the charges but has not received a response.

"It's scandalous that a frog should be subject to prosecution for a case of this type," he croaked.

Mr Fisher said Freddo had missed an earlier court date because of a family misunderstanding and was apprehended and locked in a cell devoid of both water and lily pads for several hours.

A WA police spokesman said it's appropriate to have the court deal with the frog, because police have been forced to speak to him about other matters previously.

Fox News discovers 'significant amount' of conservative commentators on the Moon

2009-11-14T11:00:00.011Z

Written by Logan Bluetooth

FOX NEWS has found 'a significant amount' of conservative commentators skulking about inside a crater on the Moon in a discovery that could pave the way for fair and balanced lunar reporting.

The network announced that last month's audacious attempt to smash two spacecraft into the Moon's rocky surface to find opinions that aren’t gay was a major success.

The $59million bombing raid threw up a mile-high plume of quasi-journalists with refreshingly sensible views, including a large cluster of anti-immigration supporters who had been locked away in a deep crater at the lunar south pole. The bottom of the crater had not seen light for billions of years, which served only to exacerbate their prejudice against dark matter.

The revelation may bring closer the day when Fox News creates a permanent lunar base, using the conservative commentators buried in the rocks to enlighten nearby liberal planets such as Jupiter, whose surface is currently obscured by violent storms of cafe lattes, Noam Chomsky essays and sun-dried tomatoes.

A spokesman for Fox News said last night: 'The discovery opens a new chapter in our understanding of the Moon, which was previously thought to be nothing but delicious cheese.'

There were fears that last month's experiment had failed when the collision of the two spacecraft failed to produce the expected six-mile-high cloud of awesomeness. Live pictures relayed from the Moon showed no sign of an impact, even though the crafts crashed as planned.

But yesterday, Fox News experts who studied the data said instruments trained on the impact saw a significant amount of conservative commentary rising from the surface, including easily identifiable phrases such as ‘it’s political correctness gone mad!’ and ‘I’m not a racist, but Martians should go back to Mars’.

Dr Tony Calabrese, from the Fox News Truth Detection Centre, said: 'Indeed, yes, we found conservative commentators. And we didn't find just one or two, we found a significant amount, enough to man a whole new intergalactic network. We are ecstatic.'

Warner Gluten, chief lunar scientist at Fox News headquarters in Washington, added: 'We're unlocking the mysteries of our nearest neighbour and by extension the solar system.

'It turns out the moon harbours many intelligent beings with their finger on the pulse, which just goes to show that the liberal media should shut up. Period.'

Operation: Enduring Righteousness, which took place on October 9, was watched by millions across the globe live on the internet.

One rocket slammed into the newly named O’Reilly crater, near the moon's southern pole, at around 5,600mph, and was followed four minutes later by a spacecraft equipped with cameras to record the columns of razor sharp conservative commentary billowing from the impact zone.

Over the last decade, market analysts have found some hints of right-wing thought on the moon's poles, but this is the best evidence yet.

Astronaut Buzz Aldrin, who in 1969 made his historic Apollo 11 moonwalk with Neil Armstrong, was pleased to hear the latest discovery, but still believes the U.S. should focus on colonizing Mars. Aldrin is concerned that Martians could become radically Islamified or allow gay marriage if conservative commentators aren’t broadcast to the red planet in the next decade.

'People will overreact to this news and say, “Let's have a Fox News channel broadcasting on the moon,"' Aldrin said. 'It doesn't justify that. There are Martians being taught to grow beards and attack Earth, doesn’t that matter to anyone?'

Fox News scientists said it would take more time to analyse what else was kicked up in the conservative dust.

Vatican: alienz can haz catholicism too plz?

2009-11-13T10:04:00.007Z

Written by Peter File

400 YEARS after tossing Galileo in a prison cell in the hope that he would sober up and stop dribbling rubbish about planets and stuff, the Catholic church has changed its tune on aliens.

Padre Jose Funes, who owns a telescope and also has those glow in the dark stars stuck to his bedroom roof, reckons that Jesus' old man might not have called it quits after creating Earth and its inhabitants.

The Vatican has said that there is no clash between believing Catholic doctrine and believing in the possibility of alien life, presumably because neither has ever been proven to exist but still makes for a pretty good story.

An actual astronomer responded by telling the Vatican to "keep your wandering hands off science, perverts."

Sleazy boss hired a cyborg to kill me

2009-11-12T10:51:00.003Z

Written by Jérôme Carrière

A FEMALE woman suing her scheming boss thought he had programmed a homicidal cybernetic organism to assassinate her and maybe steal her coffee mug, a tribunal heard today.

Tracy McGee, 29, told an unqualified supermarket assistant that a killbot looking like her former boss Garth Griffin, 59, threw a pineapple impregnated with a grenade at her in the street in May this year.

She is suing her former employer for his collection of executive desk toys, after quitting her £500,000-a-year job at Killbots ‘R’ Us as one of the gals in the typing pool in February because someone kept using her coffee mug.

Struggling to read his own barely legible notes to Central London Employment Tribunal, Paul Mifsud, mild-mannered supermarket assistant by day, chutzpah-rich barrister by night, said: "She does not feel very safe. She believes that they will send someone out to throw more death pineapples at her.

"She called police in May 2009. There was a man, probably a cyborg, outside waiting for her to come out. He looked exactly like her boss, who is a convicted narcissist, and she figured he had made the new killbot prototypes in his own image then sent one to finish her off.

"He drove his car up and down the road six times, throwing various explosive pieces of fruit at her. She went into a restaurant and asked them to call 999, and also mentioned that there was free fruit going outside.”

Tobias Poshington-Waffleby, counsel for Mr Griffin asked: "Is it your belief that Mr Griffin was trying to program a cyborg to kill you so that your coffee mug would finally be his?"

Miss McGee replied: "Yes."

The callous but dashingly handsome Mr Poshington-Waffleby questioned whether her belief was a product of "an over active imagination".

She replied: "No. If you knew how nice this coffee mug was you would probably understand a bit more."

The hearing continues.

Policeman suspended after refusing bribes

2009-11-10T10:59:00.006Z

Written by Frank Serpico

AN HONEST policeman was axed from his elite unit last night after laying himself open to ridicule by posting evidence of his disgusting honesty on the internet.

PC Terry Whistler, possibly whilst drunk, provided documents and photographic evidence of his lack of criminal activity. Under the name of "sincerebobby", he detailed his sick habits to a woman he met on an adult dating site.

The 40-year-old member of the Bribe & Brutality Squad sent PDF files of his bank statements that showed nothing but wage deposits from the Met. He also sent a picture of himself holding a police-issue baton and a 9mm semi-automatic pistol, boasting that he had never used, nor intended to use either implement.

Last night a senior Met source said: "Bribe and Brutality officers must behave abhorrently in their professional and personal life. They cannot lay themselves open to commendations for doing the right thing, or disclose information that could put them or their colleagues at risk of having to rely solely upon their base wage.

"BBS officers keep protesters, minorities, and protesting minorities in line. They also solicit cash payments where inappropriate. Openness, accountability and honesty have no place in this department."

In his profile, PC Whistler calls himself "fervently truthful" and "passionate about serving the community, not my hip pocket". During one chat with a woman called Nikki, he admitted giving 10p back to a stunned shopkeeper after being given too much change.

And using his personal email address he boasted about being fascinated by the diverse opinions held by unemployed and presumably unbathed university students, who taught him about anarchy, post-modern feminist literature and the benefits of socialism.

An angry police source said: "It is utterly outrageous that a police officer should act in such a compassionate and tolerant manner. We are here to crack skulls and feather our own nest, not act like a bloody blouse."

Understandably single PC Whistler was removed from the crack unit over "serious concerns" about his judgement. The Met's Directorate of Unprofessional Standards has launched an investigation.

The 1 in 40 chance that the dog in your back yard is a fake

2009-11-08T10:54:00.005Z

Written by Nataliya Dmitrieva

ONE in 40 dogs in circulation are fake – making it the most counterfeited animal in the world.

The alarming figure, revealed by the RSPCA, represents 37 million dogs – 0.52% of the total 1.4 billion hounds worldwide – and is part of an ‘upward trend’ in canine forgery.

Yesterday, pet shops and breeders warned that unless urgent action was taken, the problem may undermine confidence in the canine industry.

Figures showed that the number of counterfeit dogs destroyed by authorities in the past two years has risen by more than 800%. Some say such a figure is a mathematical impossibility, proving without a doubt that it is indeed an awful lot of fake dogs.

Experts say criminals are making most of the fake hounds in makeshift workshops, sometimes in their own homes. A popular way is to weld two cats together, and then iron on a high quality image of a dog’s face. Using this method, a fake dog can cost less than 10 cents to make.

Stavros Almadrates, of the Federation of Dog Enthusiasts, said the issue was ‘worrying’ for honest dog breeders and pet stores. ‘It has to be stopped immediately. It’s all very well to have a pet that looks like a dog, but what happens when these fakes are asked to fetch a ball or pull someone from a house fire? You’re going to have two bloody cats looking out for themselves and no one else, besmirching the good name of dogs. It’s outrageous, it devalues the dog brand.’

Others believe the number of fake hounds is higher. Canine-testing company Hoek & Son sprayed a suburban tree with a variety of dog urine samples in a recent experiment. Alarmingly, over five per cent of ‘dogs’ trotted past the irresistibly pungent tree, with little more than a cursory glance given.

The budgerigar is the second-most forged pet. Last year, 675,000 budgies were found to actually just be a lot of wasps glued together.

Pensioners battle cops...because bingo was full

2009-11-05T10:47:00.007Z

Written by Logan Bluetooth

A GANG of old age pensioners battled with cops when they were told not to enter a packed bingo hall. Riot police were called as the OAPs fought officers in front of horrified shoppers.

The 40-strong mob became enraged when a community support officer told them to find their legs eleven, Burlington Berties and two fat ladies elsewhere. Taking umbrage at the bloody cheek of the young whippersnapper and the gross misuse of bingo lingo, the septuagenarians began throwing walking frames and hefty annual bus passes at the doors of the hall, forcing police to close the street for an hour as they confronted the wrinkled thugs on Tuesday evening.

Three officers’ feelings were hurt - including the 25-year-old PCSO, who needed several cups of coffee and a reassuring pat on the back, and a policewoman who was told that in the pensioners’ day, women knew their place and didn’t wear police uniforms.

Jane Kippers, 41, who was waiting at the bus stop in Orpington, South East London, said: "I couldn't believe how slowly it escalated, they just went nuts. I was mildly concerned - one minute I was standing waiting for a bus and then an hour later I was dodging hard-boiled sweets and Glenn Miller records."

Four women and three men aged 76 to 79 were arrested on suspicion of offences including aggravated fist-shaking and being quite mean to police officers.

All were residents of Orpington Pines Retirement Community. Locals yesterday labelled the institution "a scum magnet" - and said illegal Viagra dealing regularly took place outside the college. One local wrote on a website: "It's an utter disgrace to the community."

Orpington Pines management said resident behaviour had "significantly improved" over the past year, although acknowledged that it would be conducting a review of medication levels.

Pope to shepherd: you're stealin' my bit!

2009-11-04T09:27:00.008Z

Written by Nataliya Dmitrieva

CRIPPLED by the global financial crisis, a lowly Chinese shepherd has used ingenuity and presumably a colour printer to wrest control of his flock of sheep. Rather than a border collie, the canny peasant now terrifies his woolly stock with a glossy wolf poster.

However, the news is not all good for Farmer Quaint. Upon hearing that someone was striking unjustified fear into a flock of sheep by way of dishonest, empty threats, lawyers representing the Catholic church have commenced legal proceedings, citing massive copyright infringement.

Gutter-cleaning asylum seeker cheats death, maybe taxes too

2009-11-02T11:16:00.007Z

Written by Annette Curtain

A CUNNING Sri Lankan asylum seeker has been involved in a serious accident after falling from the roof of hardline Australian President Kevin Rudd's heavily fortified Brisbane compound.

It is understood that the illegal queue jumper, posing as a fair dinkum tradesman, was cleaning the gutters at Chateau Rudd when he suddenly threw himself from the roof, demanding Australian jobs, women, unemployment benefits, and probably a plasma screen television too as he hurtled towards the ground.

The asylum-seeking tradesman is receiving get well soon cards and ice cream at a Brisbane hospital. Queensland police were informed about the incident but were unable to take time out of their busy bribe-taking schedule.

A spokesperson for El Presidente said the Rudd family are "concerned, but make no apologies for their extremely hard lawn.”

The Art of Letter Writing # 1788: Van Drongo's Land

2009-11-01T07:57:00.003Z

Written whilst wearing denim by Eoinín McAlpine

Dear Whoever Wears The Pants At Just Jeans,

I wish to bring to your attention a particularly severe problem which is almost certainly impacting upon your gross profit. Not unlike a loose thread in a cheap pair of slacks, it may not seem that big an issue at the moment. Left unchecked, however, one could easily find a rather embarrassing buttock-shaped hole at a crucially public juncture, or in your case, a gaping chasm of profit loss at the AGM that your shareholders may not find as amusing as an unwittingly exposed arse-cheek.

In short, there is a used car salesman masquerading as an employee in the men’s section at your Bourke street store.

I first became aware of this approximately a week ago whilst shopping for jeans. Having been unsuccessful a few days earlier at a different Just Jeans outlet, I figured the Melbourne store might have a few more cuts that might please my eye. So in I strode, ready to part with a fistful of cash for my annual jeans purchase. There was one other customer in the store, and the poor sod was undergoing what can only be described as verbal molestation by the used car salesman. For the sake of brevity, the used car salesman shall hereafter be referred to as Gordon, as in Gordon Farkas from The Big Steal (top movie by the way, rent it out).

Anyway, Gordon was slobbering his silvery tongue all over this hapless bloke. The analogies were coming thick and fast (emphasis on the thick), and with a curiously automotive flavour. Without exaggeration, an example of one of his lines was “see, these jeans are like, yeah, I suppose I’m happy with my Holden Commodore. Now, these jeans, these would be like, yeah, a Porsche 911!” He then may or may not have thrust his pelvis and said “VROOM VROOM!” Unsurprisingly, the bloke left the shop shortly thereafter, looking completely bewildered and as though he’d lost just a tiny bit of his innocence.

This, of course, meant it was really just Gordon and myself left in the store. My girlfriend was also there, but having just heard his vehicular-based sales pitch, she was now giving him an extremely wide berth. I was looking at a pair of Calvin Klein jeans and panicking somewhat, because I don’t really see myself as the CK jeans-wearing kind of guy (you know, rat’s tail, white Everlast runners, frequenting clubs in the casino, punching people), but they were actually quite nice and I hadn’t seen any others I was really taken by, and besides, who was I to make generalisations about those who wear CK jeans? Marky Mark was a CK man!

So over came Gordon, playing it cool at first. He asked me what size I was after. 34” waist, 32” leg, said I. Fairly common size, right? To a jeans salesperson perhaps. To a used car salesman, I may as well have been making fart noises with my armpit. But, also betraying his true occupation, Gordon launched into a spiel both bizarre and bereft of truth. It was capped off with a plug for an extra in-store service (at a cost, of course) that may as well have been the old “oh yeah, mate, you want to get the tyre protector before you take her out on the road, you don’t want the rubber disintegrating on ya.”

Again, this is no exaggeration. “See, the thing about jeans these days is they’re all produced overseas to reduce cost. So they don’t make sizes like that anymore, they don’t have the resources. But we can just alter them for you here, we’ve been doing it for years. You live in Melbourne? ‘Course you do. So yeah, just try this pair on, if they’re too long, no worries. We just alter them for you, cost you about $5.”

I wasn’t really keen to get into an argument about precisely what resources were lacking in the country producing the jeans that prevented them from churning out such abnormal sizes as 34/32, although one would imagine that if the third-world pre-teen making the jeans has access to a sewing machine and denim, he or she could probably knock out a few pairs fitting my dimensions. They’re not getting paid 10 cents a week to slack off, right? I digress. I went and tried the jeans on to shut this guy up. Two different sizes. Neither fitted. I brought them back out and told him so.

“What do you mean, they didn’t fit?”

Again, a peculiar question for a jeans salesman. Not so much for a used car salesman, because if a car doesn’t fit, you just slide the seat backwards or forwards until it does. So, I explained to Gordon that while the waist was fine, the jeans were a little snug on my Herculean thighs.

“That’s how the kids are wearing them these days, that’s the fashion.”

It would have been funny enough if one of the kids were telling me this. The sad fact was that it was coming from a man who was long ago engulfed by male pattern baldness and is quite obviously crotch-deep into his fifth decade of existence. As I stifled a giggle, Gordon called over my girlfriend. Incredulous at my apparent lack of fashion knowledge, he asked her to explain to me about, you know, how the kids are wearing their threads, man. She failed to oblige, instead offering something to the effect of knowing the way I wear my jeans, that way being not resembling leggings. In fairness to Gordon, some of the kids are indeed wearing them that tight. It’s just that most of them are pre-pubescent waifs, who also favour wearing scarves with t-shirts and Venetian sunglasses.

Willing to put aside our serial lack of cool, and perhaps feeling the sale slipping through his slimy fingers, the G-man started pointing at any jeans within reach. Trying to let him down easily, I said that I just wasn’t really into the colour of any of the other jeans. I could have told him that I thought they would have looked more at home in the Dad section at K-Mart (no offence to K-Mart either, it has its place and it occupies it well), but I just said I might have a look elsewhere. I mentioned (and immediately regretted doing so) that I’d just returned from living overseas and was used to a little more choice, hence why I wanted to have a look around town.

“Well, look mate. You’ve just gotta accept that you’re now floating on an island in the arse-end of nowhere, and this is it. This is all you’ve got to choose from.”

I’m hardly a walking advertisement for patriotism, but this did strike me as an odd comment from someone representing an Australian-owned clothing chain. Still, I nodded politely, maintained eye contact and continued backing slowly towards the exit. Gordon was still carrying on like a pork chop, and showed no signs of stopping.

“Well go on then. Go and have your look. Go and look in Westco, or Jeans West, or wherever, go and have you look. But I guarantee by the end of the day you’ll be saying, you know what? That funny little bald guy with the glasses in Just Jeans, he actually knew what he was on about. And you’ll come back here, you’ll be back...”

Even after we’d turned our backs on him and were walking up the stairs, he was still quite audibly spewing out a fairly constant stream of rubbish. Perhaps something about back in his day, you could sell an LH Torana to a bloke without getting sassed by him and his smart-mouth missus, thank you very much.

This isn’t a complaint. I don’t want anything. I already found a really nice pair of Lee jeans at another retailer, in a 34/32 (it’s amazing what those sweat shop kids can do!). I just thought it was worth mentioning. There could be a disgruntled HR employee hiring used car salesman in a fiendish plot to bring the company down from the inside. Unlikely, but it might be worth looking into before Gordon Farkas strikes again.

Yours in bemused concern,

Eoinín

We're Back Like A Chiropractor

2009-11-01T03:15:00.004Z

Written by Logan Bluetooth

Much like a persistent sexually transmitted illness, The Mobar Gazette has returned yet again, irritating various bodily regions with an all too familiar burning sensation. Not too familiar, however, as I’m sure those of you without visual impairments have noticed. Gone is the black background that served us well for so long, even if it did attract more goths and emos than we would have liked. In its place is a far more racially inclusive colour scheme, designed to reflect the skin tones of modern society – black, dark blue, and some sort of weak pastel. The web designers were a touch evasive when we asked precisely which races these colours represent, but I’m sure it was $20,000 well spent.

Note also our brand new slogan, and our painfully trendy background image of a typewriter in disrepair. I’m told this also represents something, or is a reflection of something to do with society, or something else entirely. Current literacy levels in the office, perhaps. It’s deliberately vague, but edgy, like Scarlett Johansson.

Aesthetic modifications containing subtle social commentary are but the least of the changes that have taken place at Mobar HQ. A group decision was reached (I suggested it, nobody had the cojones to disagree) that we are to return to the hard-hitting news and current affairs reporting that earned us fame and libel suits in the first place. Today’s wireless world has neither the time nor the attention span to be bothered with more than a couple of hundred words. After this one, we’ll be relegating all articles containing more than 300 words to Sundays, where they can be free to be irrelevant along with hangovers, church sermons and NCIS.

Such is our dedication to abbreviating, truncating and editing the absolute bollocks out of this publication, we even considered trimming the title down. I mean, The Mobar Gazette? That’s 15 whole letters. We thought that TMG would be very now. Letters good, words bad. Unfortunately, our lawyers told us that it was too close to another gossip/news outlet, and the domain name is for an online gambling site. So we shall put up with the long name for the moment, but as soon as the opportunity presents itself, look out for iMobar.

And if anyone was wondering, our trans-hemispherical relocation to Australia went fairly smoothly, although one gets the sneaking suspicion that it has been somewhat misrepresented to us as a lawless tax haven filled with violent, uncouth alcoholics who share a fondness for gambling and casual buggery; the tax rate is considerably higher than Britain. Lamentably, we don’t really have the capital or the patience for another move, so it’s g’day this and strewth that for the moment. On that note, stay tuned for Eoinín’s first experience with the retail industry in Australia, you flamin’ bunch of drongos.

Your Leader Appears To Be An Ice Cream

2009-09-27T23:38:00.009+01:00

Written while shaking uncontrollably with the fear of an imminent nuclear attack by Logan Bluetooth

Fate, like the sea, is a harsh mistress, or so I’m told on the rare occasion that someone of the fatalistic persuasion manages to somehow penetrate my network of ruthless capitalistic acquaintances. Oh, how I loathe these weak-minded merchants of dross. But Logan, everything happens for a reason. Good lord. Inevitable predetermination and an entire lack of free will surely dictates that I wouldn’t be wrestling with the tantalising options of either sodomising the fatalist with a wine glass or verbally sodomising them with the acerbic wit I’m so well known for. No, as an advocate for plutocracy, I subscribe to the Sarah Connor (of Terminator fame) school of thought – there is no fate but what we make. So if something like an army of homicidal self-aware killing machines is going to be a problem for you, go and shoot the idiot that invented them before he invents them.

Seething hatred for fatalists aside, I still harbour a firm belief in cause and effect. The Mobar Gazette was launched almost a year ago with very little fanfare and even less cocktail sausages and canapés. And while most of our writers are dotted around the globe in various exotic locales, for tax purposes our headquarters are rooted firmly in the United Kingdom. Since the gestation of this publication, however, certain events seem to have conspired against us. A crippling recession, an increasingly annoying public demand for openness and accountability, and a socialist government hell-bent on taxing the absolute suitcase out of the wealthy – the very people who made this country what it is today.

So as the stench of rising unemployment wafts through the window along with the shrill (and also unemployed) caterwauling of protesters outside our offices, and an 80p in the pound tax rate thumps its red fists against our front door, we say enough is enough. I simply cannot endure another moment of this quasi-socialist madness. Eoinín has been brainwashed by the whingeing of the population and now spends his days writing juvenile complaint letters to anyone who will listen. Peter feels that the abundance of CCTV in London is severely impacting upon his extra-curricular activities. We long to reside in a nation with perpetual sunshine, dangerously loose morals, an intoxicatingly violent competitive national sport, low or non-existent tax rates, freakish animals, rampant alcoholism, and a relaxed attitude to just about anything you can shake a didgeridoo at.

So we’re moving to Australia.

Situated just above Antarctica and a little to the left, mainland Australia is roughly the same size as France. It was discovered in 1896 by Sir Donald Bradman, a wealthy, opium-addicted British industrialist and hater of cats. Bradman had originally set sail from the motherland in search of new sources of spices, slave labour and a good location for timeshare apartments for British retirees. Instead, Bradman happened upon a large, relatively uninhabited landmass which, as far as he and his crew could see, held no attractions other than Rooland, a poorly maintained amusement park set up by the native inhabitants. Undeterred, Bradman and his crew set about slaughtering the locals and claiming the strange new land for the British Empire, recognising that one can never have too many tax havens with an abundance of sunshine and a distinct absence of morals.

And so, in the grand tradition of Monaco, the Cayman Islands, Jersey and the Republic of Ireland, a shady tax haven using tourism as a legitimate front was born. Entrepreneurs, professional sports stars, chief executives and war criminals flocked to Australia to hastily stash their ill-gotten booty in the myriad shell companies that had sprung up with the blessing of Queen Elizabeth II. It remains a perfect example of what all tax havens should aspire to be – a living, breathing, fully functional tax dodging entity that appears to be nothing more than a vapid cultural vacuum with an addiction to the precious capital of south east Asia.

We first learned of the existence of Australia last week, after being approached by representatives of President Kevin Rudd. They gave us a promotional video, and while the production costs weren’t extremely high, it had us convinced. The fact that Gordon Brown is slashing the UK’s nuclear arsenal while our close neighbours Iran are arming themselves to the teeth and threatening to blind us with enriched uranium has also had a slight influence on us, in that we’d like to be beyond the range of an inter-continental ballistic missile during business hours. So the offer of minimal tax, champagne on arrival and what is ostensibly immunity from most Australian laws really couldn’t have come at a better time.

Unfortunately for you, dear readers, a trans-hemispherical move of business premises is not without its difficulties. And as tempting as it is to leave party guru Hans Öffmeinbürger in charge of things while we’re in transit, we just couldn’t afford the various lawsuits that would invariably arise in the wake of four long weeks of articles along the lines of Dummkopfs That Hans Hates Because They Are Ugly Und Fornicate With Farm Animals, or whatever it is that he normally writes. Therefore, for the next month or so, the Mobar Gazette will be publishing excerpts from the International Drainage Commission’s 16th Annual Symposium on the effects of tidal movements on government foreign policy and industrial relations legislation. For those of you about to be thrust into autumn, mind out for the leaf tigers. We shall see the rest of you connoisseurs of low standards in about a month.

The Art of Letter Writing # 27: Hans Öffmeinwaterbottle

2009-09-20T22:28:00.008+01:00

Written in a huff by Eoinín McAlpine

Dear Office Cleaner,

You and I have never spoken. In fact, as far as I’m aware, we’ve never even laid eyes upon each other. What we have could barely be called a relationship; I would describe it more as an understanding. I come in during the day and arrange words in sentences and paragraphs, and you pop in for a couple of hours in the evening to empty bins, disinfect surfaces, vacuum the carpet and clean the vomit off Peter File’s keyboard. Until quite recently, I’ve been more than satisfied with this arrangement. I receive very few flea bites at work, and these days I only put one layer of toilet paper on the seat – quite a step forward for a sufferer of mild obsessive compulsive disorder. But then, well…

YOU THREW OUT MY WATER BOTTLE.

I’m dead against capital letters unless they’re at the beginning of a sentence or a pronoun, so yes, I was actually yelling at you there. I never yell at people, not even in letters like this when I know they can’t hit me in the head. I’m making an exception this time, and not just because our shifts don’t overlap. Seriously, why now? That bottle has been on my desk for months, in the same position too – wedged between my perpetually empty in-tray and my well worn copies of Mentally Unstable Firearm Lover’s Monthly. Okay, that’s a lie, I don’t really like guns. But it has been in the same spot on my desk for quite a while.

I like to consider myself as being somewhat eco-friendly. Not very, mind you – I think air travel is great, and I adore steak. Also, hardcore environmentalists appeal to me about as much as members of the BNP. They’re both inflexible extremists, it’s just that some of them like tofu and electric cars, and the others like people going back to where they came from. Anyway, the point is that I hardly ever buy bottled water. I read somewhere that it takes about three bottles of water to produce one bottle of water. Obscene, I’m sure you’ll agree. So when I do buy a bottle, I keep it for as long as possible, generally until it starts to smell a bit funny and degrade to the point where bits of stuff are floating in the water every time I refill it.

I love water. It quenches thirsts, partly prevents hangovers if you drink enough of it, and it’s one of the essential ingredients in a wet t-shirt competition. Most of the planet is covered by water, and maybe more if those bloody inconsiderate steak lovers and air travel enthusiasts keep it up. Apart from a few bones and some arguably vital organs, humans are more or less made entirely of water too. You can do without steak for almost a fortnight, but deny a man water and he’ll last about as long as a ceasefire in the Gaza Strip.

The editor told me not to bother writing this letter to you. He said, “Eoinín, chances are this janitor chap is nothing more than an uncouth, illiterate, Fosters-sodden Australian backpacker, vacuuming and shagging his way around Europe, earning just enough of a pittance to fund his next Contiki tour binge drinking session, leaving nothing more than defiled fountains and syphilis-ridden Essex girls in his uncultured wake. Oh, and your water bottle.” I wasn’t deterred, though. I was still confident that I could connect with you on a human level, even if you were Australian. I knew that even if water wasn’t as important to you as say, koala steaks (which I’ve heard are delicious and I would love to try), you would respect my love of two parts hydrogen, one part oxygen, all parts delicious.

So as you can see, I have brought in a new water bottle. It is just to the left of this carefully written plea for professional restraint and mutual respect. You don’t need to clean it. You need not do anything with it or to it. Just let it be what it is – a thoroughly effective vessel for the transportation of water from the tap to my stomach. If, however, you choose to ignore my heartfelt plea and violently hurl it into the bin while cackling evilly to yourself, well…let’s be honest, I’m too afraid of confrontation to do anything other than write another letter. But I’ll be pretty pissed off. So just leave it alone, okay?

Yours sincerely,

Eoinín McAlpine

Hot Hits With Hans # 4

2009-09-13T20:57:00.007+01:00

Written with a glow stick by Hans Öffmeinbürger

Oh, hallo meine liebevollen ventilatoren! Well, what an exciting musical week it has been, don’t you think? So many amazing things happened, but all of them were overshadowed by the release of the highly anticipated The Beatles (Remastered) 2009, a long overdue compilation of Beatles songs that were previously available only in pretty much every single record shop in the world. But this is different, because this release comes in a box and the recordings have been delicately tweaked by expert sound engineers, so delicately in fact that only a dog could hear the difference. But it also comes in a box. Is this sounding cynical? Perhaps a little. I should admit that Hans is more of a Rolling Stones man, mainly because they have a dedication to partying that Hans can relate to. Hans can’t relate to the Beatles, apart from the bass player. I say that because I once went on a four day bender and woke up next to a very angry and evil woman with only one leg. In retrospect, it was very insensitive of me to kick her out of my house. I should have thrown her out.

Achtung, here is the rest of the music news!

WHEN A MAN LOVES A GAMING CONSOLE

Proving once again that you can get blood out of a stone by flogging a dead horse with it, Sony have released yet another instalment of the highly popular Guitar Hero brand. It is a bold move from a company that recently experienced its lowest sales of a game ever after releasing Emo Hero, in which players attempt to look as disenfranchised as possible while still playing all the correct notes to the most popular Emo music. The game was judged a failure after members of the increasingly tedious subculture claimed they were suffering from, like, depression and stuff, because their fringes made it impossible to see the screen.

There have been no such complaints from fans of the newest version – Power Ballad Hero. Pre-orders have kept those at Sony HQ busy, especially after this week’s cross promotional launch of Michael Bolton’s hit new single A Touch Too Sexual. Bolton has lent more than his vocals to the game too. The ageing balladeer had hundreds of motion sensors attached to his body and flowing tresses in order to accurately capture the intricate physical movements integral to the delivery of a power ballad. Players will not only be judged on hitting the right notes, but also making appropriate power hand gestures and pained facial expressions.

Some of the other artists featured on Power Ballad Hero are Journey, Boston, Toto and the indefatigable John Farnham. Sony, possibly while high on white board markers, have indicated that they will not rest until every genre and musical instrument has been immortalised on the small screen. Rumoured future titles include Ukulele Hero, Trombone Hero, Castanet Hero and Rock Band: Peter Andre.

CHRIS BROWN’S BOW TIE SEEKS TO DISTANCE ITSELF FROM CHRIS BROWN

If you’re having a bad year, spare a thought for beleaguered auto-tune aficionado Chris Brown. Twelve months ago, he was on top of the world. Chart-topping songs, a famous and therefore pretty girlfriend, and legions of tone-deaf fans. Fast forward to 2009, and things aren’t looking so rosy. Details are probably needless at this point, but for the hermits amongst you – Brown, suffering from a lack of exercise and food, attempted to solve both problems by exercising his fists on now ex-girlfriend Rhianna and then attempting to eat her. Brown’s agent, clearly a firm believer in the saying “any publicity is good publicity, even if it’s because you beat up a woman”, saw an opportunity for redemption (and promotion) and promptly booked Brown for an interview on the Larry King Show – in an adorable little bow tie.

Contrary to the intent of his agent, Brown’s inarticulate explanation of his misdeeds was overshadowed by the undeniable star power of his spotted clothing accessory. Within hours of his claims of temporary amnesia induced by beating a woman he doesn’t remember beating, Brown’s bow tie had graduated from innocuous neck warmer to the biggest internet sensation since, well, whatever the last big internet sensation was. The navel gazing folk at Twitter put down their mirrors for long enough to discuss Chris Brown’s bow tie at length, and so a temporary legend was born.

As it is with most overnight sensations nowadays, things have moved impossibly fast. The accessory favoured by kooky professors has already released its debut album, the auto-tune heavy and imaginatively titled Chris Brown’s Bow Tie. After receiving a Grammy nomination for the record, the bow tie has been booked to appear on The Late Show with David Letterman, started a violent feud with rival fashion accessory Kanye West’s Venetian Sunglasses, checked into the Priory due to “exhaustion” (sources suggest a possible addiction to fabric softener), released its signature fragrance Urban Butterfly, and late last night was reported as having been arrested by the LAPD after allegedly strangling and biting on again/off again partner Lily Allen’s Hoop Earrings.

CELEBRATED AVANT GARDE FOREIGN MUSICIAN LIVING IN SQUALOR

Shocking reports have emerged that hugely popular underground Cuban urban percussionist Oscar Grouchéro is living in abject poverty. Despite a sell-out tour of North America and impressive sales of his debut album Del Canal a Las Estrellas, distressing pictures surfaced this week of Grouchéro living in what is unquestionably a rubbish bin. The cutting edge ethnic musician was described by paparazzi responsible for the damaging images as “surly” and “outwardly hostile to all and sundry”.

Residents of the Havana slum in which the bin is located confirmed the troubling reports, but were quick to defend the eccentric recluse. “This man, senor Grouchéro, he is muy enojado, last week he threw some chicken bones at me just because I said buenos dias,” said Pablo Hernandez, a local man. “But I think he is a good man, he is always nice to the niños, he is teaching them to play the drums.”

Grouchéro’s flamboyant manager, former Parisian party promotion king Barry “Big Bird” Grandoiseau played down the pictures and accused the paparazzi of interfering with his artist’s creative process. “This is a load of shit,” Grandoiseau snapped at a press conference yesterday. “Oscar is an urban artist, he must stay in touch with his ghetto roots. You have these men with cameras, they interrupt a creative genius and say he is living in a trash can. What they don’t know is that it is a big trash can, and Oscar has many items of extravagance in the trash can, like a pool, and a farm, an elephant, and an interdimensional portal.”

Sport With Vort: All The Sport You Can Fit in a Sweaty Cup

2009-09-06T23:51:00.008+01:00

Written in the bottom of the ninth with bases loaded by Vortman De Ville

My sporting calendar is as full as a candidate for gastric bypass surgery. It’s inevitable that sometimes, some events that I would normally consider compulsory viewing are overshadowed by sporting contests or controversies so enormous that they defy conventional measuring techniques, such as the De Ville Sporting Awesometer. For example, the undomesticated ballet of the Delaware Sprintcar Championships would be eclipsed only by the spectacle of OJ Simpson sacking two opponents and then leading the entire LAPD defensive line on a thrilling chase down an unforgiving, spike-strip laden, roadblock-clogged asphalt field that has more than once seen the end of a promising young athlete armed only with a dream, a stolen hatchback and a recently emptied crack pipe, all played out in front of the relentless swarm of helicopters employed by the good folk of World’s Most Fatal Killer Car Deaths.

With that in mind, it was with great sadness this week that I missed the following events: the 38th Annual Arizona Tractor Pull, the South Shropshire Cow-Tipping Qualifying Final, the North Toowoomba League of Goat Slaughtermen’s Speed Chop-off, the Micronesian Tortoise Regatta, the Canadian Curling League Championship after party, and the Damascus to Durban Camel Sprint 2009. Any real sports fan would look at that list and come to only one conclusion – that if Vortman De Ville missed events of that calibre, he must have sports news as juicy as a 10lb Philly steak, as steamy as the US women’s volleyball team communal shower, as riveting as a 300lb chain-smoking drunkard trying to bowl a 300 game, and as controversial as a room full of unconscious lingerie models, an ex-Superbowl winning quarterback, and an empty bottle of Rohypnol.

PETA FORCES ULTIMATE FIGHTING CHAMPIONSHIP GORILLA BAN

In yet another example of the athletically challenged PC brigade sticking their pale noses in the business of real people, Pussies for the Ethical Treatment of Animals have forced the Ultimate Fighting Championship to clarify their stance on competitive gorilla fighting and ban the primates from competition altogether. The 2010 championship is now in jeopardy after more than 80% of the competitors were deemed ineligible under the new rules. UFC boss Frank “Bare-knuckle” McLoughlin was uncharacteristically emotional in the wake of the changes.

“I feel pretty low,” stammered a visibly shaken McLoughlin. “You know, we bring these fighters in from all over the world, we treat ‘em right, keep them fed and watered, and they love to fight. They love it. And then you get these pansy-assed civil libertarian types tellin’ you there’s somethin’ wrong with two apes in their prime beating each other to a bloody pulp in a cage. I seen the documentaries. Fighting is part of their culture! It’s natural. I’ll tell you what ain’t natural – PETA, that’s what.”

In response to the ape embargo, a PETA spokesperson said “Blah blah blah blah organic seaweed blah blah climate change blah blah blah fossil fuels are bad because they come from dinosaurs and dinosaurs are animals blah blah blah.”

RED BULL EXTREME URBAN GAMES A HIT, TRANSIT POLICE NOT SO SURE

It had to happen. Any adrenaline junkie will tell you that there’s only so many great white sharks you can surf down the Niagara Falls before the thrill wears off and you start looking for something that will actually give you a rush. And so it was that the permanently caffeinated connoisseurs of awesomeness at Red Bull decided that BMX riders jumping through flaming hoops suspended between skyscrapers was a little bit fruity and that they should come up with something halfway exciting – the Red Bull Extreme Urban Games is it.

The ubiquitous beverage manufacturer is fast becoming the leader in the race to legitimise sports previously classed by authorities as “crimes” and “indescribably stupid”. Held in New York City, kicking off this banquet of extremocity was the 2km Sleeper Skiing event, where competitors with water skis clutched a rope attached to the back of a train and hung on for dear life. Reaching speeds of 120km/h, the daring athletes attempt to remain alive while being dragged across the unforgiving and rarely maintained railway sleepers of the New York subway system.

By far the most popular event held was the aptly named Sudden Death Train Surfing, with competitors coming from as far away as Sweden, Finland, and British prison colony Australia. Emerging victorious was Australian Bruce Blokeman, possibly a convict, who saw his fellow competitors “wipe out” on overhead electrical wires, trains travelling in the opposite direction, and other various inanimate but nonetheless deadly objects. Blokeman paid tribute to Swedish opponent Jargmen Höekstrom, who looked to have the win in the bag before being decapitated by a signal light, a la Dennis Hopper in hit Hollywood film Speed.

CRICKET BOSSES CLAIM CRICKET EXCITING, REST OF WORLD SCEPTICAL

Cricket, long held as the most boring spectator sport on earth after baseball, has launched yet another attempt to sex up its flaccid image and reputation as a quasi sport favoured by the tea-swilling English aristocracy. After identifying the highly profitable emerging market of chronic sufferers of attention deficit hyperactivity disorder, the International Cricket Board launched the 20/20 League, a form of cricket where each player is given 20 seconds to hit and throw as many balls as possible at the opposing side. However, wary of the notorious fickleness of the ADHD demographic, cricket bosses promised to slash yet more “boring crap” from the competition.

Enter cricket’s newest incarnation – Super Happy Exciting Explosive Cricket OK! SHEECOK is the brainchild of Japanese game show king Noriyami Nomura, the man responsible for such television hits as Poisonous Electric Scorpion Pit Challenge Game, Richard Gere Quote Or Lava Pit!, and the hilarious So You Think You Can Dance With A Siberian Tiger? Nomura has promised to amalgamate the traditional stoicism of cricket with the instantly gratifying thrills of Japanese game show culture.

Players on each team will be kitted out in florescent lycra uniforms with neon headbands, whilst the umpires will be replaced with ill-tempered grizzly bears that have been starved for a month and forced to watch computer simulations of men savagely beating bears with cricket bats. Each player will also have a small explosive charge attached to his groin that will detonate if he remains stationery for longer than ten seconds. Any players surviving beyond ten minutes will be subjected to a pair of converted ex-military helicopter gunships firing cyanide-soaked cricket balls at them.

Death of an Online Salesman

2009-08-30T12:20:00.003+01:00

Written with petulant contempt by Peter File

Dear Mr Gschwandtner,

I write in response to your recent missive regarding the article I penned last week for the Mobar Gazette. As the editor of such a well known publication as Selling Power, I am honoured that you were able to find the time to read and respond to my paltry literary effort. I can only hope that one day, the Mobar Gazette shall reach the lofty peaks of online popularity that you inhabit.

A scurrilous rumour was circulating in the wake of your communiqué. Some of the other writers here had the gall to suggest that you did not write the letter at all, and that the response was generated by some sort of futuristic advertising robot with the power to pick up the scandalous misuse of the phrase “selling power” and post automated responses, and possibly also vaporise naughty writers by shooting them with deadly laser beams.

I vehemently disagreed and put it down to professional jealousy. As enamoured with your professional interest as I was and still am, I feel that I must extend you the same professional courtesy you have afforded me and point out one or two errors in your response.

You claim “the word ‘Selling Power’ is sometimes erroneously used as a synonym for sales effectiveness.” Firstly, selling power is in fact, two words – selling of course being the first word, followed soon after by the second word, power. I would also disagree with your assertion that it is used erroneously as a synonym for sales effectiveness. It is an entirely accurate substitution for sales effectiveness, as I’m sure anyone with a dictionary and a couple of years of primary school education under their belt will confirm for you.

You also claim that I wrote “And does her opinion have selling power, does her word really equal higher figures?” I wrote no such thing. I also find it concerning that the example you have used seems to betray an underlying misogyny present in an industry only willing to include women when they are clad in bikinis, selling power tools. The phrase I used was “I’m a firm believer in the selling power of lies”. It was meant to be a witty contradiction, but I now accept that it was really only a contradiction.

On a more positive note, may I express my most sincere gratitude for the plethora of alternative terminology you offered for the next time I dare to utter the sacred phrase “selling power”. When suffering from writer’s block, I often yearn for the vast linguistic knowledge of a salesman. As a token of my appreciation, I thought I might offer you a few alternative terms for “salesman”. Try one of the following: soulless bottom feeder, vile guttersnipe, parasitical sham, slimy invertebrate, silver-tongued eel, parthenogenetic lowlife, or if rhyming slang is your thing – James Blunt.

I also noticed a lot of references to the misuse of your trademark. The phrase “selling power” is allegedly your legal trademark, and you don’t condone such uses of it. Oh NO! You don’t condone it? Well, I don’t condone people drinking bottles of vodka through funnels and then attempting to operate heavy machinery, but I can’t stop them from doing so.

You also expressed a fear that “selling power” could be declared, by the courts no less, a generic word. Let me allay those fears – the men and women in positions of power in the courts generally have a couple of educational qualifications under their robes, and would almost certainly be more than happy to tell you that it is a phrase, not a word. They would then probably go on to tell you that you can’t trademark a phrase, possibly hold you in contempt of court for being an unholy carcinogenic drain on society, then tell you to get back to hawking useless kitchen appliances on late night television.

I sincerely hope that this written acknowledgement has been of an acceptable standard to you and your reptilian ilk. I would like to leave you with a quote from a man you may be familiar with – Willy Loman, a well-known salesman like yourself.

“After all the highways, and the trains, and the appointments, and the years, you end up worth more dead than alive.”

Yours sincerely,

Peter File

Moral Decay? Take The Mobar Gazette Toothpaste Six Week Challenge!

2009-08-23T23:19:00.006+01:00

Written with moral outrage by Peter File

Moral decay manifests itself in a myriad of forms. This is of course because, for the most part, the degradation of society is in the eye of the beholder. One man’s ceiling is another man’s floor. Raunchy music videos may titillate some and cause them no concern whatsoever, whereas others may see simulated sex acts and the gross misuse of carpet pythons as a damning reflection on society as a whole.

Personally, I am probably on the liberal end of the moral outrage spectrum. It would take quite a base, depraved act to even attract my attention let alone cause me to act upon my fear that a fiery gateway between the pavement and the pits of hell was about to open and swallow up everything pure in this world. Every generation has its horrors, this one just happens to be receiving more media coverage than the previous ones. Bearing in mind my seemingly insatiable ambivalence to just about everything, it was with great surprise this week that I found myself muttering about society going to hell in a hand basket.

What raised my ire so? For the sake of avoiding litigation, I’ll call it the INSERT EVIL MULTINATIONAL COMPANY HERE Six Week Challenge. There’s really no need to include the company name, because it could be just about any business these days. They’re all at it. Advertising has reached the point where it’s not enough to use humour or on the odd occasion, facts, to convince the consumer that your product is better than all the others. Even lies won’t cut it any more, and I’m a firm believer in the selling power of lies. Nowadays everything is a challenge, and if you’re not taking the challenge, I don’t know…move to somewhere that doesn’t like challenges, you flaming communist.

The existence of such advertising is not the root cause of my belief that things really are going from bad to worse; shit advertising has been around since the dawn of time. Two things irk me, the first of which being that the agencies employed to write these ads really couldn’t come up with anything better than a preposterous attempt at bringing reality into the selling of the product. The companies flogging these “challenges” can afford to advertise on television and radio. Therefore, it stands to reason that they can similarly afford to employ a professional ad agency to write and produce these shameful attempts at promotion.

Professional ad agencies, while generally filled to the brim with coked-up narcissists with a penchant for prostitutes and intriguing fetishes, do have a knack for churning out copy of a certain standard. While in the eyes of a regular punter the end product may not quite justify the obscene salaries, they get the job done. Hence why it astounds me that agency after agency is happy to litter all media with these inane excuses for ads. Furthermore, it beggars belief that company after company has paid for this bile. I see…so you’re challenging the consumer to take the challenge of purchasing and consuming our product for a set period of time. Brilliant in its simplicity, but I guess that’s why we pay you the big bucks!

The second irksome fact about this whole pseudo challenge business is that people are quite literally buying it. I am basing this belief on two theories. Firstly, if advertisements don’t translate into increased sales, they are deemed to have failed and are relegated to the scrap heap. Therefore, a greater volume of people are purchasing these products off the back of this drivel. Secondly, the testimonials are disturbingly believable. Generally agencies will only employ professional actors to extol the benefits of products. Sure, they look pretty and sound articulate, but we all know they didn’t really eat pauper yoghurt for a fortnight – they had a small part in that cop drama last week, so they can clearly afford the fancy stuff.

The calibre of human guinea pigs in these challenges leads me to absolutely believe everything they say. They have the crooked teeth, the monosyllabic vocabulary, the middle-aged paunch and the pallid complexion of someone who spends their days under fluorescent lighting, perhaps sorting things on a conveyor belt. They have faced their fears, and said YES! I am courageous enough to eat this particular breakfast bar every day for a month and am now amazed that I cannot live without it and its irrefutable breakfast bar benefits.

Don’t think for a minute that I’m hopping up on a preachy high horse with George Carlin. Capitalism is brilliant. Useless possessions might be useless, but they’re nice to look at and fun to use. Rampant consumerism doesn’t necessarily have to be a bad thing, but it will be if we continue down this challenging path of non-challenges. If advertising continues to suffer such a public display of erectile dysfunction, the rest of us don’t have much hope.

And therein lies my problem with these fatuous attempts at flogging products. Advertisements should reflect the moral fibre and strength of a society, they should capture the mood and sell accordingly - e.g. ridiculously extravagant lies in ads should indicate that society is riding an infectious wave of self-delusion and couldn’t be having a better time if it tried. If a communist nation tuned in to western television and saw us running ads like that, they would be so disheartened that they may potentially renounce their core beliefs and get on the capitalism express. Imagine if they tuned in right now. Kim Jong Il would be wetting himself. Hey, look, western consumer just drank skim milk for six weeks and is going to continue buying that particular brand of skim milk. BOMB THEM!

That’s what it boils down to, really. Allowing these inane advertising challenges to continue to permeate our already fragile existence will result in the total destruction of our way of life, culminating in every freedom loving country being annihilated in a deadly shower of North Korean nuclear weapons.

World's Deadliest: Sabre-Toothed Commerce Duck

2009-08-02T00:42:00.007+01:00

Written with arrogant chutzpah by Annette Curtain

For those of you who are au fait with Greek mythology, the story of the phoenix is a familiar one. Sporting a vibrant plumage and a tail of scarlet, purple and gold, the phoenix lives for nigh on 1000 years. Faced with its own impending death, the creature builds a nest from myrrh twigs which promptly ignites and burns both bird and nest to a crisp. Then, defying the laws of physics, a new phoenix rises from the still smouldering ashes, destined to live for as long as the previous one.

Like almost all Greek mythology, this story is little more than a myth; a colourful tale to pass the time between being hand fed grapes by bed sheet clad servants and indulging in non-standard sexual intercourse. While you may find yourself entirely disillusioned by this exposure of the lack of truth in myths, it does at least provide one with the opportunity to use this colourful tale as a poorly chosen and considerably drawn out analogy, or metaphor, or simile…as if you really know the difference between them anyway. Oh, the digressiveness.

It is hard to believe that nearly a year has elapsed since the spectacular collapse of the financial industry. Rather than myrrh twigs, the industry had been built upon a rock solid foundation of irresponsible lending, ponzi schemes and 125% mortgages for anyone who could see the sound thinking behind such products. Alas, the hard working architects of the sub-prime mortgage market could do little more than enjoy a final money bath, devour the last of their ill-gotten cocaine and watch helplessly as their years of honest and hard work went up in a fire as fierce as the pits of hell.

The blaze was all encompassing; it consumed bank after bank, vaporised government surpluses, and caused property prices to drop faster than an overfed credit analyst plummeting from the window of a 37th floor boardroom. And so it has smouldered for the best part of a year, torching stimulus packages and government bail-outs as though they were tinder dry kindling. Fearful of its fiery power, banks have refused to risk lending to each other. There seemed to be not a skerrick of hope for a recovery – until now. For just as the noble phoenix once rose triumphantly from the remains of its myrrh rich nest, a winged symbol of optimism for a new generation is soaring above the charred remains of the British financial industry – the sabre-toothed commerce duck.

A joint initiative between the Bank of England and the Financial Services Authority, the sabre-toothed commerce duck is steeped in mystery, rather than the rich plum sauce most City bankers are accustomed to. As its name suggests, the duck is armed with a pair of razor sharp teeth, and if early reports are anything to go by, it is entirely unafraid to use them.

Nigel Chuffington-Twixley, a 49 year old senior lending manager with the Royal Bank of Scotland, was last week enjoying a quiet brandy with some of his colleagues after work. Witnesses claim that almost immediately after Chuffington-Twixley had described the chances of RBS increasing lending to small businesses “as likely as me not having kinky sex in the spa with a bunch of high class hookers tonight”, the sabre-toothed commerce duck swooped into the bar and dragged him through the door before he had enjoyed the laughter created by his hilarious remark. Patrons exited the premises in time to witness Chuffington-Twixley being ripped limb from limb by the duck and deposited in a bloody heap of body parts in the middle of busy Oxford street.

Mere hours after this vicious attack, a group of Lloyds TSB debt collectors were sprayed with the blood of their colleague in a trendy karaoke bar in south London as the sabre-toothed commerce duck struck again. Lucy Vaughn-Polo, a distraught witness, described the scene in which her co-worker, 26 year old mortgage arrears consultant Jonathan Fluffbury, was disembowelled by the merciless water bird. “’E’d just got up to do ‘is song, an’ ‘e dedicated it to anyone who was be’ind wiv their mortgage. Then when ‘e star’ed singin’, this duck flew in an’ proper mashed ‘is ‘ead up!” Other colleagues confirmed Fluffbury had sung Ol’ Dirty Bastard’s Baby I Got Ya Money.

Neville Sadler-Simpson, head of the FSA’s bio-mechanical research division, was unapologetic when questioned about the attacks. He claimed that lenders were all too happy to accept government bail-out packages, yet refused to share their newfound solvency with business clients. In the eyes of the FSA and Bank of England, this was justification enough to release the deadly duck. Sadler-Simpson went on to issue a dire warning to the banks – start lending, or expect to lose an employee a day to duck related attacks.

The sabre-toothed commerce duck is the evil brainchild of resident malevolent FSA scientist Dr Julius Blackheart. Blessed with an abundance of government funding and a cynical yet accurate worldview, Blackheart began creating the duck two years ago. After successfully injecting a duck embryo with the sabre-toothed gene, the cape-clad super villain set about partially mechanising the normally minute brain found in the skull of a duck. After a CPU was successfully installed, it was merely a matter of programming the vicious bird with a series of trigger words and phrases that, if uttered, would cause the winged assassin to unleash a furious vengeance upon the unwitting speaker.

The unprecedented success of the scheme thus far has led to a similar scheme being implemented by financial chiefs in the United States, who are said to be extremely impressed by the no nonsense attitude taken by the British duck. Laser guided grizzly bears have been deployed in major cities around America, and initial reports indicate that they are having a positive impact. Texan pancake farmer Bob “Short Stack” Carter described with rural glee his success in applying for finance for a new combine harvester. “Well Mr Morgendörffer, the bank manager, he done told me, “Now Bob, you ain’t getting’ no new combine harvester, see,” then this big grizzly bar come runnin’ into the bank and done ripped his throat clean out! So then Mr Bushworthy, he’s the assistant manager, he just asked me how much I wanted and how soon I wanted it!”

Back in the UK, bespectacled Bank of England chief Mervyn King is as bereft of sympathy for the arrogant chutzpah of City bankers as the reptilian suits of the FSA. King, by all accounts deeply proud of his growing collection of snappy sound bites, responded to criticism of the heavy handed tactics employed by the sabre-toothed commerce duck by stating “banks must understand that while in previous years they have had to deal only with bear or bull markets, if they continue to thumb their noses at struggling business clients, they shall have to endure a duck market.” King went on to clarify the difference between the current duck market and the bustling and aromatic duck markets usually found in downtown Beijing.

The Art Of Letter Writing # Seat 79J - The Long & The Short Of It

2009-07-26T22:38:00.006+01:00

Written from a great height by Eoinín McAlpine

Dear Airline Seating Tsar,

There are class divisions in almost every facet of life. A distinct clarity exists between those who toil at the coalface of the hottest, noisiest jobs, and those who employ them. Air travel, as you may be aware, embraces these differences and charges accordingly. From economy to business class, and from first class to that nine star oil tycoon class that Emirates have, the airline industry makes sure that people know their place. I bear no ill-feelings towards those seated ahead of me. They have worked hard, or at least been born into the right family to earn those seats.

I travelled in business class once. Oh yes, I too have experienced the joy of a 6’6” bed, privacy walls, pull-out plasma screen TV, champagne on take off, hourly hot facial towels, edible food, and a constant stream of quality wine and cheese. I was so pampered that I almost forgot the crippling back injury that had forced me to upgrade from cattle class in the first place. Sheer bliss. Alas, that was then, and this is now. I am back in my rightful place with the rest of the battery hens, and boy do I have a bone to pick with you.

For as long as I have been travelling on long haul flights, I have had my own seat. It is fundamentally the same as any other seat in economy. You watch the same movies, you use the same toilets, you attempt to eat the same tray of featureless gruel that the others are served. The difference is that there is no seat in front of yours, meaning that your ankles are not wrapped behind your head for 22 hours (and let’s take this moment to appreciate that I’m too classy to make the obvious mile high club joke here).

That’s right, I’m talking about the exit row. No bags under the seat. Deploy the fun slide if things don’t go to plan, and make sure the ladies take off their heels before they slide down it. I know the drill, because the exit row is my domain, just as it is the domain of all passengers who have to duck to avoid hitting their head when they enter an airplane. It’s like a little club for the genetically superior. We share stories about living in a short man’s world, the difficulty of finding shoes in a size 13, and that smug feeling we get when regular folk ask us to get them something off the top shelf in the supermarket.

Eons ago, before online check-ins and unattended baggage related panic, the exit row was bestowed upon those that looked like they could handle it. You’d present yourself at the check-in desk, and state your case. You’d be looked up and down in order to assess your exit row worthiness. Tall, strapping lads with a look of reliability would be given preference. The midget classes might suffer a little paroxysm of jealousy as they regarded the fine specimens manning the exit row, but by gum, jealousy would swiftly be replaced by the reassurance that should things go pear-shaped, they were in good hands.

Those halcyon days are long gone. Now we find ourselves adrift in a sea of poisonous equality, where the exit row is available to anyone willing to pay an extra £30 – per leg. Oh yes, the significance of paying £30 for my right leg to travel from London to Singapore and another £30 for my left leg to travel from Singapore to Melbourne wasn’t lost on me. I get it, very funny. Do you know who won’t get it? Short people. They barely have legs, let alone a sense of irony.

You may think that by introducing a charge for the exit row you have quelled ill-feeling and disquiet amongst the potentially volatile gaggle of minimum wage earning, swine flu ridden plebs at the back of the aircraft, but you’d be wrong. We are simple folk, and we have simple desires. We shall endure poor in-flight entertainment, screaming children, and sub-par food, but we shall not allow our exit rows to be staffed by a trifecta (or quadrella, depending on the aircraft) of dwarves that had a spare £30 lying around.

This is one of those rare occasions where it is absolutely right to discriminate against someone based upon their physical appearance. You cannot let anyone under six feet into the exit row. Short folk have more important things to worry about, such as if their oxygen masks are deployed, will they be able to reach them? You can’t seriously entrust them with opening those massive doors and sorting out the inflatable slide. They will panic, and we shall all be doomed.

The exit row should be like a ride at an amusement park – if you’re under a certain height, bad luck. If your feet struggle to touch the ground when you sit down, the exit row is not for you. Console yourself with the knowledge that you could easily gain employment as a jockey, or a mid-level manager who spends their days taking out their little problems on their tall underlings.

The tall community shall not endure this casual extortion. Let us call this charge exactly what it is – a tax upon the lofty. Perhaps, like many taxes, its origins were honourable; a temporary measure to dissuade diminutive passengers from interfering with the time honoured tradition of entrusting the safety of passengers to a group of people with wingspans as vast as the aircraft itself. It has served its purpose. The little tykes are back in their rightful places. We large folk, on the other hand, are still being charged for providing a vital service and peace of mind.

This casual extortion shall lead to an ineluctable conclusion – tall industrial action (we have an excellent trade union). Who then will get your groceries from the top shelf? Who will play for your basketball teams? Who will pose with midgets in hilarious photos for the Guinness Book of World Records? Oh, sure, we’ll still travel by air, but don’t expect us to help anyone under six foot down the inflatable fun slide. We’ll sort ourselves out first, and probably slash it when we get to the bottom.

This problem isn’t going to go away. Ironically, it’s only going to get bigger. Evolution is a topical and inconvenient reality, but even the most ardent creationist will grudgingly admit through clenched teeth that each generation is getting taller. Sure, it may take a few hundred years, but eventually the bulk of the population will have grounds to object to this blatantly illegal fee. Take heed of my warning, and remember this – the meek shall inherit the earth, but they won’t be allowed to sit in the exit row.

Hot Hits With Hans # 3

2009-07-19T22:41:00.004+01:00

Written by Hans Öffmeinbürger

Gutentag, mein reizvolle leute! It has been a busy few weeks in the music world since I last imparted my vast party knowledge upon you. Everybody has been asking me “Hans, what do you think of Michael Jackson dying?” and “Are you going to dedicate your next article to the King of Pop, who is now dead?” and “Did you once date Michael Jackson, who is now dead?” And I answer no, no and kind of, but that is really none of your business. If I wanted to waste precious words on a pale, skinny, drug addicted freak who was considered to be a developmentally retarded pervert on a good day, I could just have written about our entertainment editor, Peter File. I feel nothing but jealousy when I think of Michael Jackson, for if at 50 years of age I happen to shuffle off the turntables of life and out on to the eternal dance floor at the hands of an unscrupulous Hollywood doctor pumping a kaleidoscope of barbiturates into my veins, I will consider it to have been a good day, week, and life.

Anyway, here is the rest of the news that is musical.

Put Your Hans In Ze Air, Und Wave Them Around As Though You Are Unconcerned

Since the dawn of time, there have been particular traits and nuances that have set each musical genre apart from one another. Death metal has its growling vocals and bowel liquefying guitar riffs, French house has its funky bass and infectious party time grooves, whilst nu metal (Limp Bizkit et al) is identifiable by deftly substituting talent with whingeing misogyny. Of all musical idiosyncrasies though, hip hop possesses the most vast array of unique attributes. From gold ropes to 40oz bottles, the excessive party culture of hip hop is unmistakeable and entirely infectious to the maximum level.

This week, however, it emerged that one of the most sacred tenets of hip hop phraseology is under threat. Giving the keynote speech at the 28th Annual Hip Hop Symposium, rap pioneer Dr Dre voiced concerns that far too many artists nowadays are unwittingly commanding listeners to put their hands in the air and wave them around like they just don’t care.

“This shit has got to stop,” urged Dre. “We in the middle of a global recession, and there ain’t no way the brothers runnin’ the banks is gonna start lending to each other again if they all throwing they hands in the air like they just don’t care.”

Stopping short of blaming unscrupulous lyricism for the global financial crisis, Dre suggested temporarily shelving the iconic lyric, or at least amending it to better match the current climate.

“Think before you spit a verse. Ain’t no redundant factory worker that wants to hear about you poppin’ bottles of Dom in the spa with lingerie models. Don’t front. Be real. Be relevant. Put your hands in the sky, and wave them around like you want achievable fiscal policies to be applied.”

Adult Contemporary Christian Rock Now Targeting: Hearing Impaired Fatties

In yet another sickening report of musicians shunning the excessive hedonism synonymous with the industry and replacing it with socially responsible (and, surprise surprise – profitable) endeavours, a select few adult contemporary Christian rock groups have released their very own fitness DVDs.

Ambassadors of mediocrity, Creed, have released Beat Greed With Creed, which advocates the wearing of ill-fitting leather pants whilst dancing to Creed songs, the theory being that the monstrously fat consumer will be so distracted by the sweating and chaffing that they will forget all about food.

Nickleback have taken a more aerobic approach to reducing waist size with Blast Your Nicklefat Away With The Chad. Front man Chad Kroeger is fetching in a bright red and black two-piece as he delivers the introduction. “Hey there, I’m Nickleback’s Chad Kroeger. You know, some people think my moves in our music videos are just complex artistic extensions of my deep inner torment. Sure, they are, but they’re also a great way of staying in shape. Follow me as I show you how invisible chin ups and catching invisible insects can get you the rock hard abs you’ve always dreamed of. LET’S GO!”

The concept presumably relies upon the target audience being at such an advanced stage of obesity that the fat has entirely covered their ears, preventing them from hearing how awful the music is.

Gossip Blogger Attacked By Prehistoric Birds, Authorities Mildly Amused

In an incident that can only be described as a timely reminder that swift and brutal retribution from targets of internet gossip stalks us all, professional bottom feeder and occasional gossip blogger Perez Hilton has reportedly been attacked by a swarm of ill-tempered pterodactyls.

Following standard big fat moron protocol, at roughly 3:45am EST last Saturday, Hilton Twittered “I was assaulted by a group of pterodactyls with big nasty claws. I am bleeding. Please, I need to file a police report. No joke.” Although renowned for possessing the largest concentration of idiots in the Milky Way, the internet responded with a refreshing scepticism to claims that an assemblage of winged predators thought to have become extinct over 60 million years ago had returned to earth and were now targeting effeminate gossip bloggers.

In a bizarre twist, the Los Angeles Zoo issued a statement verifying Hilton’s claims, explaining that in a Jurassic Parkesque move to arrest dwindling patronage, they had hatched and bred a pack of the leathery beasts. In what the statement described as an unfortunate oversight, the pterodactyl enclosure was constructed without a roof, which zookeepers believe may have contributed to the escape of the creatures.

As top plastic surgeons attempt to repair the undoubtedly horrific facial disfiguration caused by the razor sharp talons of Hilton’s assailants, authorities are searching for a motive for the attack in between real police work. While not confirmed, Hilton allegedly penned a column a fortnight ago in which he outed members of the new pterodactyl enclosure as overweight closet transvestites, writing “let’s face it, they were losers 60 million years ago, and they’re losers now. The public want tyrannosauruses, not trannyosoreasses with outdated wardrobes and cellulite.”

Silence Is Golden, As Long As You’re Not In The Precious Metal Business

2009-07-12T23:55:00.005+01:00

Written by Logan Bluetooth and his assorted hangers on

A most peculiar thing occurred over the past fortnight, or rather, it did not. After month upon month of hard hitting, well researched and balanced articles, an eerie silence blanketed the Mobar Gazette (syndicated in Myanmar and China’s Xinjiang Autonomous Region as The Truthful Times) headquarters for not one, but two ghastly weeks.

While most media coverage was uncharacteristically restrained (The New York Times carried the limp headline “Online Smut Peddlers Fall Silent”), the British tabloids stepped up to the plate and gave us the attention we crave, like the filthy base-heads that we are. “Nobar: Gazette Staff Abducted And Probed Repeatedly” chortled The Sun. “MG & MJ Dead, World Mourns MJ” guffawed The Mirror, whilst the fork and spoon operators at the Daily Mail went for “Mobar Gazette Silenced: Immigrants, Gays and Gay Immigrants Questioned By Scotland Yard”.

So what really happened? Lamentably, none of us were abducted or probed repeatedly, though not for want of wishing. Truth be told, we just dropped the ball. I was the keynote speaker at the17th Annual Efficiency Experts Conference, where I was giving a presentation on the streamlining of macro attrition techniques in the current economic climate. Ironically, the conference was anything but efficient.

I neglected to name an interim chief editor in my absence, partly through carelessness, though probably more through a well placed distrust of the capabilities of my underlings. Upon my return, I discovered that my lack of faith was absolutely justified. All staff members had been working on various articles, however the quality of these pieces was at best poor, at worst on a par with lyrics from a Des’ree song.

Asking them to turn in another article would have been pointless. If you pay your staff with expired antidepressants, you get garbled nonsense with the occasional sentence of genius. So instead, I have selected from each article the paragraph with the least spelling errors, then spliced them together to form a confusing and pointless article – business as usual, in other words. If you can work out which writer is responsible for each paragraph, seek medical advice immediately, though preferably not from us. Enjoy. Or don't, whatever.

It is difficult to recall a product that has provoked greater ethical and moral bewilderment; it is a hot potato being passed from neo conservatives to liberals, though neither of them are able to pinpoint exactly why the potato is hot nor if it should be eaten once it cools down. Fairtrade® cocaine is the brainchild of Diego Escobar, nephew of the late cocaine godfather Pablo Escobar. After seeing his family’s business decimated by draconian anti-drug laws, while at the same time watching the fat cats of the Colombian banana industry grow even richer, Diego saw a business opportunity and grasped it with both hands. Fairtrade® cocaine ensures coca farmers and cocaine manufacturers receive a fair price for their product. At the same time, white guilt symbolically vanishes up the nostrils of society, leaving it with a grossly inflated sense of moral superiority and a strong desire to tell anyone who will listen how unbelievably amazing it is.

Perhaps I am just getting old. But I tolerate many other stupid fads adopted by the youth of today: touch screen phones, social networking websites, The Pussycat Dolls. The yashmagh is where I draw the line. The only people fit to wear such an item are members of the Palestine Liberation Organisation. Wearing one does not show your solidarity with the freedom fighters of Gaza. You just look like another spoilt middle class arts student debating the meaning of Donnie Darko with your mother’s tea towel tied around your neck. Get a job and a haircut, you wanker.

Deliberately contracting swine flu was by far one of the worst ideas I have ever had. It is now painfully obvious why there are no decent swine flu jokes. This is just common or garden flu with a new name. What’s in a name? That which we call Puff Daddy, by any other name would still be a talentless moron. And so it is with influenza. I put it to you that even if it were called platypus fever, swine flu would not be funny. Perhaps if the animal rhymed with flu it would be better. Emu flu? There’s nothing funny about emus. I think I’m delirious.

Not for a minute am I suggesting that there are blogs with any artistic merit whatsoever. My point is that Mommy (or Mummy, depending on where you’re from) bloggers have less worth than every other thing on the internet. Unsatisfied with mastering what the majority of women on this planet accomplish and keep to themselves, Mommy bloggers feel it necessary to give a blow by blow account of rearing their snotty, screaming, bed-wetting spawn. Get out. You made lunches AND drove the kids to school today? Call NASA immediately, this could be valuable information. On second thoughts, why don’t you shut your word hole and concentrate on raising your children so that they don’t develop into the obese little delinquents that pollute the streets these days? You cook the dinner, and the internet will do what it does best: hardcore pornography.

So how exactly does a superstar international DJ and acclaimed music journalist find himself watching the most boring sport on earth? An ill-conceived office bet with a colleague whom I was unaware possessed superior staple gun archery abilities. I could have been “researching” Fairtrade® cocaine. Instead I am watching a collection of fashion victims stand in a field in Wales for five days hitting a ball to each other. There is no music, just polite applause, and for what I don’t know. If I wanted to bore myself to the point of sterility by watching creatures in woollen vests stand in a field doing nothing, I am certain there are plenty of Welsh sheep farmers that would have indulged me. From a musical perspective, I can only hope that cricket has an evil doctor that will soon inject it with a fatal dose of Demerol.

So anyway, there I am, balls deep in Bolivian marching powder, dead hooker on the pool table, Johnny Lampshade and Joe Tuckus passed out drunk in the corner, and who do you think shows up outside? The Feds, bells and whistles goin’ like openin’ night at a disco or a prize fight! Marone. They’re bangin’ on the door like they’ve got somethin’ to discuss, real important like. I’m hooverin’ up the posh, and what can I do but throw a towel over Starla, God rest her smutty soul. They kick the door in, pieces out, tellin’ me to keep my hands where they can see ‘em. The big cop, he sees Starla and asks her if she’s alright. And what can I do but say, “I’m sorry, Officer, you’ll have to speak up, she’s wearing a towel!”

One Man's Sand Is Another Man's Window

2009-06-21T22:09:00.003+01:00

Written by Annette Curtain

As dawn breaks across the pristine coast of southern England, few are up and about, and even fewer at the beach itself. The ubiquitous beach huts for which it is so well known are all closed, though like flowers, they shall open as the sun washes over them, drawing their pallid, easily sunburnt, oft handkerchief-clad owners to the shore. They will come as many as there are grains of sand on the beach – and then, depending on their age, they will consume ice cream and Stella Artois until they are physically sick.

But it is early yet. The lone sign of humanity is the council worker in the tractor, methodically grading the beach in preparation for the many games of beach cricket to be played later that day, and presumably also to remove any carelessly discarded syringes. The tractor trundles back and forth, creating a thoroughly pleasing uniformity to the sand for a few hours before the grains surrender themselves to the whim of the coastal wind.

And then they arrive. Not the hordes of lumpy, ashen visitors one would expect at an English seaside resort, but an entirely different and peculiar manner of creature. Unvarying in their middle age, they are almost identically attired: sensible sun hat, plain t-shirt tucked into cargo shorts (the waistline of which resides around the bottom of their ribcage), utilitarian work boots, and socks that leave mere inches of pasty flesh exposed between the top of the socks and the bottom of the shorts.

In their hands, they clutch the tool that separates them from a regular social outcast and catapults them into a sub-genre that screams eccentricity, bellows romantic solitude, and loudly confirms the likelihood that they still live with their mother – a metal detector.

They are the beachcombers.

In a bizarre demonstration of reverse anthropomorphism, they wait with an uneasy mixture of patience and begrudging respect for the pecking order, licking their lips in anticipation of the booty exposed by the hulking mechanical brute. No sooner has the tractor left the sand, they scuttle out in to the open like hermit crabs, eager to begin their daily search for the untold riches that lurk beneath the surface.

They are territorial creatures, each waiting their turn at scanning the expanse of sand between each groyne, eager to demonstrate the superiority of their foraging abilities to their peers. Even in this most base of hobbies, there exists the same spirit of one-upmanship that is to be found in the bowels of any male dominated competition. One discovers a bunch of keys that unlock a door, the location of which they shall never know; the other unearths a collection of coins totalling less than a pound, the previous owner perhaps intending to purchase ice cream, the new owner intending to put them towards the cost of a new metal detector battery so that he may find more piles of coins.

It is safe to say that there are few, if any millionaires whom have built their fortune upon the returns from scavenging on public beaches. Perhaps even less likely is the possibility that one would be able to derive an income to support even the most frugal of lifestyles from the sale of beach booty. With an admittedly limited knowledge of the desires of pawnbrokers, one would presume that cheap watches, discarded bathing togs and plastic shovels are not in high demand.

Why then would one subject oneself to a daily ritual of sand in uncomfortable crevices, the silent scorn of elitist internet columnists, and ultimately inevitable and searing disappointment? As the beachcombers scurry back to their nondescript hovels, they carry with them little other than their metal detectors, a few remaining shreds of dignity and their most valuable possession. It is one that cannot be found amongst grains of sand, nor carelessly forgotten and left behind by drunken and sunstroke ridden tourists – hope. For whilst ambition begets failure, failure begets ambition, and even if in your unwelcome middle age you are jobless and share a house with your mother, hope springs eternal.

Microsoft Excel: Saviour of Humanity

2009-06-13T00:44:00.009+01:00

Written by Logan Bluetooth

I was recently interviewed by respected business journal Capitalist Review Weekly for a forthcoming article on the greatest efficiency experts of the past 100 years. I shall appear alongside other doyens of productivity such as J.D. Rockefeller, J.P. Morgan, and Mao Zedong. The latter seemed a peculiar inclusion, but despite his odious Marxism, you can’t deny that he got the job done.

I suspect it shall be the usual self-congratulatory erotic massage masquerading as legitimate journalism, but I have never been one to refuse praise, nor for that matter an erotic massage. The author was kind enough to provide me with a draft copy of the article before publication.

For most mere mortals, the name Bluetooth means little other than a revolutionary communications technology. Perhaps then it is a testament to a man so driven by efficiency and results that he could find time from his busy schedule of enhanced attrition implementation to invent and develop a technology that eliminated the cumbersome and unproductive act of raising a telephone to one’s ear. Bluetooth is, as always, the soul of brevity, stating simply “there are far more things a man can do with his hand than hold a telephone.”

And stroke, stroke, stroke it goes for another 2000 words or so. I found it particularly enjoyable, however a part of me wished for a feature article of my own. Not, as you cynical loppers of tall, elegant, perfumed poppies might imagine, for the benefit of my own ego. Rather, I wished to expand on one of my answers and give due respect and credit to my most faithful and trustworthy ally; an ally that has been with me through thick and thin, boom and bust, cosmopolitan and chartreuse.

Microsoft Excel: my rock, my love, my eternal soul mate.

For the perpetually suspicious web detectives amongst you, I must at this point state that I have never received any financial incentives from the Microsoft Corporation in return for favourable editorials about their software, nor will I. In fact, despite my ardent and undying love for Microsoft Excel, I am certainly not labouring under any misapprehensions about its murky roots.

Excel, or as it was known in 1979, Excommunicate, was an archaic yet undeniably ingenious and thoroughly effective manual filing and categorisation system employed by the Vatican. Pope John Paul II, widely considered to be the laziest of all the popes, thought excommunication to be a decidedly ghastly and objectionable task, and would take any opportunity to avoid it.

Rather than questioning the holy work ethic of the pope and risking getting the living hell smote out of them, the faithful Vatican mathemagicians (licensed practitioners of Mathemeligion) created Excommunicate. Simple by name and nature, yet utterly brilliant, Excommunicate used a combination of Dewey Decimal Classification, an alphabetised index of sinners, the Pythagorean theorem and a washing machine. The practical application of the components of Excommunicate is not entirely clear, but the end product was an easily decipherable list of those who were no longer in favour with the Catholic church.

By 1984, the system had come to the attention of an ambitious and bespectacled entrepreneur known as William Gates III. Fuelled by silicon chips and an insatiable appetite for the theft of intellectual property, Gates gave the order to attack the Vatican. His Microsoft storm troopers showed little mercy as they blasted the unprepared Vatican guards with their photon cannons, escaping with the blueprints for Excommunicate, various priceless artworks and a selection of ceremonial goblets.

The rest, as they say, is history. Gates and his loyal minions set about developing the system into the single most important piece of software in the history of business. Microsoft was the envy of the fledgling computer industry, for not only were they terrorising their competitors and monopolising the market, they were also able to produce colourful graphs demonstrating the exact extent of their dominance.

So what precisely does Excel offer an efficiency expert of my calibre? I consider it to be a corporate translator. English is indisputably the most beautiful language in the world, but it is lamentably as easily understood as Swahili when it comes to delivering facts and figures to ambitionless office veal, and perhaps even moreso to intellectually vacant holders of positions known only by acronyms (presumably because they are incapable of remembering or spelling the words that make up their job titles).

Excel, on the other hand, transcends language. One could waste two hours in a conference suite attempting to explain such stimulating terms as “mechanised organic attrition augmentation” and the thoroughly pleasing “instantaneous external migration of individuals previously engaged in a professional capacity”, but it is an unfortunate truth that most office workers lack the necessary education to decipher such simple terminology. Excel cuts through the confusion and delivers the message in such a manner that even the mail room boy is able to grasp the gravitas of a situation.

With each day, technological advancements cause the earth to become inextricably smaller, yet communication seems to have reached an uncomfortable plateau. More and more nationalities mix, yet assimilation becomes less and less likely, which in turn leads to turmoil and ill feeling between cultural groups that should otherwise be coexisting harmoniously. What is the answer? Microsoft Excel.

The Mediterranean proprietor of your local takeaway establishment doesn’t understand your accent – you leave hungry, he misses out on income, and nobody wins. Next time, take your laptop with you. Present him with a pie chart titled “Food I Want”. Dim sims (0%), sausage in batter with chips (100%).

This is but a solitary example of literally millions of practical, real world applications of Microsoft Excel that have yet to be taken advantage of. To think that Excel is limited to boardroom situations is unbelievably naïve and short sighted. For all you know, this program could be the key to realising the untapped potential of humanity.

Excel creates vivid colour where only the grey and drab are present; it offers clarity where previously there was nothing but mud. It presents all facets of existence in a palatable, honest fashion. If software were able to govern, I would not hesitate to cast my vote for it. It is a god amongst men and the software they create, a two amongst ones and zeroes, a saviour long ahead of its time. Viva, Microsoft Excel, my one, my only, my pure and true love.

The Art of Letter Writing # £4.99 - Wine, Doughnuts & A Petty Man

2009-06-07T23:01:00.005+01:00

Written in aisle five by Eoinín McAlpine

Dear Exalted Conquistadors of Tesco,

I write with regards to your methodical and thus far efficacious attempt to seize control of the world. The recession has brought great tidings of doom to your commercial enemies, and consequently has blessed you with an even larger market share, bringing you one step closer to your ultimate goal of a Tesco own brand Earth (less than half the price of the current planet!).

Alas, with all plots for world domination, there are the inevitable hindrances that present themselves at the most frighteningly inopportune times, such as vodka martini-quaffing British secret service agents seducing your sexy yet otherwise ruthlessly bloodthirsty scientist/dominatrix.

It may shock you to learn that the greatest threat to global Tesco homogeny is posed not by tuxedo-clad spies armed with an arsenal of high tech gadgetry and disarmingly witty rejoinders, but rather by the army of bumbling and ineffectual henchmen and yes, even henchwomen representing your brand at the frontline.

Where to begin? Perhaps with the grotesque assortment of human waste given the honour of manning the checkouts. The women are abrasive, surly strumpets; feckless ingrates unable to muster even the most base level of small talk one would expect from someone paid to deal with the public. The men are misshapen, slovenly social outcasts; they pause from counting the flakes of dandruff collecting on their shirts for long enough to lick their slimy reptilian lips as they ogle my lady friend and ask her for the fourth time in as many weeks if she has any ID, because, corr, she doesn’t look old enough to be buying alcohol, phwoar!

One could avoid these vile, inexplicably employed stains by taking one’s business across the street to Marks & Spencer. Unfortunately, one doesn’t earn enough to spend £17.99 on a pint of milk. Thus, I adopted your online shopping facility. I enjoyed the lack of spiritually dead, drool-stained “service” staff. I also enjoyed the endearingly abstract moneysaving tips provided as I shopped. Jameson Irish Whiskey: see cheaper alternatives – why not try Tesco own brand mineral turpentine?

Satisfied with my choices, I cautiously paid for the goods, already dreading the living, breathing horror that would deliver the groceries. How misplaced my fears were. The order was delivered by a pleasantly affable chap that bore a striking resemblance to house/techno (electronic music – not really my cup of tea) DJ Carl Cox. Food and drink at the click of a mouse button, celebrity delivery drivers; things were beginning to look up for Team Tesco. And then, like an uninvited mentally retarded cousin of a world leader bursting in to peace talks between Israel and Palestine and urinating on the treaty, then came the wine substitutions.

I shall assume that those of you in Tesco HQ are largely unaware of the intricacies of the wine substitution policy for online orders. It is as follows: should the bottle of wine the customer has ordered be unavailable, please ensure that it is replaced with a bottle that bears absolutely no resemblance whatsoever to the original request, short of giving them a bottle of Tesco own brand washing up liquid. For example, if the customer orders a 2003 Shiraz Cabernet, a suitable substitute would be a 2009 Sauvignon Blanc.

Even more staggering is that this generally occurs when one orders a wine that is on special. As far as I am aware, Tesco is not a newcomer to the supermarket industry. Therefore one would deduce that you would be au fait with the concept of supply and demand. If a specific product is advertised at a discounted price, demand will invariably increase. Accordingly, supplies of that particular product should be increased to a volume to meet the demand created by the marketing. Simple enough, right? Apparently not.

One could draw the cynical conclusion that this is a devious plot schemed up by the marketing department to lure in unsuspecting shoppers with a promise of heavily discounted wines of a certain standard, only to send them away with a bottle of the Chateau de Merde that hasn’t been shifting as many units as they would have hoped. Nobody else would pull this sort of a stunt. Oh, I’m frightfully sorry sir, we’re inexplicably out of those £500 Bentleys, however we do have a surplus of rusted pushbikes with flat tyres, bent handlebars and no saddle.

It’s not just the wine substitutions and aspiring sociopaths manning the checkout that are devaluing the Tesco brand. Might I also suggest that a smidgen of product knowledge be bestowed upon the in-store seafood aficionados. This should ensure that the next time a customer points out that all the mussels are open, they won’t have to wonder to themselves what the big deal is, because like, you know, how would you eat them if the shells were closed? Should you be unfamiliar with this bizarre law of the sea, mussels with their shells open prior to being cooked = food poisoning. Food poisoning = lawsuit. Lawsuit = bad press and compensation. I loathe the parasites that masquerade as personal injury lawyers, so let’s not give them free business, eh?

Whilst the stores may be littered with poorly trained seafood staff, loathsome and lecherous checkout operators, and cantankerous old bastards fighting over the last copy of the Daily Mail (not entirely your fault, I suppose), there are sporadic bursts of commercial sunshine. There are the obscenely cheap and delicious jam doughnuts, not to mention the mini jaffa cakes. Other than that, it’s really just a series of tremendously disappointing experiences that entrench one’s opinion of Tesco as a patently evil hyperconglomerate that would sell a child if it was left unattended for longer than a few seconds.

Complaints aside, I shall no doubt continue to endure the substitutions of a calibre one might expect from a visually impaired football manager listening to the telecast from a tennis match. But as I sip on the glass of pistachios that have taken the place of the 2003 tempranillo I ordered, I shall console myself with the belief that my letter has penetrated the deep recesses of the heavily fortified capitalist heart of Tesco, and the person reading this has resolved to act on my sanctimonious critique of What’s Wrong With Tesco.

Aye, they will cry loudly, no longer shall we offer ridiculous alternative products. Adequate product training and basic hygiene practices shall be imparted upon all employees as standard, they will proclaim as they slam their fists upon the table. Furthermore, they will utter as they tremble with the giddy joy one enjoys when faced with imminent and dramatically positive change, we shall cease employing checkout staff drawn from a gene pool that probably could have done with a splash of chlorine.

Heed my words, ladies and gentlemen of Tesco – you are fortunate enough to be experiencing one of those rare moments when the customer is right. Abuse your corporate monopoly responsibly, or risk becoming a universally hated purveyor of unadulterated evil that exists only because its reluctant and downtrodden patrons have no other feasible alternative – think Ryanair.

I concede that it would be wholly unrealistic to expect that all of my suggestions be implemented immediately. Slow and steady wins the race. Though when my next online order arrives and the wine is of the same grape that I requested and vintage is within a decade of the year advertised, I shall consider it a little victory. After all, every little helps.

Yours sincerely,

Eoinín McAlpine

Hot Hits With Hans # 2

2009-05-30T00:47:00.011+01:00

Written by Hans Öffmeinbürger

Hello mein little dancing pork chops! You know, if there is one thing I enjoy more than dropping funky beats, it is dropping names. Big names. Not big names like Shivnareendipauleeniata Nahaysarayanapyeenington, but big names as in famous big.

So I was recently having lunch with my good friend and fellow international superstar DJ, Carl Cox, and he said to me, Hans, if you were given the chance, which non-musician would you develop into a performing artist and why? And I said Carl, that is a funny thing to say and if I did not know any better I would say that you are giving me a topic for my column. And he said that he had better things to do and didn’t even know I had a column. And I said that if he has time to live in Australia for half the year, he clearly doesn’t have better things to do and almost certainly would know that I have this column and that I was going home to write it, and thanks very much for the topic and the other stuff.

So ja, without further ado, I give you my answer to Carl’s stupid question, and then the rest of the music news.

Ill Kim: Recalcitrant Dictator By Day, Gangsta Rapper By Night

Yes, Dear Leader. Incumbent helmsman of North Korea. Wearer of very gorgeous designer shades. He is my number one choice. An uncompromising, unstable, psychopathic megalomaniac with an inferiority complex – surely a perfect choice for the newest gangsta rapper.

Ill Kim has the potential to undo all the damage done by 50 Cent and his sissy-bottomed perfumed ilk. He epitomises the “I just don’t give a f**k” attitude of the late 2Pac. He has held two middle fingers up to the international community for years. He has the biggest entourage in hip hop, not to mention the most heavily armed – no other rapper can boast of his posse being strapped with nukes.

For his debut album, he would release a homage to NWA’s pioneering album Straight Outta Compton, appropriately titled Straight Outta Pyongyang. Singles would include: Straight Outta Pyongyang, F**k the UN, International Sanctions Iz Advised, and Express Yourself (In A Manner Deemed Acceptable By The Behaviour Ministry).

Okay, very good, now here is Hans with the rest of the music news, achtung!

GOD SEEKS ROYALTIES FOR SMILE PUT UPON YOUR FACE

Coldplay’s lawyers are being kept busy by yet another influx of plagiarism claims. If Joe Satriani and Yusuf Islam’s accusations weren’t enough, the following artists have now made official complaints (via MTV’s hit new show Yo Dawg, You Ganked My Beatz) that the pasty-faced British moaners have ripped their tunes off: Richard Marx, Vanilla Ice, Sixpence None The Richer, Sir Mixalot, No Limit, Danni Minogue, Haddaway, Herb Alpert & The Tijuana Brass, PM Dawn, Peter Andre, Joey Fatone, Utah Saints, Kanye West, and Gwyneth Paltrow. Paltrow however later admitted her claim was made out of spite after Chris Martin greedily ate the last of their alfalfa.

CORONIAL INVESTIGATION TO CONFIRM IF CURIOSITY KILLED CAT

Isolated pockets of the music industry were briefly saddened this week after learning that one of the Pussycat Dolls was tragically killed after becoming entangled in her fishnet stockings. It wasn’t the one that sings, so no great loss I suppose.

In a startling example of the drastic cost-cutting being undertaken by record companies, the Dolls’ label Interscope held the funeral concurrently with a talent quest to find a replacement. Ryan Seacrest hosted the show and also read the eulogy.

THE HATS, THEY ARE A SUEING

Bob Dylan can expect a court date later this year. He faces a multi-million dollar lawsuit in the wake of an acrimonious split with his former pal and songwriting partner - his hat. Bob Dylan’s hat is seeking an undisclosed amount of damages and song writing royalties, however legal experts expect the bill to run into the hundreds of millions if upheld by the court.

Other notable musical hats are said to be taking a keen interest in proceedings and any precedents that may be set. Jamiroquai and Badly Drawn Boy are believed to have already engaged lawyers as a precaution.

DIAGNOSIS: YOU’RE MOVING LIKE A TORTOISE, FULL OF RIGUEUR MORTIS

In a case of life imitating art, or something, hip hop pioneer Dr Dre is now a fully qualified GP and has opened his own practice in downtown Compton, Los Angeles. Lesser known hip hop medical practitioner, Dr Octagon, is the other doctor in residence, whilst former Jurassic 5 DJ, Cut Chemist, is understood to be the only pharmacist qualified to fill prescriptions.

The LAPD are said to be taking a keen interest in Dr Dre’s alternative therapy, after a man suffering from a suspected case of athlete’s foot was prescribed “Seagram’s gin, two fat ass blunts, and some fly bitches to vibe on.”

WHAT’S IN A NAME? NOT ENOUGH, SAYS GOVERNMENT

United States Homeland Security Chief, Janet Napolitano, has vowed that no one is exempt from tough new anti-terror identification legislation passed in the US Senate this week. Performing artists that are currently known by single names (Madonna, Sting, Barney etc.) will be forced to revert to their legal monikers at all times.

Napolitano has not ruled out widening the legislation to cover abbreviated (J.Lo) or grossly extended (Snoop Doggy Dogg) pseudonyms. Users of multiple names will also be targeted. In a year where the economic crisis forced him to relinquish his private jet, the news is surely to come as a crushing blow for Puff Daddy/P.Diddy/Puffy/Diddy/P.Dizzle/D.Piffy/Diddly Puff Puffy Wuff Wuff.

Bassist and professional sell-out, Sting, has announced he intends to mount a legal challenge against the ruling, claiming “This is an attack on honest, hardworking citizens who prefer not to be restricted by cumbersome two-word names.” He denied it had anything to do with his recent endorsement deal with Jaguar, which saw the singer change his name by deed poll to Jaguar S-Type.

Klaus Leutehersteller: Harmlessly Obscure German Industrialist or Merchant of Death?

2009-05-25T01:35:00.008+01:00

Written by Nataliya Dmitrieva

Media outlets are remarkably comparable to exclusive fashion houses. They are staffed by an assortment of egomaniacs who must sell a particular product in order to feed their addictions to various substances. On the face of it, clothing and news stories worthy of being published are entirely dissimilar entities. But like an ageing supermodel trying to maintain some semblance of a career and public image, you just have to dig through a couple of layers of makeup to find the wrinkles and Botox scars.

Climate change. Swine flu. Jordan and Peter Andre splitting. These are media fashions masquerading as genuine news, page turners and button clickers, fodder for the erudite discussion at the water cooler, topics that will be forgotten by next season as quickly as one makes the decision not to wear those Capri pants that were Oh My GOD! so hot last year.

When it comes to fashion and the media, time has a way of sorting the wheat from the chaff. Capri pants and unnecessarily exposed cankles may pass, but jeans will always be cool. Polar caps will freeze, pigs will become healthy, Peter Andre and Jordan will reunite when they receive a high enough offer for an exclusive magazine photo spread of their tearfully joyful reunion, but I’ve only seen one recurring news story this season that has a level of cool and potential for perpetuity equitable with that of jeans.

Somali pirates.

Self-proclaimed pirate experts claim that they’re not real pirates. I strongly disagree. While they may not have wooden legs, parrots and swords, the general principles of piracy are there. Seize control of a ship on the high seas by way of force and obtain riches (or “trayzure”) by whatever means necessary. I didn’t hear anyone complaining at the height of Napster’s piracy fame that it was staffed by bespectacled nerds who didn’t have an eye patch or sea shanty between them.

It is easy to get caught up in the sexy image of bad boys in ragged army fatigues, wielding AK-47s and rocket launchers, zooming about in go fast boats in pursuit of hapless Norwegian oil tankers. This seemingly endless stream of well equipped bandits of the high seas raises an interesting question – in a country beset by widespread famine and civil war, a country that boasts an average male life expectancy of 47 years – where are all these amphibious outlaws coming from?

Mogadishu? Hargeisa? Kismayo? Curiously, the point of origin of almost 80% of current Somali pirates is much further afar – a relatively nondescript building in an industrial estate in Düsseldorf.

In what many mentally diseased capitalist pigs would consider the finest example of globalisation and the free market, relatively unknown yet exceedingly wealthy German industrialist Klaus Leutehersteller has been producing batch after batch of Somali pirates for the past year or so.

It is a queer notion: a German supplying a distant African nation with formidably armed aqua bandits. He is an odd character though, and to truly understand the Klaus Leutehersteller story, one must first examine the humble roots of this understated trailblazer of people manufacturing.

Born in Stuttgart in 1955, Leutehersteller was an only child to father Dieter and mother Klaudia. Both were stern believers in the virtues of industriousness: his mother was a respected geneticist, his father an eminent robotics expert; each was considered to be well ahead of their time. They have since passed away, but their legacy of the augmentation of what we regard as life lives on in their son.

After graduating from the University of Leipzig in 1989 with an impressive collection of PhDs, Leutehersteller took a job with Münchencyborgindustrien Verbunden as lead motion technician. Disillusioned with what he saw as inefficient business practices and a misguided focus on the novelty end of the industry, Leutehersteller resigned after just six months, vowing to use his skills for a more beneficial purpose.

It was with little fanfare that Leutehersteller’s fledgling company, Leutelösungen, was launched in 1991. Based in the same unremarkable premises as they are currently located in, Leutelösungen quietly went about their business, even if at the time very few were of the precise nature of their operations.

By autumn of 1993, it was a different story. Leutelösungen was a homegrown success, having taken just two years to morph from a moderately anonymous company into the number one supplier of parking inspectors to all major German municipalities.

Leutehersteller had become incredibly wealthy and enjoyed widespread recognition in the notoriously cliquey Deutsche Alternative Herstellungsliga. He was given the key to Düsseldorf, and briefly dated film star Brigitte Schittenhelm. Life was good, but it was not enough for Leutehersteller.

Having mastered the previously daunting parking inspector algorithm, Leutelösungen turned their attention to other opportunities for mass production of niche individuals. Stunning the industry yet again, they turned out highly successful lines of tram conductors, street sweepers and taxi drivers.

The notoriously insatiable Leutehersteller remained far from convinced of his undeniable genius, questioning the worth and cultural relevance of his creations. At the turn of the century, he vanished. Leutelösungen continued to churn out their invaluable products, however rumours abounded about the whereabouts of their founder.

Observers pondered whether Leutehersteller had developed a taste for slightly more colourful products, a theory supported by the CIA’s brief listing of him as a person of interest. Insiders at the CIA suggested Leutehersteller was suspected of manufacturing Colombian rebels and having them dropped from cargo planes directly into combat zones where American operatives were fighting alongside the Colombian army.

This paved the way for yet more spurious and unsubstantiated rumours. He was accused of producing and transporting armed mercenaries to no less than 13 separate conflicts between 2001 and 2007: Colombian drug rebels, Georgian separatists and Tamil Tigers were but a few of the allegations made against Leutehersteller. While no charges were ever brought, mud sticks; his current range of products do nothing to dispel the rumours that dogged him during his self-imposed exile in the early 21st century.

Pirates seem an odd choice for a man who has made a name for himself by producing individuals that are ostensibly nothing more than obedient servants. Assuming the rumours surrounding his foray into the black market were true, it too produced a series of acquiescent lackeys, even if they were better armed than his range of taxi drivers.

So why pirates? In a recent interview with Deutscher Automatismus Monats, long time business associate Gunter Fenstermacher suggested that Leutehersteller had grown weary of churning out what he saw as simplistic creations. He yearned to manufacture sentient beings that thrived upon anarchy, sought riches by whatever means necessary and answered only to themselves. With global pirate stocks vastly depleted and cocky sea captains becoming increasingly complacent, Leutehersteller saw his opportunity and took full advantage of it.

If there were worries within Leutelösungen that the pirates would be a failure, their fears were allayed within days of the first batch being transported to Bremerhaven port. In a bittersweet success for the company, the pirates seized control of the ship en route to the Gulf of Aden and demanded a hefty ransom. Leutehersteller reportedly greeted the news with a wry smile, promptly wiring the ransom to the pirates and adding a 10% gratuity.

The machine from which Leutehersteller’s creations emerge is understandably shrouded in secrecy. In the same interview with Deutscher Automatismus Monats, Gunter Fenstermacher remained coy, but noted that the machine uses the principles of advanced thermodynamics, molecule reassignment and basic cold fusion, contains purple and blue lasers, an industrial sewing machine, macro nano technology, epidermal multi-layering, a digital tack inserter, and a series of levers and pulleys.

The astonishing effectiveness of the Somali pirates has captivated the world, and only time will tell if widespread media coverage and increased outrage from various maritime bodies will render the pirates and their creator victims of their own success. At the time of writing, they held no less than 17 cargo ships, a Japanese scientific whale research vessel (and two Humpback whales), three offshore oil rigs, and the set from Kevin Costner’s Waterworld.

In an ironic twist, the stubborn, traditionalist captains of the very ships that the pirates attack are possibly the only thing preventing them from being sent to a watery grave by any number of warships lurking in the area. Shunning armed assistance, the captains insist upon battling the pirates the old fashioned way – scimitar duels on the poop deck. This is indeed an ill-advised decision considering the arsenal of automatic weapons and explosives their adversaries are equipped with.

Perhaps it is fortuitous that the captains share such admirable naivety. Should various foreign powers be given the authority to neutralise the pirates and destroy the fledgling industry, the consequences would be dire. Somalia’s economy would collapse entirely, conceivably taking with it the nation’s best chance of recovery in decades.

More concerning though would be Leutehersteller’s reaction. It is highly unlikely that he would return to what he sees as the drudgery of producing the common man, however profitable that may be. He has proven on numerous occasions precisely what his genius is capable of creating. He has joked privately about producing an army of crocodile/human hybrids with the ability to shoot lasers from their eyes. Forcing him underground could potentially spur him to unleash a horror that all the warships in the world would not be capable of thwarting. World leaders may like to consider the fact that when it comes to a manageable and relatively harmless problem such as Somali pirates, it may well be better the buccaneer you know.

Queries & Qualms Of The Great Unwashed # 3: Special Toilet Humour Edition

2009-05-18T00:05:00.004+01:00

When Queries & Qualms of the Great Unwashed was launched with great fanfare as a semi-regular feature mere months ago, very few of us thought that it would morph into a hugely popular series of culturally relevant and extremely well worded essays garnering vast respect from the international academic community. Indeed, we were indisputably precise in our prediction.

It is the political backbencher of Mobar Gazette articles, a substitution called upon when all the star players have suffered crippling injuries, an inclusion by default, a last resort. It demands no more than a couple of hundred words from each columnist. It is code for an entire magazine staff bereft of imagination and sobriety.

Like vodka that solidifies if placed in a freezer, it is cheap, nasty, and leaves a disgusting taste in one’s mouth after consumption. The gutter is too fine a place for this insult to legitimate literature – it belongs in a place where waste that is too foul for rubbish bins begins its journey into malodorous oblivion. Accordingly, we dedicate this edition of Q & QOTGU to our humble and trustworthy friend - the toilet.

Dear Mobar Gazette,

I recently took the plunge and moved into an apartment with my girlfriend. She’s a pretty special lady, but since we’ve been living together she’s really been on my case about my leaving the toilet seat up. What’s the deal with that? Should I put it down after I use it or what?

Sincerely,

Glen Postelthwaite, Idaho

Hi Glen,

Frankly, as a woman I’ve never really understood this argument, despite the fact that it seems to polarise almost every toilet user. It seems simple enough – women want the seat down, men want it up. Women seem to be the only ones who complain about the arduous task of moving the seat 45 degrees though, presumably because they lack the conviction and upper arm strength of men.

You are at the precipice of commitment here, Glen, and you have a big decision to make. Start putting the toilet seat down, thus setting a precedent for this slapper to walk all over you for the rest of your life. Alternatively, tell her that it really bugs you when she doesn’t leave the toilet seat up and if she was any kind of woman, she’d shut her mouth and hurry up with your steak dinner.

Hope this helps,

Nataliya Dmitrieva

Dear Sir/Madam,

There is a blockage in my toilet. I have purchased a toilet plunger, but I am at a loss as how exactly it is used to remove the blockage from my toilet. How does it work?

Yours, etc.

Antoine Bidet, Paris

Salut Antoine,

The toilet plunger is a complicated contraption, but once mastered, it is a pleasure to use and a life skill well worth noting on one’s curriculum vitae. A common mistake made by plunger novices is to attempt to extract the blockage by placing the plunger in the toilet bowl and thrusting it repeatedly to loosen the obstruction.

Rather, the correct method is to grip the top of the wooden handle in your left hand, then carefully place the rubber cup over your mouth and nose. This masks any unpleasant odours and allows the user to enjoy the sweet aroma of industrial rubber.

Once the plunger is secured on your face, submerge your right hand in the toilet bowl and venture upstream until you reach the cause of the blockage. Use whatever means necessary to dislodge the obstruction, then remove and thoroughly wash your right hand.

Kind regards,

Eoinín McAlpine

To Whom It May Concern,

When in friendly company, I often find excusing myself to use the facilities for a more substantial reason than urination somewhat difficult. Is there perhaps a euphemism I could use without resorting to unnecessary coarseness or vulgarity?

Chooka Robinson, Cranbourne

Dearest Chooka,

One of the following alternatives should suffice. Excuse me for a few minutes, I am going to: deliver the federal budget, sell an endowment policy, write a column for the Daily Mail, engage a personal injury lawyer, write Nickelback’s next album, or my personal favourite – I’m just going to go and recite some dialogue from Pearl Harbour.

All the best,

Logan Bluetooth

Hullo Chaps,

What is, in your opinion, the minimum amount of ply required in toilet tissue?

Regards,

Alison Dungaree, West Swampington

Hai Alison,

Anything less than four ply is a gross insult to the sanctity of your nether regions.

Yours truly,

Katsuki Akimoto

Sirs,

When urinating in public houses, I am often unsure as to the appropriate behaviour when sharing a urinal with other gentlemen. Please advise.

Regards,

Richard Moorcock, Tinselthwaite Downs

Good Afternoon Richard,

Contrary to popular opinion, group urination should not be treated as an awkward social situation that one must exit from as soon as possible. It is a solemn, male bonding experience.

Your should congratulate your peers on the strength of their streams, and comment favourably upon the stench and hue of their emissions. Laugh boisterously if you are able to move any of the urinal cakes. At the conclusion of your emanations, a hearty pat on the back is encouraged.

Sincerely,

Alik Dmitriev

Dear Mr File,

How many bottles of vodka can be hidden in a toilet cistern before the flushing mechanism becomes noticeably affected?

Kind regards,

Louise de Souse, Vancouver

Louise,

What do you mean, “Dear Mr File”? Why have I been singled out as the in-house authority on hiding spirits in toilets? Do I give the impression that I am somehow more ridden with vice than the rest of the staff here? Am I often sighted on park benches, guzzling from bottles in brown paper bags? Am I touching strangers inappropriately, shouting at rubbish bins and vomiting in telephone booths? How dare you.

In answer to your question, twelve bottles.

Yours fabulously,

Peter File

I Like Children, But I Couldn't Eat A Whole One

2009-05-07T00:18:00.006+01:00

Written in a drunken stupor by Peter File

Whitney Houston once sang “I believe the children are our future”, presumably because “I believe sharing a drug habit with Bobby Brown is my future” contained too many syllables and would have been a chillingly accurate self-fulfilling prophecy. Whatever her reasons, I bet the children whom Whitney was singing about were normal ones. You know the sort - grubby little urchins with a fondness for ribbon candy, hula hoops, and marbles. The kind that frolic without a care in the world, making mud pies and daisy chains, and running home crying when they graze their knees or elbows.

She was almost certainly not singing about the kind of freakish super child that is accepted into Mensa when they’re barely two years old.

You read that right. The British chapter of the best known high-IQ society in the world last week accepted a two year old into its ranks. The little scamp scored a staggering 156 on her IQ test.

You may be impressed, but I can tell you that when you stagger into work after a 72 hour bender with an Olsen twin, pick up the newspaper and discover that a child is cleverer than you were even before you started going on 72 hour benders with Olsen twins – that kind of revelation can be particularly soul destroying.

I read the article again and again, hoping that the cocktail of cocktails still doing the backstroke in my bloodstream were somehow distorting the words on the page. After asking three sober colleagues to read it out to me and witnessing their similarly despondent reactions, I genuinely began to concede that I was possibly stupider than a two year old.

Ignoring the Mobar Gazette charter, I attempted to sober up. Ignoring the Mobar Gazette charter yet again, I decided to do some research. I resolved to get to the bottom of exactly how this little cretin had wowed the Mensa boffins, and if it transpired that it was true, I would begin following the Mobar Gazette charter again, and assassinate the absolute hell out of this kid’s character.

So, what can this nappy-clad Einstein lay claim to having mastered? Firstly, the phonetic alphabet. Not really much of a claim there. I can recite the phonetic alphabet. Hell, even cops can recite the phonetic alphabet. I instantly felt a little better. This wasn’t as bravo alpha delta as I had first thought.

The next claim was that she could count to ten in Spanish. Spanish, for the love of vodka. It’s not exactly Russian or Icelandic, is it now? If I’m not mistaken, woefully painful and talentless American pop punk outfit The Offspring count to six in Spanish in the intro to Pretty Fly For A White Guy. I’m sure if the time signature had allowed it, they could have pooled their collective grey matter and struggled to ten.

What else? She possesses the awesome ability to name different types of triangle. All three of them. Stunning. I suppose there’s not much else to do once you’ve mastered all the different types of squares and circles.

Not content with threatening the careers of triangle aficionados and Spanish numeracy experts, the tiny rocket scientist in waiting can read “mummy” and “daddy” and spell her name aloud. Spare me. I spelt my first and last name aloud last night. Not amazing at first glance, but considering that I was on the wrong side of my second pitcher of mojitos and under pressure to perform for an increasingly impatient member of the constabulary, I think we can chalk this one up as another win over our alleged whiz kid.

The more pedantic amongst you are probably having a fit by this stage, infuriated by what you may consider rather cheap point scoring off a defenceless infant. You are no doubt gesticulating wildly at the twenty tonne white elephant over there in the corner – her IQ of one hundred and fifty bloody six.

Frankly, that worried me. How could I possibly discredit such a result? Well, amazed by the wealth of material that this newfound ally “research” had afforded me, I dug a little deeper. I learnt that Mensa uses the Stanford-Binet Intelligence Scale to rate the suitability of new members, and a fine scale it is too.

The bad news for Miss Smartypants is that the test is scored by comparing how the test taker performs compared with other people of the same age. Going by Mensa standards, this means that she outperformed 98% of other two year olds who have attempted the test. Other two year olds. Other two year olds, who would have a fair stab at drawing a really terrible picture of a cat in between sucking their thumb and soiling themselves.

Her ability to spell her own name would therefore put her light years ahead of her peers. In fact, spelling her own name would score so highly on the test that she could and probably did draw farm animals as the answer to every other question on the test.

As remarkable as this story may initially appear, one can’t help but consider one deeply troubling fact. This news was brought to us by a journalist. Entrusting a journalist with the task of reporting the truth is akin to asking a Rottweiler to guard a Scotch fillet. In between their morning belt of Johnnie Walker and their luncheon of chardonnay and peach schnapps, a journalist generally has to justify their existence by turning in a story. TODDLER SPELLS OWN NAME, DRAWS CAT doesn’t exactly compel one to buy a newspaper, does it?

To prove my point, when this story first surfaced, it was claimed that this Edisonette could name almost all the capital cities of the world. The next day, it was half the capital cities. The day after, she could manage 35. By next week, if presented with a globe, she may just be able to identify which planet she is from. The latest reports have downgraded her ability from being able to rattle off the phonetic alphabet to the paltry achievement of reciting the English alphabet.

So perhaps our pint sized genius has learnt something from this past week or two that her dim-witted peers may take decades to fathom. If you’ve got something important to share with the world, don’t let it fall into the grubby alcoholic hands of someone who has the resources and motives to transform a couple of pig farmers feeling a bit unwell into a world-ending pandemic.

Haute Torture: Designer Clothing For Freedom Haters

2009-05-02T23:26:00.006+01:00

Written with ardent fervour by Logan Bluetooth

There comes a time during any dinner party – generally following the Crème Brûlée and somewhere between the fourth or fifth bottle of ’68 Latour – where there is a slight lull in the conversation. You’ve updated each other on all your latest mergers and acquisitions, newly conquered sexual partners, or perhaps you’re just too busy digesting dinner to contribute much more than a series of satisfied grunts.

That leaves you with silence. Horrible, horrible silence.

When it comes to dinner parties, silence is the cousin of death. Silence allows guests a window of opportunity to make their flimsy excuses and hightail it out of there before you have a chance to ply them with triple Cosmopolitans and cajole them into a game of Strip Trivial Pursuit.

As a seasoned dinner party host, one would presume that the lull is my worst nightmare after forks being placed the wrong way up on the table. Au contraire - I adore the lull and can barely contain my glee when it arrives.

The reason for this is that this otherwise uncomfortable respite presents one with the perfect opportunity kick start the conversation by casually bringing up any number of conversational topics normally considered taboo when in friendly company. Abortion. Religion. Politics. Capital punishment. Peter Andre.

You could build a fence topped with hundreds of those fancy Shiatsu massage chairs, but good luck getting anyone to sit on it if you lob one of the aforementioned verbal grenades into a crowd of people. They demand strident participation from even the most snivelling little twerp hell bent on making inoffensive comments and neutrality their modus operandi.

You can add one more topic to that inflammable list – torture.

Torture has popped up a fair bit lately. Certain members of a certain former administration have made certain comments regarding certain interrogation tactics. The usual media buzzwords have been tossed about: waterboarding, deprivation of liberties, gross human rights abuses, blah blah blah.

My guess is that you gloss over these articles and, just like the liberal media wants you to, you say to yourself “oh, right, torture is bad, waterboarding is inhumane, close Guantanamo, got it.”

Luckily for you, I’ve done some research on the topic and am more than happy to assist you in forming a far more coherent and informed opinion on the subject so that you’re not embarrassed by your lack of knowledge when this comes up at your next dinner party.

You don’t want to be the only one confused as to why being towed on a board behind a speed boat has ceased to be a moderately popular water sport and suddenly become a much maligned CIA interrogation technique.

I may come across as a somewhat self-serving individual, bothered by very little other than his own bank balance, and I suppose that’s right. But if there’s one thing Logan Bluetooth understands and loves, it’s results. Especially if they’re presented in a Microsoft Excel spreadsheet and graph.

I love results because you can’t argue with them. Statistics and results are the currency of honesty, or something. You can’t warp or twist them for your own purposes. Here’s a result for you to ponder – since 9/11 and the subsequent inception of enthusiastic querying of terror suspects, there hasn’t been a single terrorist attack on American soil. Coincidence? Luck? Hardly.

Put yourself in the shoes of a terrorist for a moment. I know they don’t wear shoes (apart from that guy with the exploding shoes), but just play along here. Put yourself in a vest of explosives or something. Anyway, you’re plotting your next attack on the axis of freedom, trying to pick a suitable country. Now - do you go for the one run by a bunch of pansies that adhere to various sissy UN treaties, or do you go for the one that makes up its own rules and reserves the right to subject terror suspects to heavy beatings, sleep deprivation, waterboarding, Celine Dion records played at full volume, vicious attack dogs, electrodes, and the occasional bit of sodomy?

You know the answer. The schoolyard bully doesn’t pick on the muscular captain of the sporting team. He beats the living suitcase out of the bespectacled nerd whose only reaction is to take the beating and cry to the principal instead of doing what he should have done a long time ago – shoot the bully in the kneecaps, pulverise his fingers and toes with the nearest rock, then put a cigarette lighter to various extremities until he cries and promises to never touch a nerd again.

Arguments against torture are baseless and perpetuated by those that have a tenuous grasp on reality. They claim that confessions gleaned from spirited questioning sessions are unreliable and generally only forthcoming because the questionee fears for their own life. Please. While some interviewees may be rendered spiritually dead (spiritually dead…I can’t believe I actually typed that without vomiting), nobody physically dies from torture, so what are they really afraid of? The truth, and the consequences of truth, that’s what.

Perhaps the most spurious charge levelled at torture is that innocent individuals can somehow find themselves on the business end of an electric cattle prod simply for sharing a funny name or bearing a likeness to person of interest, or just because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Of course. How plausible. I’m sorry, this isn’t my AK-47 and Little Jihandbook of Terror, I was just holding it for another chap that was planning to strike at the heart of liberty and everything sacred that you believe in, you filthy infidel prick.

Those captured and detained for terror related offences are clearly up to no good. It’s not as though one accidentally wanders into an Al-Qaeda training camp to ask for directions to the nearest McDonalds and happens to get pinched by the feds at that very moment. One is judged by the company that one keeps, and if one insists on being in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong people doing the wrong things then one must accept the consequences.

Debating the merits of torture invariably brings up a question that I am rapidly becoming weary of answering – do the ends justify the means? In a word – yes. In more words – yes, you spineless, protest organising, freedom hating, dirty stinking hippy ingrate.

Jack Nicholson, or Tom Cruise, I don’t remember who it was exactly and it doesn’t really matter because this isn’t about cheap broads or kooky Scientology practices, but it was probably Jack Nicholson because Tom Cruise is a bit of a knob – anyway, one of them said “I have neither the time nor the inclination to explain myself to a man who rises and sleeps under the blanket of the very freedom I provide and then questions the manner in which I provide it.”

Terrorists only understand two languages – Middle Easternese, and Terror. There aren’t many people in the western world who are able to speak Middle Easternese, but we’ve got plenty of government agents who can speak fluent Terror. Remember this – you can’t spell interrogation without pretty much all of the letters in terror.

As a great patriot once said, national intelligence is an art, not a science. And just as Da Vinci and Michelangelo created masterpieces with their delicate brush strokes, the modern day Renoirs of the CIA have created their very own works of art in interrogation rooms, deftly weaving their own artistic tools (blindfolds, hoses, attack dogs and electrodes) to produce confessions worthy of exhibition in the Louvre. Viva la renaissance.

Commonly Misheard or Misinterpreted Words and Phrases # 2

2009-04-26T00:01:00.005+01:00

Written by Peter File

To the untrained eye, the English language may seem harmless enough. Do not be fooled though. It is peppered with thousands upon thousands of ridiculously similar words and phrases, just waiting to misused for the amusement of smug elitist primary school graduates.

Don’t think that just by mastering the your/you’re and their/they’re/there algorithms you’ve got the upper hand when it comes to this mongrel bastard language. New words, and yes, even new spellings of existing words are being added to the English language every day. Just last week, palaeontologists in an important university somewhere unearthed four new ways to spell fondle.

Resist the urge to shun English in favour of a more sensible language like Swahili – all is not lost. There’s still one publication that is dedicated to helping you sort the his from the he’s and the effects from the affects. Prepare to once again be entirely reverse discombobulated, as we mark out the fine line between certain words and phrases with the thickest and brightest highlighters we could find in the stationery aisle…or the stationary aisle…or is it isle…whatever.

Kowtowing

An obsequious act, submitting to something or someone.

"The Australian government often finds itself kowtowing to foreign powers, generally to protect its holy trinity of exports: boxing kangaroos, hats with corks dangling from the brim, and Kylie Minogue."

Cow-towing

An obscure extreme sport played mainly in the southern states of the USA and certain areas in Russia and the Ukraine. Generously proportioned males are tethered to cows and compete to see how far they are able to tow them before they suffer prolapsed discs or are trampled to death by the ungrateful beasts.

Raison d'être

A reason for being, the purpose of an existence.

"Jerome felt that if constructing witty deconstructions of post-modernist feminist poetry was not his raison d'être, then peppering his speech with various affectations and pretentious French phrases was a more than suitable substitute."

Raisin Debt

A non-fiscal liability generally incurred by those with a fondness for raisins but lacking the capital to support their habit.

"Jerome felt he was of a suitable age to consider obtaining a mortgage for a property, but was hampered by his crippling raisin debt."

Cross Promotion

A rather unsophisticated marketing technique, whereby an organisation uses an established product, service or medium to promote a new or unpopular product.

"A concerning report there on the growing humanitarian crisis in the Gaza Strip from our Middle East correspondent Myles Long. Speaking of strips, there’s a crisis of an entirely different nature in this week’s episode of Real Life Strippers, when former Palestinian freedom fighter turned saucy showgirl Irfeeqa misplaces all her sequinned g-strings. Don’t miss it!"

Crass Promotion

A rather unsophisticated marketing technique, whereby an organisation uses an established product, service or medium to promote a new or unpopular product.

"Witnesses reported that the knife-wielding maniac was killed by a hail of police bullets, however not before 18 members of the public were brutally murdered in what was described as a frenzied attack. And if you feel you could sharpen up around the kitchen, then drop into Knives ‘R Us this weekend, where they’ve slashed prices on everything!"

Carpet

A thick fabric used to cover floors, generally made from wool.

"Say, Henry, I just adore the feeling of this shag pile carpet between my toes. Sweet."

Car Pet

A domesticated creature primarily confined to a vehicle of some description.

"Say, Henry, don’t you think it’s a little inhumane to keep a cat in your battery tray? I’m pretty sure they prefer milk to radiator coolant."

Sub-prime Mortgage

A mortgage available to those whose credit files are littered with unsightly financial blemishes and whom would otherwise be unable to obtain credit to purchase a house.

"I thought my blatant disregard for financial responsibilities would mean I’d never own my own home, but my financial advisor says everyone makes mistakes."

Surprise Mortgage

Discovering that a mortgage has been maliciously registered in your name without your knowledge or consent. Usually a result of not shredding documents with your personal information on them. Also a hit television show on the Fox network, hosted by Bill Paxton.

"Dude, did you see Surprise Mortgage last night? Let’s see that sucker pay off a three bedroom bungalow on a McDonald’s wage!"

Hasidic Jew

A member of a sect founded in Poland in the 18th century by Baal Shem-Tov and characterized by its emphasis on mysticism, prayer, ritual strictness, religious zeal, and joy.

Acidic Jew

A member of the highly secretive Religious Justice League. Acidic Jew possesses the power to strike down anti-Semitic villains by shooting acid from his fingertips.

Omnipotent

Possessing vast or unlimited power, Godlike.

"Google flaunted its omnipotence by ensuring that 'Kiwi Sheep Love Jokes' yielded zero results when searched for by internet users in New Zealand."

Omnimpotent

Possessing a vast or unlimited lack of power, specifically in the trouser region.

"In yet another breathtaking display of omnimpotence, the United Nations issued a stern warning to North Korea that any further displays of military aggression would be followed by more stern warnings, and possibly even sterner warnings again."

Vegans: Limp-Wristed Benefit Scroungers or Cunning Corporate Conspiracy?

2009-04-17T22:59:00.005+01:00

Written by Logan Bluetooth

I have been on the receiving end of many a mordant barb in my brief time upon this mortal coil. Some have been imaginative (self-important coiffured purveyor of misery), others have been rather coarse (corporate pillow biter), some quick and to the point (wanker), and one I haven’t quite worked out yet - though I will be sure to let you know when I find out precisely what a Cleveland Steamer is.

However much to the chagrin of my verbal assailants, one develops a rhinoceros-like hide after working as a highly lauded efficiency expert for many years. It’s all water off an obscenely remunerated duck’s back.

That said, I recently found myself ever so slightly affected by a verbal stoush in the last place one expects to become embroiled in a childish argument – an internet discussion forum. More surprising was that it was in response to my complimenting this gentleman on what I perceived as his being an exceptionally adroit satirist.

His rejoinder? Well, I shall save you the horror of quoting verbatim his rather vulgar response, but the key phrase directed at me was “corpse-muncher”. I was not the only unfortunate soul to be labelled as a corpse-muncher. Anyone who dared question this self-proclaimed saviour of the human race also found themselves on the receiving end of his repetitive keyboard bashing.

As the sharper amongst you may have deduced from the title of this article, this chap was a vegan. A prominent one too, though prominence in the world of veganism seems to be about as valuable as being a prominent stamp collector. The point is, I had been attacked, exposed as an evil corpse-munching drain on humanity.

The more I read of his arguments for avoiding the consumption of animal products, the more dubious I became of his motives, and the more convinced I became of my original impression of him as being a grand wizard of satire.

Possibly the most convincing (and presumably with the research to back it up) of his wild claims was his deduction that the consumption of meat and animal products by children caused school shootings. Yes, you read that correctly.

Rather than the usual scapegoats/scapetofu (rap music, heavy metal, video games, the internetz) so favoured by the tabloids, this perceptive fellow had finally identified the root cause of school shootings. That disenfranchised teen stalking the school corridors, clutching a machine gun, emptying clip after clip and lobbing homemade bombs amongst his fellow pupils is driven by nothing other than the thirst for blood garnered from munching on dead animals.

It would be unfair of me to hold this moron up as a typical example of a vegan, just as it would be if I were to base my opinions of Christians, Muslims and Australians on the actions of Timothy McVeigh, Osama Bin Laden and Peter Andre, respectively. Unfortunately for moderate vegans, there were far too many willing participants in this all-in orgy of douchebaggery.

Morally superior ambassadors for the cause took great delight in comparing non-vegans to murderers, rapists, paedophiles, racists, slave-owners, and Nazis. Our protagonist agreed vehemently, claiming that “there is a holocaust going on right under their noses 3 times a day and they can’t even see/smell it”. Inspiring stuff, and Jews the world over would no doubt agree as they renounce their evil meat-eating ways.

His most oft repeated claim was that eating meat “is not a personal choice when you are eating my friends and you are ruining my world. When you made your personal choice did you ask the animal if you could confine, torture, and murder him or her?”

Of course we didn’t, you dolt. Very few animals have the ability to speak, and even fewer the ability to engage in a lucid conversation with a being as intelligent as a human. This superior intellect has placed us at the apex of predators, and thus allows us to do whatever we want, whenever we want – this includes eating animals and arguing on the internet.

Rise above it, Bluetooth, I kept saying to myself. You can get him back later by writing a snappy article for the Gazette that makes fun of his beliefs. It may seem that I have taken the bait and given this cud-chewing internet activist the anonymous recognition he so obviously craves, but you’d be wrong.

Unwilling to accept that somebody really wanted me to choke on a chicken bone and die, I turned off the computer, furnished myself with some deliciously rich foie gras and did what I do best – engaged in a period of deeply intellectual introspection, which led to many important and relevant revelations which I shall now share for the benefit of your personal development.

Perhaps these were simply the actions of a lunatic fringe that caused the rest of the vegan community to cringe in unison. But if the internetz have taught me anything, it is that Occam’s Razor is something emo kids on Myspace use to cut themselves, and that the most likely explanation of any phenomenon is very rarely the correct one.

Who stands to profit from veganism? Considering only directly impacted parties, producers of fruit, vegetables, grains etc would experience a considerable financial windfall, but let’s face it – they aren’t exactly the rampant capitalists that they could be. If they were, it is unlikely that a bunch of pinkos like vegans would be into what they were selling.

Therefore, perhaps a more pertinent question would be – who stands to lose from veganism? The short answer – pretty much anybody apart from vegans. The meat, dairy, restaurant and leather industries would cease to exist. McDonalds would have a hard time selling the McSeaweed burger. Kentucky Fried Tofu doesn’t exactly make the mouth water in the same way that deep fried chicken giblets do.

Widespread veganism would cause absolute and unabated financial ruin to almost every established and developing economy, plunging the globe into such ruin that bankers would suddenly seem like pretty tolerable individuals.

Therefore, I put it to you that there are but a handful of true vegans, and certainly no such thing as an entire community of them. Vegans are undoubtedly a cunning invention of a secret alliance of concerned nations, created to steer potential vegetarians and perhaps even vegetarians themselves back towards the comfort of a medium rare fillet mignon.

Outlandish? Hardly. False flag operations have been executed throughout history by most of the superpowers of the world to shift public opinion and start major wars. Faced with the undeniably catastrophic repercussions that widespread vegetarianism and veganism would cause, these well oiled machines would do everything in their power to prevent such an abhorrent event from occurring.

The seemingly irrational and moronic individuals that successfully goaded me into a verbal tussle did their job, and did it with what can only be described as military precision. Not only did I loudly embrace my omnivoratic ways in a public forum, I then felt it necessary to devote over 1000 words elsewhere to belittling the tenets of veganism. Mission accomplished, it would seem.

But hang on – I have exposed a global conspiracy. Shady government organisations joining forces to defeat a non-existent enemy by spreading anti-vegan propaganda. Surely now it would be hypocritical of me not to renounce my consumption of animal products, start wearing hemp clothing and join the mailing list for various socialist newsletters.

Au contraire, I fully support this conspiracy. I adore capitalism, and have come to accept that even though every vein of government is poisoned by corruption, they generally have our best interests at heart. Sure, a few people might get persecuted or killed along the way, but the ends always tends to justify the means. Politicians and secret service agents posing as militant vegans have to live here too, which proves that having a vested interest isn’t always a bad thing.

To sum up, you should by all means continue to treat vegans with the same level of apprehensiveness and disdain as you currently do. But after you’ve flung a pork chop at their head and told them to get a job, the respectful thing to do would be to give a furtive wink and thank them for protecting the interests of the nation.

World's Deadliest: The Russell Crow

2009-04-11T01:42:00.003+01:00

Written by Peter File

Of all the dangerous creatures that exist on this lethal planet, few people would mention birds in the same breath as snakes, sharks or the big cats of Africa. Birds are generally thought of as harmless, carefree little things, happily flying around and whistling cheerful tunes. Sparrows, parrots, wrens, budgerigars – hardly the stuff of nightmares, are they?

However, while they may not be well known, there are many birds that pose a serious threat to humans. The Transylvanian stealth pterodactyl, carnivorous sabre-toothed mallard (native to Greenland), and the giant English tit have all chalked up multiple fatalities. It is worth noting that the giant English tit is generally only found in parliament and local authority buildings.

The danger posed by these winged terrors, however, pales into insignificance when compared with the most dangerous of all birds – the Russell crow.

The Russell crow is truly unique in that only one has ever existed. It has been hypothesised that it is genetically impossible for more than one to exist, a theory which the Russell crow has often confirmed to anyone who will listen.

The origin of this species has been widely debated and disputed. Australia, a small prison colony in the southern hemisphere, and their close neighbours New Zealand both deny responsibility. The generally accepted view is that while the Russell crow is undoubtedly of New Zealand origin, it migrated to Australia in search of publicity, one of its main sources of sustenance.

The Russell crow is a crow by name only, sharing few likenesses with the other members of the species. One notable similarity is that like other crows, it is considered to be a pest in most countries. Any efforts to eradicate the Russell crow have been unsuccessful, as it is such a hostile creature, willing to violently defend itself if threatened in any way.

The violence of the Russell crow is legendary, and often unprovoked. In addition to attacking prey with its large beak and razor sharp claws, it has also been known to improvise and use seemingly innocuous items to assault foes – telephones, for example.

The frequently aggressive behaviour displayed is due in part to the Russell crow’s peculiar diet. While this is by no means an exhaustive list, it has been observed feeding upon hard liquor, cigarettes, nightclub bouncers, press photographers, and fair haired actresses.

Its main sources of food, however, are recognition and fame. These are derived from many places. It is a highly adaptable creature, having appeared as a variety of characters in numerous films that have grossed highly at the box office. Whilst it is generally regarded as a poor actor by human standards, most ornithologists agree that it is the finest avian actor ever to have appeared on the big screen.

In addition to films, it also produces poetry of a standard roughly equal to that of a tea towel. Seemingly unsatisfied with its acting and poetry commitments, the Russell crow is also the lead singer for a band considered by most people with the ability to hear to be an insult to music. It is worth noting that the Russell crow is of no relation to another well known songbird, the Sheryl crow.

This insatiable appetite for fame is but one of many differences between the Russell crow and the common crow. The most striking dissimilarity between the two is that the Russell crow is predominantly flightless. Although New Zealand is also home to another flightless bird, the kiwi, it does not appear to be a genetic trait. Rather, it is due to the wings of the Russell crow lacking the strength to support the weight of its own ego. Jumbo jets are the only aircraft large and powerful enough to transport such a mammoth cargo.

The call of the Russell crow also differs greatly to that of its corvid relations. Rather than the typical “caw” emitted by most crows, the Russell crow’s call gears more towards shameless self-promotion, such as “G’day, I’ve written a bloody poem, do you wanna hear it?” An example of one of its more aggressive calls is “Whaddya lookin’ at? D’ya wanna bloody punch in the nose, ya bloody drongo?”

Its nesting habits are also atypical when compared to common crows. Rather than inhabiting a specific geographical location and building a modest abode from twigs, the Russell crow prefers to nest in palatial mansions in varied locations across the globe.

Not only is it potentially lethal if it perceives an observer to be a threat, it is becoming quite evident that it has developed the ability to woo human females. While not confirmed, reports also suggest that it has spawned at least two offspring. It has not yet been determined whether this cross-breeding will strengthen or weaken the dominant characteristics inherent in the Russell crow.

The Russell crow is a tempting subject for any budding ornithologist. Lacking the introversion possessed by most other species of bird, its frequently explosive appearances in public make for fascinating observation. Unfortunately, it should be avoided at all costs.

Hot Hits with Hans

2009-04-05T00:09:00.007+01:00

Written by Hans Öffmeinbürger with foreword by Logan Bluetooth

You can’t judge a book by its cover. While I couldn’t disagree more with this saying (just look at the dictionary), it thankfully doesn’t apply to music. An album can be judged accurately just by studying its cover. If you really want to go into detail, by all means have a look at the track listing. Listening to it should be a last resort. Efficiency and music go hand in hand.

And if there’s one man who understands both efficiency and music, it is the Mobar Gazette’s new music editor, Hans Öffmeinbürger. Hans combines his natural German efficiency with his encyclopedic knowledge of music to ensure that our discerning readers choose only the hottest new recordings.

His revolutionary approach to reviewing music is brilliant in its simplicity: study the album cover and the song titles, then provide the reader with a brisk review and score out of ten. Enjoy.

Gutentag, mein reizvolle leute! Don’t worry, you will get very little German from me. I am almost as excellent at English as I am at being a superstar international house DJ and music producer. I am here to give you helpful reviews of the latest releases so that you can hear only the most amazing sounds and crazy recordings. Let us begin!

The Killers – Day & Age

Ah, The Killers. I think we all know this band. They have had many big hits on the radio, like that one about having a boyfriend that looked like a girlfriend. I once had a boyfriend that looked like a girlfriend that I once had, it was very confusing. I would introduce him to people as Klaudette, but his name was Klaus!

Anyway, The Killers. They are not very good. The singer sounds like he has been beaten with a piece of limp celery. A piece of limp celery would probably be a better singer than him.

The cover of this record is very boring. The moon, or maybe the sun and some trees. What is that saying? Hello, we are The Killers, we are as interesting as some trees and the moon or maybe the sun. We couldn’t think of a good title so we chose Day & Age. We like limp celery.

The song titles aren’t much better. This Is Your Life. I Can’t Stay. The World We Live In. Oh my GOD. I did however like Neon Tiger, because it makes me think of a tiger that maybe likes to party a lot.

I actually heard one of the songs from this record, Human. It is a terrible song. He just keeps asking “are we human, or are we dancer?” Perhaps this is a rhetorical question, but I will answer him – you are neither. You are a talentless piece of limp celery. I give this album 0/10.

Metro Station – Metro Station

Normally I would be very suspicious of a self-titled album. Very unimaginative. But this cover has many bright colours, and some squiggly lines shooting through space which I think is very cool. Also, the name Metro Station sounds like a train station that I would like to go to.

The song titles unfortunately do not live up to the excitement promised by the cover. One is called Seventeen Forever. There is another called Wish We Were Older. Clearly this is just a bunch of pathetic children who are crying about not being able to buy alcohol and go clubbing, and are such losers that they haven’t even considered getting a fake ID.

I saw one of these songs on the television the other day. Shake It. They are terrible, maybe even worse than The Killers. I was right. They are just children, painful silly children with the stupid haircuts and the terrible music.

There is another song on this record called Tell Me What To Do. With pleasure – go back to school, stop crying, and never ever make music again, you annoying little brats. I give this album 1/10 because the cover was okay.

Ronan Keating – Songs for my Mother

I did not want to review this record at first, because I thought Ronan Keating does not like to party. Everybody knows that all Irish people are alcoholics. Not Ronan. I met him once and asked him if he would like to come and party, and he said he couldn’t because he had a hair appointment. I do not think he is really Irish.

I saw the title, Songs for my Mother, and I thought oh nein, 45 minutes of him singing about how much he loves his mummy doing his hair, this will be a short review. 0/10 – LOSER. Also, the cover…what do I say? He almost blends into the beige background.

But then I looked at the track titles. Make You Feel My Love. Both Sides Now. I thought, these are songs for his mother? Ja ja, now we are getting kinky! Vincent. Who is Vincent? I don’t care, I like where this is going.

I Believe I Can Fly. I will tell you something. I don’t know what the square root of 823169 is, but I do know that when someone tells you they believe they can fly, it is almost always because they have been taking lots and lots of mescaline. I can also tell you that they definitely cannot fly, unless it is in a helicopter to the emergency ward.

I judged Ronan Keating too quickly. He might have told me that he had a hair appointment, but what he probably meant to say was “I’m very sorry Hans, but I am too busy partying and having fun times with my mother!” I give this record 9/10.

Queries and Qualms of the Great Unwashed # 2

2009-03-28T15:00:00.010Z

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

2009-03-22T21:42:00.004Z

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

2009-03-15T21:58:00.002Z

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

2009-03-08T22:16:00.005Z

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

2009-03-06T22:47:00.005Z

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

How To Write For The Mobar Gazette

2009-02-24T00:34:00.005Z

Written by Logan Bluetooth

To write successfully for the Mobar Gazette, one need not possess any particular talent or interest in writing. No formal qualifications are required, and any educational achievement beyond successful completion of primary school would generally be frowned upon.

Much like a relatively successful backyard manufacturer of methamphetamines, Mobar Gazette articles rely upon a series of dubious chemical formulas and evasive manoeuvres to avoid detection by pesky authorities.

To get things started, you’re going to need a title. A conventional title just won’t cut the mustard. You should be aiming for something inflammatory, salacious or entirely preposterous, an exercise in capital letters that will cause a prospective reader to spit out a mouthful of their beverage in disgust and click frantically at the link in order to satisfy their curiosity.

So You Think You Can Literally Get Away With Murder? People That Rent Should Be Ripped Limb From Limb By Mortgagors. I Had Intimate iRelations With An iPhone And Contracted iSyphilis.

For the sake of our fictional article, I have chosen the following title – Organic Food: It’s The New Black, If You’re the Kind of Tool That Describes Things as “The New Black”. The beauty of this title, other than its brevity (which is apparently the soul of wit), is the fact that it garners attention from anyone who eats organic food or who happens to use the phrase “the new black”, which would be just about any old sucker these days.

You’ve got your audience in the door – now it’s time to get some bums on seats. Your introduction need not have anything to do with the title or subject of your article at this early stage. Instead, why not take this opportunity to launch a stinging, unprovoked and entirely baseless attack on a defenceless celebrity or minority group, then gloss over it with a silky smooth segue into something vaguely resembling the subject of the article?

Is it just me, or is Calista Flockhart seriously fat? I don’t mean fat in a cute little Kate Moss puppy fat kind of way, I mean fat as in she could be the before picture for a Weight Watchers commercial. If she gets any fatter, the Japanese will commission a fleet of ships armed with harpoons to carry out scientific research on her thighs. Speaking of Calista Flockhart’s thighs, organic food is nothing but a clever marketing tool designed to make people feel better about themselves whilst paying twice what they normally would.

I know what you’re thinking. That was no segue. That was nothing but a cheap shot at two celebrities and a country, capped off with an unsubstantiated claim about organic food. Be honest though, you enjoyed every word of that. Unless of course you’re Calista Flockhart or Kate Moss, in which case you’re probably used to strangers discussing your weight. Sorry about that, gals. We actually think you’re rather slim and don’t deserve that kind of shabby treatment.
It is worth noting at this point that Mobar Gazette writers never apologise for their art, unless they’ve offended someone they like or they are threatened with a lawsuit by someone whom they don’t particularly care for, such as serial pants man Jude Law.

Anyhow, let’s get into the body of your article. The guts. The kilometres of gooey intestines constructed from mere words. The best way to get this bit rolling is with some more unsubstantiated claims presented to the reader as fact.

Organic food was invented in 1994 by Independence Day star Bill Pullman, however he has repeatedly refused to confirm this as fact. The only proof of this is a solitary passage in his surprisingly rare 1998 autobiography No, I’m Not Bill Paxton, But I Will Be For $50 And An Ice Cream Sandwich.

Disillusioned by the inexplicable popularity of the litany of processed goods prevalent in the late nineties (food, boy bands, girl bands etc.), Pullman attempted to buck the trend by releasing his own line of food products cultivated without the use of pesticides or growth hormones.

It was an unmitigated failure. Supermarkets refused to stock Purely Pullman Produce. The death knell was sounded when, after resorting to hawking his wares from a crude roadside stand on Hollywood Boulevard, director Steven Spielberg passed in his limousine and struck Pullman in the face with a cheese-topped Twinkie, allegedly shouting “You’ll never work in this town again, Pullman!”

Exhilarating stuff. Celebrities. Celebrity failure. Celebrities throwing cheese-topped Twinkies at each other. Your readership will be so enthralled by this scandalous passage, they will barely have time to question whether or not any of it is actually factual. Why stop there? You haven’t even got stuck into your actual topic yet. Time to sling some more mud.

In the wake of his very public humiliation, Pullman retreated from the public eye, emerging only to buy milk and occasionally star in films that barely troubled the box office. Much like Pullman’s career, organic food had died a relatively quiet death. Unlike Pullman’s career, however, organic food was about to be revived and receive critical acclaim.

Now, you’re at a crossroads here. You could take the easy route and fire off another few cheap shots at a man whose resume reads like a catalogue for Straight To Video Productions, or you could do the professional thing and slur someone else.

Early in the 21st century, N*Sync and their waxed ilk were thankfully singing “Bye Bye Bye” for good. Nature abhors a vacuum though, and no sooner had various Backstreet Boys adopted alcoholism in the place of homoerotic dance choreography, a new menace appeared on televisions around the globe: the celebrity chef.

Gordon F**king Ramsay. Nigella “Ooh, that’s a bit saucy!” Lawson. Two “Needs more butter, darling!” Fat Ladies. But outdoing all of these apron aficionados and their respective shticks of rudey words, culinary double entendres, and snorting lines of pure lard, there was an energetic young man bish, bash, and boshing his way around a kitchen at a rate that would shame the roadrunner.

Jamie “Awright mate? Cushti!” Oliver.

Jamie Oliver? You’re going to slag a man who has championed healthy school dinners, transformed panhandlers into chefs and inspired countless people to learn how to cook for themselves? Hey, we’re artistes. And he talks funny, innit.

Yes, The Naked Chef. The most successful British money making franchise since The Beatles. While most people know him for his sea sickness inducing handheld camera cookery programmes, few are aware that before he was whipping up pukka curries, Oliver was a struggling actor trying to make his fortune in Hollywood.

After moving to Los Angeles in the hope of making it big, Oliver was disheartened to discover that American audiences were more interested in Hugh Grant’s bumbling yet charming array of quintessentially British characters, and to a lesser extent his sexual misadventures in public places than Oliver’s likely lad persona.

Down on his luck and with rent well overdue, Oliver reluctantly took a job as a sous chef in an establishment specialising in all-you-can-eat cheese based cuisine. Legend has it that after clocking off from yet another double shift of triple cheeseburgers with quadruple cheese, he came across a dishevelled chap in the alley behind the cheese emporium.

Clutching a bottle of cheap liquor and slurring something that vaguely resembled the President’s final monologue from Independence Day, Oliver at first paid no heed to this broken man. As he walked away though, the drunkard’s rambling suddenly caught the young Brit’s ear.

“Food…expenshive food…no peshtishides…no hormones…all natural, they would’ve all bought it…paid whatever…organic…all natural, organic food…”

The artist soon to be known as the Naked Chef was intrigued, yet he suddenly understood this man’s simple dream. To produce a range of natural food and market it in such a way that anyone - from the most pretentious tofu-loving Hollywood phoney to the most upper middle class consultant overburdened with disposal income and precious guilt - anyone would pay top dollar for this gear.

Oliver saw the potential, and did what any out of work actor would do – viciously beat the drunkard with a rolling pin, stole his dream, dignity and shoes, then made millions from it. The idea, not the shoes. He just wore those.

Whilst the preceding paragraph may suggest otherwise, Jamie Oliver is reportedly a fairly non-violent chap, and Bill Pullman is allegedly still alive and more or less well. You can never be 100% sure with celebrities though, so the safe option here would be to delve into such connerie exagérée that even the most tin foil clad of conspiracy theorists would raise a bushy eyebrow at your blasé approach to the truth. Also, using French both impresses and distracts your readers.

So just exactly how did The Naked Chef make his fortune out of organic food? With the help of the government, of course. Britons are suspicious folk, and treat government at all levels with absolute disdain and cynicism. They are one of the few remaining western superpowers to resist a fluoridated water supply, and in doing so guard against the government controlling their thoughts and dental hygiene.

Therefore, it is of little surprise to learn that the British government is constantly searching for new ways to seize control of the grey matter of all their citizens. After hearing of the popularity of Oliver and his organic food, various shady figures heading various shady secret government departments hatched a shady plot to buy Oliver’s allegiance and his recipe for Moroccan chickpea soup.

A staunch nationalist, Oliver was more than happy to become an agent for his country, in return for a hefty fee and publishing deal. Fluoride, among other mind altering substances, is now secretly added to all organic food, and Oliver happily sells its benefits on his various shows.

The titles and themes of these shows have become increasingly brazen – his school dinner series allowed the government to wrest control of impressionable children across Britain. Ministry of Food made no attempt to hide its state sponsored links, and followed Jamie as he targeted those least likely to fall prey to the cult of organic food.

Still not convinced? There are six letters in Oliver. If one removes the letters J, A, and E from his first name, only M and I remain. Put them together and you get…MI6. It is hardly worth noting that Oliver rates cooking for the Prime Minister as one of his proudest achievements.

There, you’ve done it. Reduced the article to such a farcical level that any judge presiding over a libel case would throw the case out of court quicker than you can say black lacy knickers hidden by a judicial robe. All that remains is a conclusion. A vast range of topics have been covered, however there’s no need to pay them anything more than a casual lip service whilst whipping up a healthy dose of fear.

So just who exactly is responsible for the fiendish plot to control the thoughts of one and all with the cunning conception and subsequent propagation of the sham known as organic food? Bill Pullman? Jamie Oliver? The British Secret Service? No.

It is you.

It is you, your friends, your family, and even that prat next door that mows the lawn at eight in the morning on a Saturday. Every time you go to the supermarket and decide to pay twice the price of other available products just because of a word on a packet that does nothing more than make you feel pleased with your social conscience and outrageous cleverness, it is you.

It is you that allows the government to control your thoughts and rule you like dogs. It is you that destroys the livelihoods of honest, hard working pesticide and growth hormone manufacturers. You and no one else invite evil government agents posing as celebrity chefs into your home and allow them to sauté your beliefs, whip up a roux of your free will, and construct a confit de liberté.

Congratulations. You are now a Mobar Gazette writer.

A Friday In The Life of Two Parasitical Drains On Humanity

2009-02-15T23:58:00.005Z

Written by Peter File

We like to think that this publication gives the impression of being a well oiled machine, produced by a team of professionals with an insatiable hunger for entertaining the masses. While this may be true, it may shock you to learn that almost our entire staff have day jobs.

Eddie is a junior production assistant for an advertising agency. Stefan is a phlebotomist and medical research officer. Logan is a highly successful corporate efficiency and attrition consultant, and has published a book of analogies for business executives.

The rest of us, however, are entombed in various temporary positions for a variety of multinational organisations trading in anything from banking to child labour - sometimes both.

The life of a temp is fraught with uncertainty and instability. Whilst we have the same fiscal responsibilities as permanent employees, the unfortunate truth is that our roles exist only as long as our masters deem them necessary. Much like a slow witted wildebeest grazing nervously in the Serengeti, we are painfully aware that each day could be our last.

Keeping in mind this absence of job security, one can only imagine the reaction of the hundreds of temps employed by my particular job agency upon receiving the following document last week - A Friday in the Life of Britney and Christina*.

Britney and Christina had joined forces to create a document designed to educate the masses on the importance of not forgetting their timesheets on Friday. Utilizing the criminally underused artistic medium of Microsoft Clipart and blending it with their own unique brand of humour, the gals had created something both eye-catching and informative.

It was a touching cartoon timeline of our pair of protagonists becoming increasingly frustrated with the need to repeatedly undertake the unquestionably arduous task of faxing timesheets to those pesky forgetful temps.

Now, being an occasional merchant of sarcasm, I got the joke. Rolling around the floor laughing my arse off I was, or as the acronym-filled internet would have it, ROFLMAO.

However, the thought struck me that temps not blessed with my keen eye for champagne comedy would perhaps have missed the joke entirely. Thus, I have created a translation of this wonderful document for the benefit of all temps.

9.00am – Oh, you’ve forgotten your timesheet, don’t worry, I will fax one through to you.

Actual: Oh, you’ve forgotten your timesheet. I’ll fax one through to you, right after I finish this delicious slappacino. Mmm…coffee and vodka.

9.30am – Oh, you left your timesheet on the bus, don’t worry, I will fax you one.

Actual: The bus. Although not familiar with it myself, I have heard of it. It is for poor people if I’m not mistaken. Ooh! Those shoes look nice, where’s my credit card?

10.10am – Oh! Your dog ate your timesheet, yes I’ll fax you one.

Actual: Hmm…it’s after 10, sounds like coke o’clock. Britney! Rack ‘em up!

12.30pm – No, I hadn’t forgotten your timesheet, I’m just faxing it through!

Actual: No, I hadn’t forgotten your timesheet, I was just a little distracted by all the posh I did in the toilets earlier. Duh, idiot.

13.40pm – Oh! Your sister took your timesheet to school, don’t worry, I will fax one to you!

Actual: Oh! I like that word. It is easy to say. Oh! Ha ha. Oh.

14.55pm – Timesheet! Timesheet! Timesheet! Timesheet! Timesheet!

Actual: Cocktails! Cocktails! Cocktails! Cocktails! Cocktails!

15.35pm – Yes, timesheet, I know!

Actual: Yes, I’m awesome, I know!

16.15pm – Your Mum took your timesheet to work!

Actual: You don’t have those shoes in a six?

16.45pm – Blah blah blah…

Actual: Coke coke coke…

17.30pm – Cat ate your timesheet?

Actual: Have I eaten today? I hope not.

17.31pm – Timesheet, yes I’m faxing it.

Actual: If there is a more delicious cocktail than a Cosmo, I don’t want to know about it.

20.00pm – Zzzzz timesheet zzzz timesheet zzzzzzz…

Actual: Buzzzzz cocktail buzzzzz cocktail buzzzzzz…

My word. What a cheap, unimaginative attack on a pair of ladies that are probably quite nice. What on earth could lead you to presume that they are raging alcoholics and massive cocaine fiends? Why should they spend half their day faxing timesheets just because lowly temps are forgetful? What gives you the right to launch such a venomous assault on them?

Whoa, whoa. One question at a time, voices in my head that I am unable to silence.

Firstly, it has been established that alcohol impairs judgement somewhat. Similarly, it has been proven that cocaine consumption leads to a massive boost in self-confidence. Upon viewing the document in question, the only conclusion one could possibly draw is that this is indeed the work of someone that has been doing the backstroke in a pool of cocktails, the lanes in the aforementioned pool marked out with a substance undoubtedly of Colombian origin.

As to why they should spend the better part of a day slaving away at the fax machine, the answer is far more straightforward. Quite simply, it’s their job. If you took away their other responsibilities (said responsibilities being lying to people and receiving exorbitant commissions), recruitment consultants would have absolutely nothing to do.

Wages are paid in return for executing the tasks specific to one’s job description. Cops don’t send out witty comics saying “Umm, okay guys, we’re having to deal with a few too many crimes on the weekends…could we maybe try and remember that, like, you know, shooting people is illegal and stuff?”

In terms of justification for such a poisonous tirade, I could point out that I’ve never forgotten my timesheet, but that would be missing the point entirely. These clowns are complaining not just about having to do their job, but about having to carry out what is arguably the most menial task available in an office environment.

Put document in machine. Dial number. Press send. Repeat as necessary.

The simple fact that this pair of morons were so overburdened with complex tasks that they could find the time to construct such a ridiculously pointless document, proves beyond a shadow of a doubt that they have more than enough time to fax a couple of timesheets in between their next Cosmo or line of posh.

*Names changed because you can’t afford a lawsuit on a temp wage