Category Archives: Emmjay

Pig-Tel Pet’s Newest Innovation – the Spiraliser ….

22 Wednesday Nov 2017

Posted by in Emmjay, Pig-Tel Products, Warrigal Mirriyuula

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Spiralised Cat

Digital Mischief by Warrigal Mirriyuula

Pig=Tel’s cheeky new collaboration with Cat-sidermy extends the life of your pussie – just when you thought it was ready to become a pyjama bag or a new clutch of merkins (Merv – is that what they mean by Cougars ?”) – along comes the new highly-sprung Russian Blue from the makers at Pig-Tel – Cat-sidermy.

Next year Pig-Tel will be releasing the latest model – the Chinese Red (aka the Ming Spring)  and the jazz variant the “Mingus Springus”.

It’ll sell out fast so get your hors d’ouvres in early and secure your Pig-Tel Spiraliser.  Seventy-five easy monthly payments of $213.  Installation not included, but the guys who assemble Ikea will literally cut you a hot deal.  All it takes is an allen key (and a scalpel and a few litres of Hungcorp preservative)

See more of the great range of Pig-Tel products at the Pig’s Arms – Pig-Tel – a holy owned subsidiary of the Church of St Generic Brands – Cayman Is.

American Gunslingers

06 Friday Oct 2017

Posted by in Emmjay, Politics in the Pig's Arms

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Cowboys

Story by Emmjay

First published as a response to Gerard Oosterman

Trump said that “this is not the time to discuss gun control” – OK, no more ridiculous than all his other moronic rubbish, but that merely proves IMHO, the incredible power of the gun industry and the industrial military complex on the larger scale.

In the second amendment, granting permission to “bear Arms” – the key phrase is “well-regulated militia” – which it certainly isn’t. And to even think that a three hundred year old “get out” clause is still considered useful is stupid beyond belief – but apparently difficult to fix.

I don’t understand why enough Americans cannot challenge the amendment on the basis of the obvious failure of regulation of the militia and the right to bear arms through the US Supreme Court. The evidence against “well-regulated” lies in pools of blood all over the streets of America.

I have felt, since Bush got elected that we (i.e. the rest of the planet) are the unwilling witnesses to the decline of the American Empire – only temporarily slowed by the stymied Obama administration.

On one level, it’s good to see the downfall of such a profligate, massively ignorant and self-centred nation. But on another level one shudders to think what might replace it – a Putin dictatorship, or more likely a China first superpower – already building strategic military bases off shore and dragging its feet over effectively dealing with the other fuckwit de jour Kim Jun.

It’s small comfort to be so far away from the major players, but I do think that we should enjoy what’s left of Australia while we still can.

—ooo—

Tent Embarrassment

02 Wednesday Aug 2017

Posted by in Emmjay, Politics in the Pig's Arms

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IMG_1658

Story by The Pig’s Arms cub reporter (Carlton United Breweries) and political communist  columnist Ray Deoshockjock

This photograph was taken Monday 31 July, 2017 in Martin Place Sydney.  How these good folk pitch tents on solid brick paving is beyond me, but good luck to them and their ingenuity

Not visible off the right of the photograph is their amenity block and kitchen where a formerly homeless chef prepares  free food out of his working hours.

On the left, is Australia’s Reserve Bank.

Behind the photographer on the prestigious Macquarie Street is the NSW Parliament Building, replete with security shed out the front.

And on TV last night was the unedifying spectacle of the NSW Premier Gladys Bokonon bagging out the Sydney Lord Mayor Clover Leaf for not removing these inconvenient reminders to a government with a multi-billion dollar surplus (ironically raised from a rapacious and grasping stamp duty (aka tax rip-off) – to sort out their fucking affordable housing policy and implement the damned thing.

Clover, in her inimitably reasonable co-operative style (full co-operation just short of actually doing anything) asserted that she lacked the power to remove the tents and their occupiers.  Hands clearly tied, shoulders hunched.  Mea definitely not culpa.

Then we had the NSW Housing Minister – now part of “Community Services” Poo Goward, doing a dressed-down impression of Cruella de Vile,  flashing her rat-like pointy teeth and saying, exasperated that “THESE PEOPLE had been offered temporary accommodation until they could find permanent accommodation – and spitting vitriol that they had not accepted the generous offer of 28 days’ respite” – off the street until they would be forced back out there.

The Rt Hon Minister for Housing the Poor was seething with anger that these inconvenient folks (aka her clients) were refusing to accept a bum deal.  It looked like she really wanted to smack them and send them home…. no wait, that’s not going to work……

So, clearly, patrons de la salle de porc, these are not real people with a serious inability to cope with the ridiculous Sydney rental prices.  These homeless people are a bloody inconvenience and an embarrassment.

Well, parliamentary representatives of the people of Sydney and NSW who would prefer to spend billions on new freeways that the residents of the Inner West absolutely do NOT want ……

Get off your fat arses and do something effective to help homeless people – and DO IT NOW !

This has been Ray Deoshockjock for the Pig’s Arms

The Cardy Puts One O’Way

10 Monday Jul 2017

Posted by in Emmjay, Politics in the Pig's Arms

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A Cardinal adjusts his mitria cap as he attendsthe celebration of the Easter Vigil service presided ..

Story by Emmjay

“Bring, Bring” insisted the phone.  Which was more convincing than say the toaster demanding bread.

“O’Waaaahy, h, h, , har, har, har aaaaaark.  Here” answered O’Way.  Which seemed apt given that it was in fact O’Way and his cough.

“Listen up”.  Said the unmistakeable drone of the Bishop.  The rumour was that the Cardy had made the Bish a bish because he had a voice so unutterably dull that he was perfect in the witness box and an excellent supporting act for the Cardy who was making an unexpected comeback – with perhaps less support than Johnny Farnham, but certainly a lot more anticipation.

“You know the Royal Commissh ?” it wasn’t so much a question as a command, continued the Bish.

“Of course !” lied O’Way who who who, hark, hark, hark…… (muffled spit into hanky).  Of course O’Way would have only heard of the Royal Commish if she was running at Flemington, or perhaps Dapto Dogs (since the reformation)… but he was renowned for filling in the blanks and going with the flow – common amongst the clerics of St Generic Brands.

“ The Cardy needs you to do some tidying up”, said the Bish.

“Isn’t that Manne or Granny’s job ?” said O’Way.

“Not cleaning up STUFF” said the Bish, “Tidying up some people’s shonky memory”.

“Oh” said O’Way, who had no concept of memory, much less shonky memory.  He paused and waited for another train of thought – to climb aboard.

The bish obliged by mumbling something about the Cardy having some stiff questions about kiddie fiddling.  (Ed……Sorry, ALLEGED kiddy fiddling).

“Bish ?” inquired O’Way.

“Yes, father?” replied the bish.

“Bish, um (ahark ahark ahark) what precisely is kiddy fiddling ?  I didn’t know the Cardy even played the violin”.

“You’ve heard of Bluegrass, Father ?” asked the Bish.

“Dang !” replied O’Way, (readers should imagine they heard the distant sound of Duelling Banjos).

“The Cardy was playing ‘Foggy Mountain Breakdown’ ? said O’Way.

“Well, kind of a breakdown” said the Bish. “These people with mental illness claim they got it in the cloisters – and that the Cardy was in the second row.

“Yeah” said O’Way.

“Yeah ?” inquired the Bish.

“Yeah, I copped a few in the cloisters playing against Christian Brothers” said O’Way.” Makes your eyes water quite a bit”.

“Nah” said the Bish. “This one’s serious father.  The Cardy has been accused of ALLEGEDLY (thanks… Ed) having improper regard to the tackle of minors” said the Bish.

“He took the choir fishing without a permit ?”  wondered O’Way.

“You’re getting warmer” said the Bish.

“Wedding tackle:” said the Bish.

“The Choir was singing at a wedding ?” asked O’Way.

“Could have been” said the Bish.

“And the mental illness” ? said O’Way, accidentally re-routing the conversation back to the point of the Bish’s call.

“Ah, Yes of Course” said the Bish, “Well they say they have suffered ever since the Cardy and the wedding tackle incidents (ALLEGED incidents …. Ed.)

“Do we know who these people are, Bish?” asked O’Way.

“Yes, of course” said the Bish.

“What’s their beef ?” said O’Way “Didn’t they get any cake ?”

“What cake ?” said the Bish.

“You know, WEDDING cake” said O’Way. “What were they doing playing rugby at the wedding ?”

“What wedding ?” said the Bish.

“You know – the one where the Cardy played Duelling Banjos” said O’Way.

“Are you doing anything right now?” asked the Bish.

“No, Whaaaay ahark ahark ahark?” said O’Way.

“I’ve got a key witness assignment for you coming up”, said the Bish.

“Will there be cake ?” asked O’Way.

“It will be a cake walk” said the Bish.

“Great said O’Way” “I love a party.

Col Davis Goes Down for the Count.

28 Wednesday Jun 2017

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pie-in-face_240

Simulated Retribution

Story by Emmjay

OK, I’ll admit to my fear and loathing of mathematics.  But it wasn’t my fault.

I blame Col Davis – my Year 11 and 12 maths teacher.  I was fine until Col got his stubby little fingers on me – and on my mate Peter Stephens.

We were at the bottom of the top maths class.  Warning:  this is a very dodgy place to be.

Trying to keep up with the soon-to-be rocket surgeons and brain scientists  – we had no real interest and even less natural talent.  I think we were there to make up the numbers.  I made up lots of numbers but few if any fooled Col.

Col looked at our combined genius work one day, sucked air through his stubby little teeth and proclaimed Stephens and Jones to be “barnacles on the ship of progress”.

Despite my earnest desire for the floor to swallow me up, we remained Col’s playthings and the rocket surgeons’ major source of amusement – until the bitter end.

Despite Col, Stephens became an RAAF pilot and I became an Agricultural Scientist but we have never forgotten how maths incompetence can be an acquired and heavy burden.

And a source of great anxiety.  Roll the words “integral calculus, Bayesian probability and imaginary numbers” around in your mouth and see how terrified you become too.

But don’t worry.  In the uncertain territory of maths education, there now comes a shining white knight.  I know because these days I toil in their magnificent engine room.

They are the Smith Family – and more precisely the good folks working in the “Let’s Count Program.”

Let’s Count has a wonderful single purpose – investing in early childhood maths education – by assisting early childhood educators to teach maths to disadvantaged 3 to 5 year olds.

I bet you didn’t know that a significant number of disadvantaged kids arrive at infants school unable to count or to recognise shapes.  And some just never catch up.

Some kids rely on schools for their daily meal.  And apart from supporting maths teaching, the Smith Family assists 65,000 kids and young adults around our sunburnt country by providing books, uniforms, school fees, equipment and mentoring.

We all know that It’s hard to be confident with maths when you don’t have the foundations.

So how good are these people  – building maths knowledge, competence and confidence at just the right time !  Laying down the foundations.  Not at all like Col.

If you’re out there Col Davis, or Son of Col, or even Grandson of Col – I am delighted to be working for the Let’s Count team and to be busting through your mathematical legacy.

The Smith Family are doing such great work – helping to break the poverty cycle for families by supporting kids to make it through school and to build a future.

Give them your support and help put a Pi in Col Davis’ eye.

Cheers,

Hmm

 

Honkers

27 Tuesday Jun 2017

Posted by in Emmjay

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74e0d36a7018dad4ed38765c55855ddd--macau-hongkong

 

Story by Emmjay

There was a time, a time it was, and what a time it was.  It was.  Sorry, I’m channelling Simon and Garf.

No there WAS a time – when honkers was slang for geese….. as in “Did you catch that woman’s honkers ?”

Later “Honkers” referred to a place.  You could encounter it in conversation with a well-travelled mate. “ Did you stop off in Honkers ?”  “Nup ,we stopped in Singers”

But the term has acquired a new cache unknown in my learning-to-drive days (think very early 1970s).  I remember when Dad sat (courageously it turns out) next to me while I learned the arcane art of getting a VW Beetle to go in a straight-ish line, steer around curves and (heaven forefend) actually stop.

It was a 1963 Deluxe model.  That meant the inside of the doors were lined (as opposed to pained metal) and there was a radio and some kind of stuff resembling carpet on the floor.  But it was only a 6 volt system which meant that high beam was barely strong enough to tear the skin off a custard.  I suspect that it might have had some kind of automotive cataracts.

And it was a kind of shared system.  One had a choice while the engine was running at road speed of whether one went for the wiper, radio or the blinkers.  A wet night was a bloody terror experience, believe me.  And those cross-ply skinny tyres tracked in every groove.  Wet concrete roads were a complete nightmare.  It was as if the car knew a shortcut but wasn’t prepared to share the secret with a neophyte driver.

I remember once when some count* cut me off while I was on L plates, I rashly decided to go for the horn.  “Eep” it went and then gave up.  Dad looked at me as if I’d just peed on his sacred lawn.  “Wot?” I inquired.  “Did the horn help you to stop faster ?” said Dad.  I could see where this was going and there was not a lot of mileage in responding either way.  So Dad helped me out by answering his own question.  “If you have time to honk, you don’t need to.  And if you don’t have time, honking isn’t going to reduce the panel-beating bill.  Only arseholes honk.  Well, arseholes and dickheads and inconsiderate bastards who for some unfathomable reason always honk when they drive off after midnight after visiting someone – I suppose so the neighbours know how massively popular their friends are.”

I got it and I have more or less never honked since 1972.

But, dear reader, I now live in the fair city of Sydney.  The city most likely to choke to death on traffic and outdo Las Angeles in road rage fatalities.  And honking here has become a New York way of life.  People honk all the bloody time.  “Are they honking me ?  What the fork have I done ?  Do I need to get the baseball bat out and exterminate a few head and tail lights ?   Wot, wot, wot ?

I take a lot of public transport.  Some of it in vehicles.  Few vehicles get you across town faster than walking these days – which is why it’s such a good idea to build lots more roads so that more folks can start jamming – but not in the Bob Marley sense.  Even bloody bus drivers honk.  But their horns are a lot more impressive than a 1963 VW Beetle Deluxe.  A Mercedes Benz bus horn can actually kill small animals in the next suburb.  An inept driver cutting in front of a bus does not require the bus to actually contact their car to sustain a few grand worth of damage.  A decent blast will bend panels and strip the paint back to bare metal.

And a hearty bus honk not only scares the rest of the traffic shitless, it shows which passengers were probably in god’s waiting room and would have shuffled off at any moment anyway.  I think this explains why buses smell the way they do.

No, it’s alright.  I was getting off here anyway.

No conductors were harmed in the making of this story – because there ARE no fucking conductors.

*  remove the vowel of your choice.

The Global Meanness of Libnats

06 Monday Feb 2017

Posted by in Emmjay, Politics in the Pig's Arms

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hands

Story by Emmjay

So, Tasmania always looks like a great place to move to when the mercury hits the thirties and above on the big island.  That is, unless you need a job.

And you wouldn’t want to get sick in Tasmania either.

The Hodgman government is allegedly looking for ways to address overweening demand for emergency services at the Royal Hobart Hospital.  (Where have we heard that tune before ?  Answer:  every state and territory in the federation.)

But for my money the lowest mean act is that to save money they are defunding Palliative Care Tasmania.  According to the ABC, Palliative Care Tasmania is the organisation that trains palliative care workers and offers support to terminally ill people and their families.  This is without a doubt an outrageous thing to do.

Patients with terminal illnesses and their families in my opinion are the people smack dab between the rock and the hardest place one faces in life.  Anyone who has sat with a loved one in God’s waiting room and shared the pain and suffering so many folk experience at the end of their life will know just how critically important is quality palliative care. And the carers in my experience do the most difficult, incredibly important and demanding jobs – for the lowest pay.  SO this is a double if not a triple whammy.

But it’s lucky that the Taswegians have a sympathetic ear in Canberra.  Regardless of who’s the Minister for Health and ageing this week.  Gadzooks – NOT GREG Hunt !  They’re really up shit creek now.

According to the ABC, Palliative Care Tasmania has worked with 250 organisations across the state, has been going for 20 years and was granted $2.6M in 2012 to ramp up its programs.  The fact that the organisation is facing closure now because government funding has dried up, gives the lie to the allegation that state and federal politicians and bureaucrats have any concept that government is for the long haul.  And it’s certainly not rocket surgery to understand that with an ageing population the demand for end-of-life care is rising.

It beggars belief that the Minister Darren Mathewson recognised that this would be a significant loss.  That was it.  Well done Darren.  Thanks for coming.

Effing outrageous.

On a lighter note, the Turnbull government has managed the unthinkable – lower approval ratings than even the Abbott government.  Couldn’t possibly be because they haven’t actually done ANYTHING since they fluked re-election.  Could it ?  Well, I suppose standing down Susan Ley was a major achievement.  And replacing her with Greg Hunt.  Masterful leadership, Mal.  Fucking masterful.  And what a great job you’re doing looking after the refugees.

This is not a government.  Cat spew would be better at running the country than these guys.

So, if Tasmania is out, and the American rich have not purchased all of New Zealand, maybe it’s time to cash in some of the goodwill Australia has gained by accepting, no questions asked, kiwi economic refugees in the past.