Tag Archives: Father O’Way

The Tail of God 3

05 Friday Sep 2014

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Pic by Warrigal

Pic by Warrigal

Just a recap, my name is Gordon O’Donnell. I am scientist from another dimension and me and a couple of class mates accidentally created the universe. Our teachers have sent us here to study for our degrees and I am heading for the planet Earth in the galaxy know as the Milky Way. My task so far is to create a monetary system, teach everyone in the galaxy to speak English but more importantly teach them cricket.

“C’mon Gordon” says Viv. Viv is my SNAP (Space Normalisation Adaptation Process) Coordinator, oh, in case you forgot, space an acronyms go hand in hand. Damn. “We are heading up to the bio so I can show you where you will be living till Earth is ready for you” Viv informs.

“What’s a bio Viv?” I ask as I glance around my beautiful cabin, a book list to die for, my own cook and a bar that never runs out.

“With long distance space travel you need to live in a biosphere otherwise you will go mad or in your case, madder” laughs Viv.

“Do you think I’m mad Viv?” I question.

“No, not so far anyway Gordon but you will eventually live in Inner Cyberia at the Rectory of the Church of St. Generic Brand with Bishop Bishop, Father O’Way and Belinda the housekeeper. Most of the time this lot are found drinking at the Window Dressers Arms Pig and Whistle affectionately know as The Pigs Arms. A stoic bunch of drinkers are always there and they are going to test you out. You need to know how to respond to fit in.” says Viv.

I find I cannot speak. Never in my wildest dreams could I have ever imagined such a scenario. We jump in an elevator and after a few minutes the lift door opens and we are in the main street of some sort of village. A mixture of housing surrounds and I can see a hotel, café and a few shops. People are moving around the streets.

“C’mon Gordon, I show you your house” instructs Viv and we walk a very short distance to a beautiful bungalow style house that over looks the beach.

“Wow this is fantastic” I mutter out loud, more really thinking about my surroundings than making any intelligent comment.

“Fair dinkum Gordon, anyone that doesn’t like this is a few kangaroos short in the top paddock” says Viv. Viv reads my face in an instance. “Fair dinkum means is that right and a few kangaroos short in the top paddock means that if you didn’t like this then you must be a mad” Viv informs with that irrepressible smile.

“This bio is the beach side village with fishing harbour, point break for surf and foothills at the rear and cricket oval in the centre of town. There are about 50 droids here who will create the atmosphere so it seems as if you are having a normal existence plus a four team cricket comp. The central computer has set the weather to replicate your birth planet and is fairly similar to Earth, you know day night, summer winter.” Viv states as this is all fairly ordinary.

Me, I’m overwhelmed. This amazing house with wrap round verandas that take in all possible views. A village, here in space, fair dinkum, hey its working, maybe I can settle into Earth after all.

“Come on Gordon, lets hit the pub for a couple of frothy’s, beers, before tea, dinner” says Viv, teaching as she goes along.

We enter the pub. A magnificent low lying building with a grand bar and a dining room to one side. Several droids are sitting at tables talking about the weather and some at the bar like they are propping the place up and watching sport on the screen.

We perch on a couple of stools at the bar and are approached by the barman. “Gerard, this is Gordon” says Viv. We shake hands, a custom I’m not quite used to yet.

“What will it be Gordy, we have Trotters Ale or Trotters Ale” informs Gerard.

“Make that two” says Viv. I’ve been drinking this Trotters Ale since coming on board and I must admit I really like it now although it did take some time. “So for tea Gordon it’s Bat Shit on toast or Kanck’s gizzard sandwiches?” smiles Viv.

My jaw drops and the bar erupts in laughter, hmm, Inner Cyberians, a tricky lot.

We enjoy a few more ales and I’m feeling quite relaxed but there is something that has been puzzling me. “ Viv” I explore, treading carefully, afraid to be thought of as mad “ Look in the last episode someone spoke to me about getting on with it, I thing the name was Hung”

“ Oh, Hung” reveals Viv, full of knowledge “ Hung’s the author of this story. Look see that screen over there, and how you can see a faint image of a person typing at the keyboard, well that’s Hung”

“ Author, story, you mean I’m not real but simply a fictitious character.” I blurt confused as to what’s going on.

“ Of course you are real Gordon. Everyone that reads this story knows you created the universe and this website has over 450,000 hits so mate you are very real” asserts Viv.

“ But he spoke to me” again my anxiety rising.

“ And yeah, you can speak to him any time but it must be inside closed brackets like this []. If you don’t like something or have a suggestion on the story just type you request inside closed brackets and Hung will talk to you” says Viv. “ Here I’ll show you”

[Hey Hung, great gag about the bat shit on toast]
[Thanks Viv. Gordon may need some sedation later till he understands]
[Yeah, he’s a bit wet behind the ears but I think we can work with him, I mean he likes beer for starters]
[Hung, Gordon here, am I real?]
[As real as anything else in this universe. Don’t worry, any concerns just talk to me. My closed brackets are always open to you.]

First published: http://hungsworld.wordpress.com/2014/09/05/the-tail-of-god-3/

Power to the People

07 Monday Jul 2014

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rooftop-solar-array-537x359

Story by Emmjay

“Fucking bastards !” said Merv, peering at his electricity bill.

“My son !” said Father O’Way.

“No, MY effing sun, Father” said Merv.

“Pardon ?” said FOW.

“It’s the pub electricity bill, Father” said Merv, handing over the offending epistle.

“Mother of all power bills !” said the good father.

“Telling me”, said Merv.

“Look at this, Father” said Merv, pointing to two little pieces of malfeasance on the part of Orgasm Energy.

“First”, continued Merv, “The bastards jack up the hourly rates EXCEPT for the middle of the night when everyone’s asleep cuddling up to the missus and generating their own electricity”

“Well, for SOME”, said FOW.

“Sorry, Father, I forgot” said Merv. “And check this out… you know how we put in solar power on the roof of the new ballroom and bowling alley….. well the mongrel bastards cut the rate they pay us for generating more power than we need in the peak period”.

“Seems unfair” said the good father.

“UNFAIR !” Merv was wound up and under full power himself now. “Check this out, Father. “Peak rate they charge me when Granny fires up the wedge frier – is 45 cents per kilowhatsit. The only rate they pay me is 4.7 cents per kilowhatsit – and the bastards reduced that from a whopping 5.1 cents, said Merv.

“Fuck them. Pardon me, Father”, said Merv.

Father O’Way took out his rosemary beads, looked into the middle distance and had a silent word with his boss. More accurately, his boss’ boss.

“Father ?” said Merv, pouring the shepherd of St Generic Brands another Trotter’s Ale.

There was a huge distant rumble. The lights flickered and the pub emergency generator sprung into life, keeping the vital supplies of Trotter’s Ale in an appropriately chilly state.

“Phew,” said Father O’Way. “For a minute there I didn’t think you had a prayer”.

The Tail of God – Part 1

30 Monday Jun 2014

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my kinda santa

My kinda Santa

Hum diddy hum, diddy hum hum hum. Hmm, I hate waiting don’t you. Now I have been called to a special meeting and I just can’t wait, yee esse. Aren’t you excited? I am. Hmm, sorry, I haven’t introduced myself, I’m Gordon O’Donnell and I am the second youngest student ever accepted into Astrophysics at the spring chicken age of 512. Yes that’s right only five hundred and twelve years old and I’m going to become an astrophysicist, amazing.

Anyway I’m waiting for the lift to take me to the office of Professor T.D. Schnitzel who along with his partners Professor C. Chips and Professor G. Salad want to interview me after a couple of fellow students, Gees Ass and Holly Ghost and I created a new universe in a shoe box. The box resides in a cupboard at the back of lab, Astrophysics 101. The Professors want to talk to me about this universe and how to study it.

“Welcome Gordon” says T.D. “I’m Ten Dollar Schnitzel and my compatriots are Chunky Chips and Garden Salad”.

Wow, fancy being on first name basis with these legends. And what a combo they make, ten dollar schnitzel with chips and salad, every boys dream.

“So Gordon” T.D. leads off “A very interesting thing you have created with your fellow students and we have decided that we want the three of you to study your experiment for your astrophysics course. How do you feel about that?”

“Fantastic” I reply not knowing how to really feel until we get to the crux of the matter.

“Well, we have invented a machine so you can explore this new universe at your will. It’s called a Schnitzeliser. You go in one end as a Meupian and you come out the other end as a being that is proportionally acceptable to your project at the other” smiles T.D.

Oh, sorry. For those of you that don’t know, I’m from a planet called Meup. It revolves around a Sun we call Star T. Meupians live forever except for accidents. When an accident happens Meupins can then reproduce a new being. That way our planet is never over populated and degraded unlike some planets.

“So T.D.” I lead off “Let me get this straight. I start at this end as a normal Meupian male and end up in the shoe box the size of a sub atomic particle inside a space ship that will take me through this dangerous and unexplored universe where any thing could go wrong at any time”

“Yes” replies T.D. is his own unique way reflecting that I’m the one in danger while he gets the bus home at five each night, hmm.

santa“And if I don’t I will never pass astrophysics and live a miserable lonely life until one day I meet with an accident and die”

“Yes” replies T.D.

“Okay, where do I sign” I groan.

Wow, I’ve just been schnitzelised and here am I in a brand new space ship. You can tell it is brand new it has that smell. Yes, two arms, two legs, hmm, yes two something else. It’s funny when you have been schnitzelised, you feel as though someone has just punched all these little holes in you and you feel very tender, hmm.

Anyway I’m in some sort of bedroom, very swish and grandiose. It has a bathroom, shower and utilities area, very nice. One wall of the room is a book case absolutely full of all kinds of books, hmm, this could be one heck of a journey, only problem is I don’t know where I am going.

There is a knock at the door. I open it to find a droid standing in the passageway. Oh, let me explain a couple of things you will need to know about space travel. Droids or should I say, androids are sophisticated robots that can travel anywhere any time, need no food or oxygen and recharge themselves usually overnight or as necessary. They, for all intent and purposes, are your crew and it doesn’t take long before you forget they are machines and you very quickly see them as your travelling companions. The other thing about space travel is virtually everything that has a name is an acronym. You need to be alert as this will always hit you when you least expect it.

“Hello” I say to the droid “My names Gordon O’Donnell, please call me Gordy or Gord” I tick off trying to get on the front foot.

“Yes hello Gordon, T.D. has told me all about you” replies the droid. Now this droid is a rather large person with a big white beard and long white hair. He is wearing a red jacket with white cuffs and a white strip around the bottom of the jacket. His pants are red with white cuffs at the bottom. He has on large black boots, a black belt with a huge buckle and a red hat with a white pom pom. “My name is SANTA” says the droid “ I’m your navcom.”

“Please to meet you Santa” I hesitate.

“Yes Gordon, I’m an acronym. SANTA stands for Sub Atomic Neuroleptic Transparent Android but hey just call me Nick” he offers.

“Come down to the control room and I’ll show you around then I will introduce you to Viv” informs Nick.

We enter the control room and wow, this ship is state of the art. I peer out through the window where I can see out over the nose of the ship. There is a distinct red glow coming from the tip of the nose.

“What is that red glow Nick?” I ask in bewilderment.

“As we are travelling so fast Gordy the very tip of the nose of the ship excites any gas in space and that generates heat” explains Nick.

“And who built this ship Nick, it is of high quality?” I ponder.

“The Reindeer Company on Meup” replies Nick.

“And does the ship have a name?” I enquire.

“Yes. It does have a model number but basically it’s name is Rudolph”

Well you go figure. Here I am flying through space with Santa and Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer, unbelievable but true, well sort of.santa1

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

First published: http://hungsworld.wordpress.com/2014/06/30/the-tail-of-god-part-1/

Enlightenment Becomes Father O’Way

20 Friday Jun 2014

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Story by Emmjay

A dejected Father O’Way pulled up a stool and waited for Merv to pour him a ‘Szarz n soda’.  Merv was experimenting and climbing on the wave of overpriced cocktails.  He had decided that his signature cocktail was going to be a whimsical butcher-inspired number with three parts Johnny Whacker Red, one part soda and one part crispy bacon rind crackling bits.

Father O’Way looked dubiously at the concoctiontail and sipped as he would if it was a Dubonnet and lemonade.

I despair he said to Merv, dispensing with the quotation marks.

Oh, why is that Father ?  Did the Bish actually put the skids under St Generic Brands ? said Merv, for whom the lack of quotation marks was proving difficult since he wasn’t clear about where he was supposed to come in or whether he was supposed to say “he said”.  He decided to wait until Emmjay came to his sentences and began to put the punctuation marks back in.

“Ok” said Emmjay from the margin.  “Icon take a hint”.

No, said Father O’Way.

“Emmjay, Father O’Way isn’t using punctuation marks again”, said Merv.

“All right.  All right”, said the good father in an exasperated tone. “I’m exasperated by the utter shwistle young people are reading these days.  You remember when Pix magazine used to publish outrageously lurid, but funny articles like “Two-headed pensioner refused second pension – Outrage” ?  he said.

“Yeah, that one really cut me up father.  I mean that sounds pretty unfair on a pensioner.  He did actually have two heads.  I saw the picture” Merv said.

“It was a bodgied-up picture, Merv.  There was no damned two-headed pensioner”, said the good father, self-censoring himself. “Oh yeah,” Merv said, perjuring himself in God’s eyes.

“Well,” continued Father O’Way, look at this tripe” he said, thrusting the latest copy of “Men’s Health” in the general direction of Merv.

Editor’s note:  Astute readers with hi-res screens may be able to detect that it was not actually the latest edition of Men’s Health, but it was the latest one in Amal Gam (the Erko dentist’s) waiting room.  Amal (he called himself Dr Amal, but everyone knows he’s just a dentist) noticed the good father reading the august tome and reluctantly parted with it.  He was reluctant because he thought Mitchell Johnson’s wall-to-wall smile was good advertising.  Not that Mitchell was an habitué of Amal’s ‘You killem and I drillem’ salon de dentine, mind you.

“This is fraud, Merv” said the good father.  “Look at this”, he said pointing to his own well-upholstered midriff.  “Build a warrior body in four weeks! I’ve been building a warrior priest body for forty years and it’s still a work in progress.  And look at this…” he said “Eat pizza, lose weight”.

“What kind of mugs do you think these bozos take us for ?” said Merv, pretending that he had grasped what Father O’Way was on about.  In truth, Merv was considering another eye-catching piece titled “8 sex moves to blow her mind” and he was about to borrow the mag for a closer critical review, but Father O’Way was on a roll and had moved on to “Burn off the Belly”, Psych Out Your Enemies”, “Schmooze the In-laws” and the debatably useless exhortation to “Ride a Stampede Bull”.

“Stampede !” said Father O’Way.

“Surely they meant ‘stampeding'” said Voice, satisfied that she had trumped Emmjay by engineering a single quotation mark inside a double quotation mark.

“And that Mitchell Johnson quote !” said Father O’Way … “You can never think that you’ve made it”.

“Like not even if you’re the spearhead fast bowler who single-handedly demolished England five blot ?” inquired Hung.

“Ah, it’s a total wank,” said the good father, who was picking up Hung’s argot at an alarming rate… without really having a vast understanding of what it meant except that Hung usually said it when he wanted to express a lack of appreciation for something.

“It says ‘the magazine men live by”, said Father O’Way. “Does that explain the depressing state of play ?”

“No, we thrashed the Poms”, said Merv.  “That bit at least is ridgy didge”.

“What about that other headline Merv ?” said Voice. “Never need glasses. “Pour me another plastic canoe of Trotter’s Ale”, she said.

“Very funny”, said Merv, discreetly feeling under his apron to see how his warrior body was coming along”.

“Geeze, a 58-inch  Plasma TV for envy reader !” hooted Hung, thumbing his way to page 82 – the first page some gullible punter in Amal Gam’s waiting room had torn out. “That’s a bit depressing”, he said, handing the mag over to Merv.

“I dunno” said Merv – whose mind had turned to planning an eight part romantic pantomime.

“I wonder what happened to that two-headed pensioner”, said Hung.

Father O’Way than Ever

05 Monday May 2014

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grouplove1

Story by Emmjay

A pair of dusty and calloused feet crunched their way across the gravel in the Pig’s Arms car park, separated from the sharp grit by a well-worn pair of Jesus sandals.

The good father looked downcast as he took his seat at the cathedral end of the bar.  Merv, in an unusual display of sensitivity, sensing (incorrectly) that the Easter overtime had taken its toll, wordlessly poured the good father a stiff glass canoe of single-pink pink drink.  He patiently waited until the good father chose to address his flock of one.

Father O’Way took a long draw on the dayglow draught, and spoke thusly:

“Looks like we’re up Styx Creek this time, my son” he said.

“How so, Father ?” said Merv.

“St. Generic Brand’s” said the good father. “We’ve had the tap on the shoulder from the Bish”.

“Bastard” said Merv.

“Not his fault” said the good father.  “It’s George”.

“The Cardie his-self ?” asked Merv.

“The very self same” said FOW.

“Bastard” said Merv.

“Totes” said FOW, picking up the argot of his other parishioner, Diss’n Terry.

“What’s the drum, Father ?” said Merv.

“The Bish said that George had a visit from the Church of the Latter Day Home Brand and they made him an offer he couldn’t refuse” said FOW.

‘Get out !” said Merv “George isn’t going to cop any standover crap from those low-price pushers”.

“No” said the good father, they told George that he wasn’t getting good parishioner value per metre of pew space and they offered to buy a chunk of St Generics and replace Generic worship with Home Brand”.

“But doesn’t that cheapen the message ?” asked Merv.

“Bish said it’s time we recognised that the demographic is changing.  You know, ‘Never mind the quality, feel the width’” he said.

“I dunno what that means, Father” said Merv.

“It doesn’t mean anything” said FOW.  “He’s just fertooling around”.

“I dunno what that means, either” said Merv.

“Look, put it down and get a proper grip on yourself” said FOW.

“How can I say this ?” said FOW. “And before you answer that, it was a rhetorical question”.

“A what question ?” asked Merv.

The good father’s eyes pointed skyward and he asked the ultimate power to give him strength.

“Look, let me sketch this out for you with a thicker crayon, Merv.  For a sum of money that stretches way beyond the weekly take at St Generics, George is going to import cheap and shallow parishioners in pastel crimplene and replace the Pig’s Psalms with cheesy guitar music and curdling lyrics sung by atonal creepy types with clear skin and faces as bland as the hand towels in the Mondrian Brothers (plumbers to the art classes) loos.  Do you follow me now ?”

“Like those people from the buywell belt ?” said Merv, finally getting the message.

“Exactly” said the good father.  “The ones that never take a medicinal pink drop and will never play the porkies at the Pig’s Arms.

“Cripes” said Merv.

“Precisely” said FOW.

“I can’t stand that cheesy music” said Merv.  “Nobody’s girl leaves him for another man, nobody gets shot and nobody’s good old dog dies.  There’s no passion – no real life journey experience in it.  They have no stories – just soppy warbling”.

“ I hate nylon strings on guitars” said Hung, from the Paddington end.  “Plunky, plunky plunk.  Less cut-through than a warm fart in a phone booth” he added.

“Is this thing a definite done deal, Father” inquired Merv.

“Yeah, well, in PRINCIPLE, it’s a done deal” said FOW.

“Might there be a cooling off period ?” said Merv. “Or a performance clause ?”

“Like… ?” said FOW.

“Like …. Say the Home Brand faithful failed to take root at St Generic Brand’s” said Merv.

“Say, if the Hell’s Angles turned up, sang right off key and asked tricky theotrigonometric questions during bible study” said Merv.

“Would there be middle aged men with long ponytails ?” asked FOW.

“I hate middle aged Christian bikies with long ponytails” said Hung.

“My son,” said FOW “They are all God’s children…. Whether they are complete dorks or not.  Remember, God created man in his own image”.

There was an uncomfortable silence in the bar for a few moments….

“What’s our counter lunch offer ?” Merv wondered.

“You mean, how do we get the Bish to get George to change his mind ?” said the good father.

“Yeah” said Merv.

“ I don’t think George really gives a continental about the brand quality” said FOW.  “It’s donations per pew metre.  It’s bums on seats” said the good father.

“Who’s up for a little bit of brand stacking ?” asked Merv.

The bar started to fill with the usual afternoon crowd and the general consensus was that siphoning off a bit more of the meat tray raffle money to support St Generic Brand’s was the least the patrons could do”.

“After all…” said Merv “with Eddie O’Bad’s people and Arturo Sinister Demons moving into the area, St Generic Brand’s will have a lot more sin to shift and we all know the wages of not shifting sin”.

 

 

 

Father O’Way Meets O’Bad – Part 2

02 Friday May 2014

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O'Way counsels the Sinister Demons to pray

O’Way counsels the Sinister Demons to pray

Story by Hung One On

Geeps with all the excitement going on someone asked where exactly is Missen?

Missen is a planet found in the galaxy that we call Andromeda. As part of my space adventure, I played in the one day cricket final on Flong at the Foval with Big M. This was important to Gordon as he needed to prove that there was a relationship between one day cricket scores and the average number of beans in a 440 gram can of Baked Beans in Tomato Sauce. Hey, you think space and the universe is complicated, well think again.

Big M has become part of my team on the Unnameable II space ship which is currently hiding on the dark side of the moon so not to upset NASA.

After getting the call from God, Big M went back to Missen to pick up Shoe so they could help me with my deep and revealing interview with Eddie O’Bad. However I have just learnt that Eddie has an old mate with him, Arthursin O’Dinos. Now I’m starting to worry, Gordon O’Donnell, Sandy O’Way, Barty O’Farty, Eddie O’Bad and Authursin O’Dinos, hmm. Any one else see a trend developing.?

I ring the Bish. “Hey Bish” I lead “A bit of a problem with names beginning with O”

“Don’t know what you mean Sandy anyway that call girl said she was 16” barks the Bish.

Hmm. Anyway we get to the gates of the O’Bad Ponderosa. A couple of guards approach the car.

“Hey, Sandy here, from the church of St Generic Brand, want to interview the Big O” I say but really not knowing what really to say.

“Well Father, you better turn around and keep going cause Eddie don’t wanna talk to you” says the guard, smiling and laughing to his offsider.

“Well heck guys, but I have the Duckhunt champion from Missen sitting right here that can take you apart within a few seconds” I reply not knowing really what I am saying. Hey, where’s the rum.

Just as that thought crossed my mind, Big M and Shoe were out of the car and after a few shots and screams had the guards under control.

“Big M, what are you doing?” I ask.

“Easy Sandy” he replies “This is a taping technique I learnt in NICU, tape their hands with the gun pointed to their abdomen, one false move, they pull the trigger, he he he he, etc” laughs Big M.

Gut wrenching laughter from Shoe “Me like” grins Shoe.

Geez, do you really know what you’ve been missing?

“Hey Sandy, how bout this” says Big M as the car accelerates and spins in a circle.

“Sandy, we is doing a donut” cries Big M

“Lets shoot some guards” says Shoe.

Bish, what have you done to me.

We travel into the O’Bad Ponderosa and arrive at the main door.

“Eddie, mate” I yell “Just wanna talk, okay”

Meanwhile Big M takes out seven guards and Shoe shoots out six windows on the second floor.

“Wadda ya want to talk about?” screams Eddie. Eddie’s eyes flash from side to side.

“Did ya do it?” I ask. May as well get to the point.

“Do what?” Eddie replies.

“It?” I reaffirm.

“Nah” says Edie

“What about you Artuursin?”

“I don’t remember”

“Did you go to McDonalds” I press.

“Yes” says Eddie, “I like a pickle with a meat patty”

This is unfortunately a true story, well sort of..

 

 

 

 

 

 

Father O’Way Meets O’Bad – Part 1

27 Sunday Apr 2014

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O'Way counsels the Sinister Demons to pray

O’Way counsels the Sinister Demons to pray

Story by Hung One On and Digital Mischief by Warrigal Mirriyuula.

Hi, Sandy here. What? You don’t know me, well if you haven’t been listening for the last five years my name is Father Alexander O’Way, affectionately know as Sandy and I am the parish priest of the church of St Generic Brand which just happens to be down the road and around the corner from the Pigs Arms. Hmm.

Well as anyone who knows me knows I hate early mornings and yet again that relic from the last century Bishop Bishop, who we all know as the Bish, rang me at one in the afternoon.  What a bogan.

“Listen Sandy” bleats the Bish “I’ve just had a phone call from God”

Now to all you newcomers, God is Gordon O’Donnell, an astrophysicist from another dimension that created our universe as a science experiment in a shoe box. This shoe box sits at the back of the lab in Astrophysics 101 and is used for the students to study astrophysics. Hmm, I can see this is not going well. Yes, there is no God, Yahweh or Mohammad, it’s all mythological rubbish. It is us and them out “there”.

“Gordon wants us to wade into the O’Bad dilemma, lets find out if he really did it” demands the Bish.

“But Bish” I foolishly reply back “Who gives a zark if O’Bad is dodgy or what. Take him out someone else will replace him. I mean corrupt power is absolute but absolutely power corrupts something” Gees I wish I could remember that statement but it sounded good.

Okay. I can see some of you are stumbling with the word “zark”. As kiddies may be watching zark is a universal swear word. Just substitute “zar” for “fuc” and you will get the picture.

“Just do it Sandy or Gordon will cancel your credit card” barks the Bish.

Holy mackerel. No credit card. See when Gordon invented the universe he also invented money. So all of the money in our universe belongs to Gordon. Anywhere I travel in the universe is paid for by Gordon’s card, hmm, need to do something here.

“I have arranged a car to pick you up in the morning at 1000hrs so be ready. It’s a good two hour drive out to the O’Bad Ponderosa” What the zark, 10 in the morning, does this man hold no morals.

So ten the next morning a car pulls up out the front of the Rectory. Being so asleep, I didn’t really take any notice of the people in the front and I slumped into the back hoping I could get some shuteye. Somehow I couldn’t sleep, I kept thinking about the time when I first met Gordon, the delicious dinner made and served by the delicious Belinda who is now my wife. I remember thinking at the time,

“Acronyms, God how I hate acronyms. Usually stupid and generally meaningless along with mnemonics they stick in your head to remind you just how stupid you really are. Remember as kids in the parish school the all time classic, ARITHMETIC,   A Red Indian Thought He Might Eat Tobacco In Church. What twaddle. racist diatribe if ever there was one. I mean the only red Indians I knew were constantly having the shit shot out of them in country and western movies. Eat in church was a given no no and who in their right mind would want to eat tobacco for God sake. My dad used to smoke Cabin Cut, Ready Rolled, can I imagine dad hoeing into his tobacco after tea in the lounge, no way.”

Oh, yes those were the days. But then the POTTY Awards, oh yes, I remember well.

“ Anyway the one acronym that makes me tingle with pleasure is POTTY. The Potty Awards, the Priest Of The Tropical Year Awards and yes, I’m in the pipeline to win this year. See I’ve been invited to the Rectory to have dinner with the Bish and an important guest this Wednesday. Not next Wednesday or last Wednesday but the Wednesday before the Saturday night of the awards. Obviously the Bish wants to disclose that I’m this year’s winner so I have my acceptance speech ready to rock. Oh yes, all 32 pages, ready to roll thanks to the kind Voice who helped me pen an appropriate dialogue.”

Then heart break.

“Dinner finishes and the Bish goes off into another room to smoke that stinky stuff and Gordon ushers me into the study for a French Brandy that’s about 200 years old he just happened to find in his cellar and a cigar. How civilised. “Now Sandy, I’m sure you have some questions for me but first how do you feel about space travel?” Gordon asks. “Space travel? What about the Potty Awards?” I inquire lubricated by the fine wine. Gordon smiles “Don’t worry about them, that prick Basil Sauce will win this year. There are bigger plans afoot for you….”

Yes, Pastor Basil Sauce, that prick from one of the many mobs in town robbing my customers.

********************************************************

“ Driver, how long to go?” I enquire rather innocently wondering if anyone had a rum toddy to tide me over.

“ Not long now Father Sandy” said the driver.

Hang on, I know that voice. “ Big M” I cry, “ What in Gordon’s name are you doing here?”

“ I’m on a mission from God” replies Big M

“ Cut the God crap mate, we know the universe has been created from another time dimension” I reply with added futilityness.

“ From Gordon, you dope. Now meet Shoe.” Big M nods to the co-driver. “ She’s the Duckhunt champion from Missen and she’s riding shotgun”

“ Nice to meet you Sandy, heard a lot about you. And hey Big M was the slot car champion* of his street back on our planet”,  grins Shoe.

So I am going to face a big time crim with a driver that had a slot car set and a shotgun expert that knows Duckhunt, boy am I in trouble.

plot thickens …… (possibly due to the corn starch)

* Editors note – if I read between the lines correctly, there is some serious confluence between being a slot champion and obstetrics – just saying ‘  – that was when I started laughing and the rest got a bit off the track…….

Your Habit is Our Clean-up

05 Tuesday Mar 2013

Posted by in Emmjay

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Kali 3

Kali – ironically named after the Indian goddess of destruction

Story by Emmjay

The 3:15 to Ashfield was, unusually, right on time and a familiar face ambled into Lintoffs – dry cleaners to the clergy.  The face, born on two spindly pins, looked expectantly at Granny who was moonlighting in her lunch break, serving behind the faded laminex counter at the dry cleaners.

“G’day, your grandmaternity”, he said.

“Father O’Way !

What brings you and your bolognese-stained cassock to our doorstep, meddlesome priest?” said Granny.

“I’ve got this dirty habit”, said Sandy O’Way.

“It’s all through your church, padre”, said Granny.

“Not the kiddie fiddling, Gran, THIS habit he said pointing to his investments.

“Would you like fries with that, friar?” she laughed and made a mental note to have the Tempe Council health inspector around to St Generic Brand’s church with the Lysol and carbolic spray.

“I’ve an important trip to make and I need to look sharp”, said Sandy.

“We’re dry cleaners, your wordship”, said Granny “Not miracle workers – that’s your job”.

Sandy O’Way was long on forgiveness and longer on patience.  The Bish had said so many times.  And he was a long long way from Rome, which is why the Bish had called him.

“Father, they know not what they are doing” said the Bish.

“That’s oblivious, your more impressive ringness” said Sandy.  “It’s <i>obvious</i>” said the Bish. “Yes”, said Sandy.

“I’ll get right to the point”, said the Bish. “All right” said Sandy who was on a roll with this ekkerleasiastical conversation type talk”.

“Rome has asked me to instruct you to proceed there forthwith and with all haste.  Since His Holiness has decided to take early retirement and go away and think it over for a very long time, the Vats have sought the wisdom of one of the shepherds of the flock of Rome far removed, from this sordid business of improper behaviour while under the influence of other improper behaviour” said the Bish.  “Are you with me Sandy ?”  “Yes, your middle order clericalness”, Sandy lied.

“In a couple of weeks the Cardinals, including P1..”  “Mr Stinkypants ?” interrupted Sandy. “Yes, including P1” continued the Bish… “are going to meet in the Vatican, scrum it up, snort a few lines and seek divine confirmation of a foregone conclusion designed to kiss off the captains of the only semi-true flocks of Asia, Africa and South America.  And they’re looking for a scapegoat, sorry I meant to say inspired contribution from the whiter members of the New World, more specifically a malleable type of distractible like you, or more specifically than that, precisely you.  Are you with me Father ?”

“Are you saying that I’m going to be Pope Ular the First?” asked Sandy.

“No”, said the Bish “You’re going to reveal to the Vats who should be going to win the draw for the Friday Conclavical Meat Tray.  You know how it’s always rigged at the Pig’s Arms ?”, said the Bish.  “Yeah, sometime’s it’s not Emmjay’s brother-in-law”, said Sandy.  “Well, I’m not saying that you’ll be the rigger for the Pope Draw, Sandy, but ….let’s say ….. good sources close to the trainer are putting money on you to come up with the right answer”.

“I see”, lied Sandy again, totting up a few dozen more Hail Maries.  “If I was going to mark the card”, said Sandy….”Yes”, said the Bish …. “Would I be getting any heavenly guidance ?” inquired Sandy”

“I should say so !” said the Bish in a fairly emphatic kind of way that did not go unnoticed (but did go uncomprehended).

“It is written”, said the Bish “In this Email…… that the annointmented Holy Father will be  pure of heart, loyal, faithful, cheerful, open, caring, tolerant, wise, humble, intelligent, of good humour and above all untainted by the sins of the flesh.  There’s something crossed out here, Father.  I think it said ‘safe with kiddies – stet’.  Mature, but not of an age where vigorous activity is out of the question, above reproach, able to understand basic English and able to drive a bullet-proof golf cart.  Hours flexible, but will have to work weekends.  Previous spiritual experience a definite advantage.  References required.”

“I bought you a premium economy ticket from Rosie’s Crucial Fiction Travel and Penta Coastal Surfing Adventure Tours and it’s waiting for you at the Pig’s Arms.  Get yourself cleaned up and be on QF-666 leaving at 10:45 tonight for Rome.”

“Roger, Bish”, said Sandy.  “And Sandy…”Yes Bish ?”  “Try not to stuff it up like last time.  No former Hitler Youth, no paedo-buriers, no ultra-conservatives, no gay supporters, no wealth redistributors, none of this ‘man-of-the-people” stuff, no radical lefties, no pro-shiela buffoons, none of those contraceptives or HIV talkers, no hardline economists, no climate denialists.  We want a Pope that looks busy, is admired by everyone, has no copies of ‘Studs and Glory-holes Monthly’ in his locker, who can fake a bit of nomineae partridge and who excels at being loved while not doing much.  He could look like he’s got a few miles on the clock, but not be one of those bloodless, pasty old Euros who looks asleep at the wheel.  Clear on all that ?” said the Bish.

“Crystal decanter”, said Sandy.

“So who’ve you got in mind ?” asked Granny.  “I’ve got a call to make first”, said Sandy.  “Can you free me of my dirty habit in an hour ?” said Sandy.  “Certainly” said Granny, unfussed by the image of Sandy standing before her in his sub-cassock Leichhardt Wanderers’ strip, replete with his Pig-tel dayglow crucifix, knobby spindly legs and hoop socks of different hues.  “Have a couple of quiet Trotter’s Ales and come back in an hour” said Granny.  “I’ll walk you to the pub, I’m coming off my break now”.

Granny and Sandy O’Way ambled across the Pig’s Arms car park, and stepping over Merv’s trusty old, and frighteningly deaf  Shar Pei, patting her velvet soft head.  She smiled in an amiably innocent and accepting way.  And wagged her tail.  They assumed the position at the bar and awaited their just rewards.  Then Granny remembered that she was doing her cook impression and not her patron cameo role and quietly headed for the kitchen and the mountain of soon-to-be-wedges potatoes.

“Father”, nodded Merv, serving up a glass canoe of the pub’s finest foamy amber delight.  “Ah, Moive, my sooon” said Sandy, already practicing his brogue for his Roman escapade.  “I’ll be being off to Rome this very evenin”, he attempted.

“What would that be bein’ for, Father” replied Merv, sucked into a sudden Jamison’s moment.

“I’m off to ‘shape’ the Paypal Conclave’s deliberations, moi sooon”, he smiled, leprechaun-like.

“Do you be havin’ any especial preferences, Father ?” asked Moive.  “Aye moit”, said Sandy.  “I’ll be makin’ a quick call, if you dornt be mindin'”, said Sandy, extending his arm and hand towards Moiv’s phone.

“Hello, is dat de Bishop?” said Sandy.  “Knock it off, Sandy”, said the Bish.  “Listen”, said Sandy ” I was thinking about what you said earlier”.  “Yes”.  “About honest, loyal, friendly, lovable, safe with kiddies and that…”  “Yes”.   “And not a pasty Euro”.  “Yes”.  “Well, would it be out of the question, if the nominee was a little bit tinted, maybe with a touch of the Asiatic, a little wrinkled, but wise looking as well as loyal, friendly and definitely safe with kiddies ?” said Sandy.

“Is this nominee ….. an Australian ?” asked the Bish.

“Born and bred”, said Sandy.  ‘And you’re absolutely sure about all their good qualities, Sandy ?”  “Cross my heart and spit my death, Bish” said Sandy.  “Then go ahead, the Vatican needs a Pope with those qualities, Sandy ….. and an Australian to boot.”

Father O’Way said his goodbye to the Bish, put down the phone and mumbled something about a photograph to Merv.  “Sure, Father” said Merv returning to his familiar accent, turning around and taking a Polaroid down from the corner of the bar mirror.  “Safe trip, Sandy”, said Merv.  “See you soon.  Thanks for the Trotter’s, Merv”.

The hour wasn’t quite up, but Paula Lintoff had already cleaned and pressed Father O’Way’s cassock and handed it to him over the counter.  He put the photo on the counter and slipped into his old habit.  “Nice photo, Father.  That’s Merv’s dog Kali, isn’t it ?”

“It is.  She’s a lovely old thing, restores one’s faith”, said Sandy.  “Desexed, too.”

 

 

Real Wallabies

02 Sunday Sep 2012

Posted by in Mark, The Sports Bar

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What we want …. Real Wallabies !

Story by Hung One On and Marsupial Mischief by Warrigal Mirriyuula

Hey, Father O’Way here, you know, good old Sandy. I mean is the Bish, you know Bishop Bishop, a wanker or what? I mean he wakes me up at three in the afternoon, what sort of wanker is that? So I have to interview the Wallabies, lets face it, some pre historic marsupials ain’t gonna have much to say.

“Sandy, get down to HQ and find out what’s going on with the Wallabies?” rants the Bish.

“Well I don’t know this Wal Abbies Bish?” I reply trying to buy some time. I would much rather just go back to sleep.

“The Rugby Union team you twit” says the Bish in a rather exasperated tone.

“Not another football team, I mean why do you never send me to interview those shelia’s that play in lingerie?” I request rather forlornly.

“Just get down there and find out what’s wrong. Oh and by the way, don’t tell anyone to fuck off!” roars the Bish.

Can’t tell anyone to fuck off. You know sometimes I wonder why I bother.

I enter rugby HQ and no one really is standing guard. No one lets me straight in as he is Hung’s cousin and he recognises me as the globe trotting priest that drinks at The Pigsarms. The sign over the door is interesting. It says, “Remember the two qualities needed for Rugby Union are brute strength and bloody ignorance”. I mean what does that tell you.

I go to the Head Coaches office, Bobbie Bean, and ask for an interview.

“Fuck off” yells Bobbie.

Hmm, how come it’s okay for him but not for me. Is this a classic case of discrimination or what.

“So is it okay to call you Bobbie” I ask.

“Well all my friends call me Bobbie but you can call me Mr. Bean”

Hey, that’s the problem, Mr Bean is in charge of the team.

“Hey Bobbie, everyone is saying your lot are a bunch of pansies, that you were all dizzy at half time and the trainer had to point to the try line?” I barb. No f off’s for me, grumble, grumble.

“Grrr” says Bobbie, if grrr is really a word.

I can see I got off on the wrong foot here so I decide to dazzle Bobbie with my rugby knowledge.

“So Bobbie, did Mark Ella have a good game?” I dazzle.

“Arragh” replies Bobbie.

“Isn’t the object of the game to get the ball over the try line?” I amaze.

“Well, that’s the first I’ve ever heard of that, how about you come on board as an assistant?” quips Bobbie.

Hmm, yes, the ignorance is showing.

“How are you going to go against the Springsooks, you know, the South Ifrician team?” I probe.

“Once we get all our stars back like Virgo, Aquarius and Capricorn we will kill em unless they play Tony Grieg and Kevin Petersen” states Bobbie rather assertively.

Well they are cricketers but never let the truth get in the road of a good story.

“So Bobbie, what do you need to win, how about some ring ins?” I state with not a lot of confidence.

Bobbie leaps over the desk and grabs me by the throat knocking me to the ground. Gee, I hope my packet of Winnies are okay, can’t afford anymore.

“No Father, what we need is some real wallabies, real wallabies” Bobbie cries.

So there you are folks. The problem is Mr Bean is in charge of the team, they don’t understand the objective of the game and they can’t find the try line.  Next.

Father O’Way and Sonja visit “The Hospital for Erectile Dysfunction”

03 Tuesday Jul 2012

Posted by in Mark, Warrigal Mirriyuula

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Another O’Way confusion…….I said “Olympics…. not limp dicks …..

Editor’s note:  Apparently the good father and Sonja, in the grip of confusion, went along to The Museum Of Erectile Dysfunction.  It’s a “private” museum if you get my drift.

Well blow me down if, after passing through the Gallery of Male Heart Throbs and seeing Zac Efron and Daniel Craig clutching at their privates, Sonja didn’t have half her kit off before she noticed the cameras there for the opening of the “Erect” exhibition in the Gallery of Phallic Symbolism.

Story by Hung One On and Digital Mischief by Warrigal Mirriyuula

The buxom voluptuous blonde sits on the side of my bed. She reaches around to undo her bra strap. Ring, ring, ring, ring. What the zark. It’s the phone ringing, just when I was getting to the good bit.

“Sandy, it’s the Bish here” says the voice.

“Gordon zarking O’Donnell Bish its only one thirty in the afternoon, I was having a sleep in” I reply rather pissed off.

“Look Sandy, you would sleep your life away if it wasn’t for me and the church of St Generic Brand” replies the Bish. Hmm, true, but what a great idea.

“Sandy, get down to the airport and hop a plane to London. I want you to see what is going on at the old limp dicks” barks the Bish.

“But Bish I know nothing about erectile dysfunction” I state not wanting to give away any trade secrets.

“The old limp dicks” says the Bish who as we know has a bit of a speech impediment when he has been smoking that stinking stuff from his pipe. “The sporting event you idiot, you know the one that comes around every four years and is full of drugs, money, women, parties, corruption and nationalism”. Hmm, sound like my kinda guys.

After many bribes and much negotiation I gain an interview with one of the most respected Australian TV journalists, with a great background in sport and really high credentials and credibility Sonia “Oh what a feeling” Kluger.  I now interview her in my usual format.

FOW: Why thanks Sonia good to see you here at another Olympics, I mean your last performance was simply beyond words.

SK: Thanks Sandy it’s a pleasure.

FOW: So Sonia, what’s your take on the current games?

SK: Well Sandy this is the first truly modern games where some of the events have been altered to match modern society.

FOW: Can you give me some examples?

SK: Yes Sandy. The marathon is no longer the marathon. It’s now called the Hit, run and run. Chris Jongewaard is our representative in this category as he has the form to perhaps win gold.

FOW: Any more?

SK: Yes Nick DÁrcy should win gold for Smashing Someone Jaw why they Aren’t Looking. We are entering Jarrod Bannister in the Drink Driving event  and Grant Hackett in the Get Pissed and Smash Your House Up event. All should win gold given their form.

FOW: So Sonia, do you have a sports background?

SK: Well Sandy my selection to commentate at Beijing was widely criticised however I have played some sport most of my life. When I was a young teenager my boyfriend and I would play Handball, however he always beat me and came first. As I got older my boyfriend and I moved on to a game called Givenhead. We would go parking and I would lower down to his groin  and he would  go, Hmm ,hmm, oh, yes, yes, oh, Oh my God, yes, baby, yes, oh my God etc., etc., but yes he would always come first. So I gave up sport after that and went to television where you know its just all pure bullshit, just like this interview.

I rest my case.