Tag Archives: humour

Julian Assnage Walks Free !

22 Thursday Nov 2012

Posted by in Emmjay

≈ 24 Comments

Tags

, , , , , ,

Simulated Picture of Julian Assnage

It’s been an open secret in the Pig’s Arms for months that Julian Assnage is no longer in the Bolivian Embassy in London.

He was spirited away – literally – in an empty Chilean wine barrel on the eve of Simon Bolivar Day (1st of April) by Father O’Way who had temporarily managed to get Scotland Yard’s finest off their guard by changing the sign out the front to the People’s Embassy of Bulgaria.  Bolivia, Bulgaria – it’s a perfectly understandable mistake – and a brilliant ruse – even if the good father said so himself – and he did.

By the time the police and paparazzi got back to the Bolivian Embassy, there was no Assnage, not that they are aware of that – even to this day.

Julian stopped off at the Pig’s Arms to pick up his things – a 12 pack of Thin Svens, a glass tumbler and a digital stethoscope, which Merv had thoughtfully stuffed under the bar so that Rosie could use his old room for overflow clients from her tattoo emporium and house of pain.  The autumn carnival rush had passed and the room was vacant when Julian ambled in through the side door of the pub, drew up a stool and ordered himself a famous pink drink, and a handful of acolytes.

Merv looked shocked.  “What the … ?” “Hi Merv”, said Julian.  “How did you walk free, Jules?

“I have a body double, and AISO hacked the real me out through the Interweb Tubes” said Julian.  “I’ve come to pick up certian classified objects”.

“You mean the Saturday Sydney Morning Herald ? No luck there, sport, Fairfux went belly up Ages ago”, said Merv.

“No.  I mean certain classified documents dealing with the skull duggery perpetrated on a hapless group of would-be immigrants by their own government” said Julian.

“I’m talking about ….. cough…… cough …. urk …… gaarg”

“Gaarg?” said Merv, suddenly noticing that Julian was turning a cerulean blue.

“Quick, Piglets !”

Merv caught Julian well before he hit the floor, but just after he bounced off the stainless steel edge of the bar.  It was an heroic leap. Sensing that Emmjay would debate whether it was “a” heroic leap, more than “an” heroic leap, Merv glowered at Emmjay and waited for Granny to administer the wedges of life.

It has been long known that Granny’s wedges were powerful magic and that many a Pig’s Arms patron had been brought back from the edge of the abyss (Emmjay was considering writing “the edge of the abbess”, but thought better of that).  Julian was coming around but looked phased and Merv commanded Manne to assist Julian into the Bill Clinton Memorial Bedroom on the first floor.

It was the presidential suite as Merv described it on the Pig’s Arms web site.  Apparently “presidential” meant that the resident head of state didn’t need to share the newly-renovated Mondrian Brothers (Tilers to the Abstract Classes) bathroom, with the other guests.  This would later prove a distinct advantage in Julian’s defence.

Merv rang Rosie and gave her the drum.  At least he tried to give her the drum, but Rosie was / is a woman of standards.  High personal standards and she insisted on paying her way, drumwise.

Knowing Julian’s penchant for a blonde, Rosie took Hanna and Frida with her to attend to Merv’s patient guest patient.

“Hello Julian, darling.  I arm Hanna and this arm Frida”, we are gveeks from Sveden who are admiring your wonderful hackles.  Vee have always admired your high moral standards and self-promotion and your deep mistress mistrust of secrety bad government military type bad guys, heh ?”

“Just let me slip into something a liddle more comfortable”, said Frida, who was clearly the more graphic hacker of the two.

“Don’t, under any circumcision give Julian your passwords”, said Rosie, closing the door as she departed the bedroom”

“I think I’d like to consult my lawyer” said Julian.

“Vee don’t need to keep anything in chambers, Mr Julian.  Vee have running water in the Presidential Suite”.

“A liddle potty humour, ha !” said Hanna, loosening Julian’s belt.

“Ah, look, that’s very kind” said Julian, “But I’ve had a bad experience with a couple of, um, arr, Swedish activists in the past”.

“Was they too rough, these hackers, Mr Julian ?  asked Frida who by this time had slipped into something rather more comfortable, and apparently slipped right on out of the other side.

“Well, no” said Julian, “They accused me of non-consensual sex”.

“What kind of hackers were they ?  Cannot be pros” said Hanna, removing Julian’s shoes.  She peeled off his socks, one at a time pretending to not notice his protestantations.

“No, I think they were CIA plants”, said Julian.

“You was having non-constitutional intercourse with plants?” said Frida who appeared not only surprised, but a little green with envy.  “My gourd!” she laughed. “No wonder it took you ages to get out of Bolivia”.

“Don’t worry, Mr Julian,” said Hanna. “We are more smooth than Agnetha and Annifrida.  We are the finest hackers that they stock at holm.  We are here to help teach you how to roll with the rollmops and to expose your more volvoable side”.  She slipped off his Reuben Effs.

“Gaarg” said Julian.

“Oh, my goodness !” squealed, Frida “What’s that I see in your shorts Mr Julian ?”

“Wicked leaks” said Julian.

Lucky Bastard

23 Thursday Feb 2012

Posted by in Neville Cole

≈ 17 Comments

Tags

,

Apache Greyhound Park

Story and Photographs by Neville Cole (aint it great to have him back ?)

Martin strode through the open door of the Apache Greyhound Park wearing his lucky African tee shirt (the one given to him by Freeman Mbowe, the Tanzanian Presidental hopeful who bore a striking resemblance to Eddie Murphy), his lucky vintage Hawaiian shirt decorated with 60s era Chryslers that he’d found in a Goodwill in Pacific Beach, his lucky charcoal checked shorts, and his lucky red Chuck Taylor’s. Underneath all this lucky apparel he was wearing his lucky Monster Garage boxers. In fact, the only things he had on that weren’t particularly lucky were his socks; but truth be told he didn’t yet own any lucky socks so for all intents and purposes everything about Martin that morning was lucky. He even stopped at a 7/11 – two of his lucky numbers, not coincidentally – to buy a pack of Lucky cigarettes; although 7/11 didn’t carry Lucky brand cigarettes anymore so he picked up Marlboro Lights instead.

Apache Greyhound Park was pretty busy for a Sunday morning. Even though only a handful of East Coast tracks had started racing most of the locals were already in position. The Mexicans, the Rednecks, the assorted Old Farts and the hard core Doggers were all buried in their racing forms. Martin wondered if the crowd was gathering early for the upcoming Super Bowl celebration or if the New Seasons Christian Fellowship – which meets in the back conference room of the Apache Greyhound Park – had suddenly doubled in faithful; but he didn’t have time to worry about all that, he was on a mission. Today Martin Meeks would finally break the $200 barrier. Martin hadn’t been a betting man for long but he was without a doubt pretty damn lucky. More often than not he almost broke even. One any given day he’d hit an exacta or two. He’d even managed a couple of trifectas and once a superfecta. The only problem was he’d never won more than $187 in any single bet. Today that would change. At least Martin was hoping it would change. He was supposed to host a Super Bowl party in four hours and he barely had enough money in the bank to buy beer.

Martin was worried about all that. He lived by his wits and relied almost completely the whims of fate to guide his path. Every decision Martin ever made was based on one part superstition and two parts intuition – shaken but not stirred. It was a life cocktail that rarely let him down for long. By now it shouldn’t be surprising to anyone that Martin shunned traditional gambling methods. He prided himself on having no idea how to read a racing form. In gambling as in life he preferred to ignore data. In fact, the act of compiling hard evidence in Martin’s world was akin to cheating.

The main reason Martin frequented the Apache Greyhound track was its lucky location; practically within the shadow of the Superstition Mountains. The spectacular façade of Geronimo’s last hideout was always looming just a few miles away. Surely a vortex of good fortune must be close by, Martin reckoned. After all, these mountains are the final resting place of Jacob Waltz and hidden within those peaks, somewhere down a long lost cavern, all of the Lost Dutchman’s riches sit waiting to be discovered.

Martin didn’t trust reason and logic but was devoted to routines. His day at the track always began at the ATM machine. He considered the $2.50 bank fee the machine charged him an offering to the gods of high commerce and trusted it would eventually pay dividends. Just as you always tip the cashier after a win Martin believed in tipping the ATM before the win. Call it karma. Martin’s routine began with a $100 deduction from his checking account; even if, as in this case, he only intended to spend $40 of it. After sliding three twenties into his wallet, Martin fed the remaining two twenties into the cash-betting machine by the bar instead of going to the cashier and immediately printed himself a voucher. Then, voucher in hand, he made his way to the TV wall in the back room. That would place him close to the back North wall. All of his best bets were made at back North wall.

It was a good sign that, even on this busy morning, one seat was still available in the front row. Martin liked to think that the front row was lucky but in the back of his mind he knew he only preferred the front row because his eyesight was failing him and if he sat anywhere else he would have to get up at the end of each race and walk up to the screens to see who won. He was not about to copy Stroke Grannies lead and bring binoculars to the OTB. He’d rather get up and walk than sit in the second row staring at a TV set through binoculars. Of course, Stroke Granny used a walker so she didn’t really have an option. Actually, for her, binoculars were a pretty clever idea. For one thing, they came in pretty handy when there was a photo finish. On more than one occasion the back room crowd turned to Stroke Granny at the end of a race to see which horse’s nose got across the line first. Not that you had to turn to Stroke Granny for anything as she tended to yell out the numbers of the first four horses in each race as a matter of course. Stroke Granny was the self-appointed back room race caller.

Martin scanned the TVs for the next race. Even though he had set his mind on a personal record win; he was well aware that he had been shutout the last three times he came to the park. It was the longest losing streak of his short career. “Maybe what I really need is one small win to break the ice,” Martin told himself.

The very next race of the day was the third at Golden Gate. Golden Gate was one of Martin’s favorites. He was already familiar with a number of the jockeys: Russell Baze, Francisco Duran, Aaron Gryder, Frank Alvarado, Kerwin John, and the longshot specialist Alejandro Gomez. The only problem was the third today was one of those races that Martin usually avoided: a six horse race with two scratches. Four horse left with the 6/1 Excelling as the only horse that could even be considered close to a long shot; but Martin decided to make an easy bet then let his winning’s ride on a shot at breaking the $200 barrier and pretty much the only way to make any money on a four horse race was to go for a trifecta.

Martin put his voucher into the third machine from the left and stared at the entries displayed on his iPhone. His initial goal was to divine the horse most likely to win. His initial selections were based solely on names and numbers. He looked at the names first and one or two special horses would usually present themselves. These became his favorites. With a couple of favorite in mind Martin compared the Equibase odds to the current odds and contemplated the shifts that had taken place over the past 24 hours.

Equibase had #3 Dance Chief 5/1, #4 Excelling 6/1, #5 Unexpected Gift 9/2 and #6 Stormy Surge 2/1. With the two overnight scratches the odds for all the horses had dropped except for Excelling which had held at 6/1. Martin figured a $2 keyed trifacta on a four horse race was about as close to a sure thing as he be bothered betting. He ended up with three keyed trifectas: the favorite 6 over 4 and 5, the long shot 4 over 5 and 6, and 3 over 5 and 6. As long as #5 Unexpected Gift didn’t win he had reasonable shot at breaking even.

Bets made, Martin retired to the patio for a pre-race smoke. This was another of his recent obsessions and one he was already ready to quit. For 47 years, Martin easily resisted an addiction to cigarettes; but ever since he started frequenting casinos and OTBs, a pre-race smoke had become part of his routine. He would change that routine very soon, but not today.

As usual, the only guy on the patio was Sweat Pants Guy. Sweat Pants Guy was a hard core Dogger. Martin didn’t believe that people who played the dogs were actually ever called Doggers; but that’s what he liked to call them. It just made sense.

Similarly, Sweat Pants Guy was called Sweat Pants Guy because he always wore an old pair of black sweat pants pulled up high over his beer belly. He also always wore a tucked-in white tee shirt featuring some kind of wilderness scene – a wolf in the snow, a fish jumping out of a stream, or band of horses running across the desert – but Tucked-In Tee Shirt guy didn’t have much pizzazz. Then again, Sweat Pant Guy did always have an old beat up baseball cap perched on top of his noggin; but geez, Beat Up Baseball Cap Guy could describe 99% percent of the residents of Apache Junction.

Martin preferred to register people by their outward appearance rather than having to ask for and memorize a bunch of useless names. In fact, when people told Martin their names he ignored and promptly forgot them until he figured it would be totally embarrassing to admit that he didn’t know who they were. Fortunately for Martin most people seemed quite satisfied to be acknowledged with a smile and a “Hey, how you doing?” Of course, there becomes a point when people would start to worry Martin had Alzheimer’s if he still couldn’t remember their names. That’s when he would be forced to eavesdrop on the unnamed person’s conversations to see if the other people ever referred to the unnamed person by name. In rare circumstances when this clever ruse didn’t work, Martin would resign himself to engaging someone “in the know” and quietly whispering something like: “This is really embarrassing but what is that guy (or girls) name again?” Then he would admit in a half-joking way that he was “really terrible with names” and that he “really needed to get better at remembering names” but still half the time he would forget the name again in a matter of hours unless that new person had somehow managed to become a true friend.

Not surprisingly, Martin had few true friends. Sweat Pants Guy was a long, long way from being a true friend. Martin couldn’t see Sweat Pants Guy ever being anything but Sweat Pants Guy: the blind slob who bet on practically every dog race across the country every single day of his life.

Sweat Pants Guy bet often but not much. Rarely did he put down more than a dollar or two on any race; relying on exotics – pick 3s, pick 6s and superfectas – to boost his winnings. Sweat Pants Guy also never sat down. He paced and smoked between races and during races positioned himself two or three feet from the screen alternately yelling encouragement and obscenities. Sweat Pants Guy was the Bill Parcells of the OTB; he never called a dog by name referring to them only by number.

Martin was highly entertained by Sweat Pants Guy but the two rarely shared more than a word or two of conversation. Maybe it was because Martin played the ponies and Sweat Pants Guy was a Dogger. But really, what is there to talk about with a near total stranger? Certainly not what they planned to bet! That was Martin’s biggest superstition. He never shared his bets with anyone until the after the race. Martin thought placing a bet was like voting: an inalienable right every adult was free to exercise without any obligation of disclosure.

Martin was seated at the table closest to screen as the horses burst from the gates at Golden Gate. Taking the lead right away was Unexpected Gift followed by Excelling, Stormy Surge and Dance Chief already trailing by a few lengths. This wasn’t perfect by any means but the long shot in second gave Martin hope. Martin isn’t a big yeller. He sat quietly puffing through the first couple of furlongs. Then, at the last turn things started to fall in place. “Go 6!” Martin urged as Stormy Surge made (dare I say it?) a Stormy Surge past Unexpected Gift down the straight. It was looking like Martin’s first win in two weeks. The camera followed 6 and 5 to the line then there was a brief pause. Several seconds passed until 4 appeared on screen closely matched by 3. “Goddamnit!” Martin bellowed, “Where did 3 come from?” Of course, it was for naught, as right at the line Dance Chief edged out the long shot and Martin’s shoe-in trifecta was history. The losing streak was still alive.

“What’d you have?” asked Sweat Pants Guy.

“6 over 5, 4” Martin answered.

“Aw, shit…” replied Sweat Pants Guy.

Martin wandered off to stare at the abandoned dog track that was at one time the pride of Apache Junction. Martin imagined for a moment Apache Greyhound Park in its 70s heyday. The manicured red dirt track, colorful flower boxes lining the club entrance, a sparkling new grandstand, and flocks and flocks of snowbirds decked out in orange and yellow polyester dresses and lime green leisure suits. Those were heady days indeed; the likes of which will never be seen in these parts again.

Martin shook his head. He had two, maybe three, chances to get his personal record and what does he do? Waste $12 on three useless trifectas. But, like some strangers name, the pep talk didn’t register for long and with just a few minutes to post at Gulfstream, Martin rushed in a $4 boxed 5/1 exacta and a $10 win/place bet on the long shot #2. Before he even walked away from the machine, he couldn’t remember the names of the horses he picked. He was picking odds again, instead of following his routine. He clearly hadn’t let the names speak to him and made his picks based only on which choices might get him that personal best. He had to cover his bases. The only way out was to pull another twenty from his wallet and pick another race before the one at Gulfstream started. In the fifth at Fairgrounds the name Hobson’s Choice was the one that stood out. Martin compared the odds, 24 hours ago Hobson’s Choice was a 20\1 long shot, now she was 12\1. Martin always liked late money so brimming with confidence Martin punched in $20 on 2 to win.

There was still 3 minutes to post at Gulfstream so Martin stepped out again for another smoke. He tried to puff as quickly as he could but by the time he got back to the TV wall the horses were already crossing the line. He saw 5 out front and, could it be? Was that a 1 to place? Martin stepped forward but before the question even had time to fully form in his mind the unofficial results 5/4/1 were posted. “Shit!” Martin blurted. “I always pick 4. Why did I not pick 4?” Then as if to answer himself he added “It’s my fault, I should have been here at post time.” Then he told himself: “I have to quit smoking, it’s ruining my luck.” By the time he sat down again it was post time at Fairgrounds.

The one thing about sitting by the back wall of TVs at Apache Greyhound Park on a Sunday morning is you have to listen to the rock and roll gospel blasting out from The Church of New Seasons.

“Jesus Christ!” said Old Pony Tail. “How long are they going to play that crap? It’s been going on for hours already. I’m 71 years old I don’t have to listen to that churchy bullshit anymore.” Old Pony Tail turned to Martin and grinned: “The one good thing about being 71 years old is that you don’t have to put up with churchy bullshit if you don’t want to.”

“You don’t look 71. I would have guessed you were in your early 60s” Martin replied quite honestly.

“I’ll be 72 in a few weeks and I feel like 80,” Old Pony Tail laughed.

“Is it better to feel older than you look or look older than you feel?” Martin asked almost rhetorically.

“Well shit,” Old Pony Tail said quickly. “That’s easy. I’d rather look as old as dirt and still feel good any old day.”

“People think I’m fifty-eight…” Martin noted.

“How old are you?” said Old Pony Tail leaning in for a closer gander.

“Forty-eight but I feel like I’m thirty.”

“Well, consider yourself lucky,” said Old Pony Tail staring back at the TV.

Martin looked up just in time to see Hobson’s Choice just beat out the favorite at the line.

“Finally,” he said.

“Did you have money on 2?” asked old pony tail guy.

“Twenty bucks,” said Martin breaking into a grin as the official results appeared on screen.

“Nice win, buddy!” Old Pony Tail said raising his hand to Martin for a high five.

“It’s about time” said Martin as he slapped Old Pony Tail some skin. “Now I can splurge on a few Super Bowl party supplies.” With that Martin headed straight to the cashier to pick up his winnings. The last thing he heard was old pony tail guy sharing one final word of advice:

“Hey buddy. Pick up one of those shrimp rings at the supermarket! They’re a great party starter.”

“What happened?” screamed Stroke Granny after Martin left the building. “Did he win, or something?”

“He had 20 bucks on 2 at 12\1!”

“Lucky bastard…” Stroke Granny muttered as she scanned the wall of TVs with her binoculars.

“Tell me about it,” said Old Pony Tail guy…and he didn’t even offer to buy me a beer!

“You know, something,” said Stroke Granny. “Something I learned a long time ago. When you get lucky, you got to spread your good fortune around a bit. That shit will come back to bite you in the ass. Karma is one nasty bitch!”

It wouldn’t be long before Martin would learn that Stroke Granny knew a thing or two about karma.

Gregor’s Vintage Fanmail

21 Tuesday Feb 2012

Posted by in Gregor Stronach

≈ 13 Comments

Tags

,

Simianlated Photo of Gregor

By Gregor Stronach

Things are slow in the world of Gregor at the moment, so I figured I’d take the time to be nice and publicly answer some of the fan mail I’ve received. This serves a number of purposes. Firstly, it allows me to appear to care about the folks that take the time to write to me. Secondly, it allows me to pamper my ego by slyly suggesting to you all that I do, indeed, receive fan mail. Last, but not least, it’s just another forum in which I can make fun of you all where you have no right of reply. Everyone’s a winner…

I get some freaky mail. It’s seriously unusual stuff, most of it, which concerns me a little. Is it me, my writing style or a combination of both that attracts the unhinged, the desperate and the lonely?

Unfortunately, most of the letters I receive come anonymously – they’re sent through the author’s bio page, a link to which appears below. It’s infinitely easier for me to make disparaging remarks about you when you include your email address, so be sure to do so if you require a rude or amusing reply.

Otherwise, you’ll end up being quoted in public, like the following people. Where possible, I’ve included the name of the article to which the sender was referring in their message. This is for my own peace of mind. Without this reference, these letters make no sense whatsoever, something I find confusing and vaguely disturbing.

(A little knowledge, R&M, Dec 7th, 2002)
Dear Gregor,
By some strange synchronicity my husband Chris Stronach, also of Australia, has been taking some recent interest in reptilian uberlords of the fourth dimension. Are you and he one and the same? You must surely be related.

I’m not related to your husband in any way, but I would suggest you get your hubby along to a shrink quick-smart. Sure, they’ll test him and probe him and make him perform embarrassing procedures, but the more he talks about the lizards, the more likely it is they’ll abduct him and eat his eyeballs. It’s for his own good.

(God’s Diaires, R&M, Jan 24th, 2003)
Dear Gregor,
I’d like an interview with God, if you please. I’m with Modern Gods magazine, and I want to talk with him about his new book.

Ahhh… I see what you’re doing there. Very clever. But, to quote someone whom I respect quite a lot, “This joke only works when one of us is telling it.” Thanks for your letter though.

(Narcisse Vol II, R&M, Jan 10th, 2003)
Dear Gregor,
Do you have any idea how close your words reflect the deffinition of a Missanthropic Megalomaniac? (Human hater with big ego..) Just so you know, Missanthropes of that sort are more dangerous then Psychpaths (no natural understanding of right and wrong) because they think they are ABOVE right and wrong,. and feel disconnected from people. You are a scary mofo.

Aside from the horrible spelling and the fact that you’ve completely missed the point of the article, that’s a wonderful letter. What was it about that piece that made you think that I was really like that? I feel a little bit like James Woods, always on the search for credibility in his acting roles… but to have someone believe that I am truly like that warms my heart – it means that someone, somewhere, is even more stupid than I am.

(A little knowledge, R&M, Dec 7th, 2002)
Dear Gregor
roaarrrr
Hisssssss
Lizzzzaaaarrrddssssss
Hisssssss?

You’ve no idea how much this one freaked me out for some reason – the first overtly sibilant email I’d ever received and truth be told it scared me silly. Mind you, it was very early in the morning, I hadn’t had my coffee yet, and the mere thought of lizards that can type is enough to give me the willies at the best of times.

(Performance Review: The Four Horsemen, R&M, Dec 26th, 2002)
Dear Gregor
You rock 🙂

Admittedly this letter did come from my sister in Milwaukee, but everyone has the right to feel loved, do they not?

(The True Spirit of Christmas, R&M, Dec 1st, 2002)
Dear Gregor,
Do you still believe in Santa Claus? What ever happened to Mike Butler? And can you tell me if the Easter Bunny is involved?

Sheesh – no, I don’t believe in Santa Claus. I stopped believing in Santa Claus months ago. Mike Butler is now serving time in a maximum security prison for his part in the conspiracy. He also stole several motor vehicles and injured himself fleeing from the police. He’ll be eligible for parole in 19 years. And yes – the Easter Bunny is involved. Very involved. Hence, I don’t have the time to go into it here.

The following letter arrived with no apparent source of inspiration. I have a feeling that one of my workmates has also discovered this wonderful site. This could have something to do with the fact that I frequently walk to their desks and stand over them, pestering them until they log in and read every word of my latest article. I’m so vain.

Dear Gregor,
I’m going to the coke machine. They’ve only got vanilla coke left, just checking if you want one. And isn’t it funny how normal coke has now suddenly become a tough man’s drink. It used to be “a girl’s drink” but now with new “poofter coke” on the market hetero hard cases can now order a tinnie of black gold without fear of anyone questioning their sexuality. Anyway let me know if you’re thirsty and I’ll come over.

It was during a conversation with this person that the concept of ‘The Official Drink of the 2002 Gay Games’ was discussed. We settled on the idea that ‘Vanilla Coke’ would be the perfect candidate, but closer inspection and a moderate amount of investigative journalism found that the official drink was, in fact, semen.

I really enjoy hearing from you all (even the complete lunatics). So send me messages, the more the merrier. I love writing for the Pig’s Arms, as it’s entertaining for you and cheap therapy for me.

I love you all.

Pig’s Arms Psephologist Predicts US Election Outcome

10 Friday Feb 2012

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

≈ 67 Comments

Tags

, ,

Mitt Neutridge and one of his wives - formerly married to the Joker

The Pig’s Arms political correspondent and serifologist, Anthony Puce has been studying the US presidential pre-elections and the curious Republican dog and pony show. 

Here’s his report.

Much like everyone on ABC News 24 – who seem so hard-up to find 24 hours worth of news to report, many Pig’s Arms patrons have expressed something rather close to complete indifference to the US presidentials – and who can blame them.  No matter what the outcome, it’ll be some redneck semi-“religious” super wealthy dude with a trophy wife and good teeth versus the first black president to inherit a giant hole in the financial universe and an unwinnable war from a previous Republican redneck semi-“religious” super wealthy dude with good teeth and an IQ approximating his shoe size.

This time, American voters (both of them) have a serious challenge in working out which candidate has the stupidest, most ridiculous name.  We have an amphibian and a piece of baseball equipment for starters.  Can you imagine Queen Elizabeth addressing a leader of the western world as Mr Newt or Mister Mitt ?  For Pete’s sake !

The big unknown about the US presidential election is whether six or maybe ten people might bother voting.  So the result is usually a totally random outcome.

So it beggars belief that this crop of clean-shavens spend tens of millions of dollars to embarrass each other and themselves in front of a couple of hundred million TV viewers and the news of the world.  Forget the war in Afghanistan, Kazakhstan, Stanistan, or wherever – Newt Bigrich has six wives and still scored with a political volunteer from Detroit in 1969 !  Woooh-hoo !

Does anybody remember the hooting tootin shootin and bespectacled wonder who had a shot at the Deputy’s job last time ?  The western world would have only been a heartbeat away from being run by a moose-botherer – and since the Republican nominee was about 170 years old, the last heartbeat was a fair bet at the time.

There was a lot of hatred towards the outgoing president last time – for badly mismanaged disasters – including the first global sub-prime loan failure driven meltdown, Hurricane Katrina, most of the west coast and Yellowstone National Park burning to the ground, Iraq, Enron……. the list is endless.  This time we see something approaching despair and disappointment towards the incumbent for failing to engineer the much-needed reform of minor things like universal health care, sustainable education, replacement of infrastructure, environmental degradation – anybody remember a bit of an oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico ?) , détente with China, nuclear proliferation and climate change.

Mind you, Obama had a balance of power issue the envy of lesser mortals like our own PM.

Failure to deliver on promises is already a cornerstone of electorability in both parties.  And so too is the wildly rational behaviour of gun-totin white trailer trash with two working teeth, massively obese carcasses, pick-up trucks on perpetual hire purchase and no visible means of support beyond selling moonshine hooch and bathtub speed.  These people clearly fear communist liberty-robbing initiatives like affordable health care and quality education far more than they fear their offspring coming back from Afghanistan in body bags.  And Rupert’s Fox-driven nonsense – like Obama’s middle name being a sure sign that he’s actually a member of Al Qaida plays well with the congenitally hyper-prejudiced so that’s a really good reason for voting for Root Nitridge.  Go figure.

So here’s our prediction:  Obama by a short half head over Mitt Neuteridge, allowing for a new technology stuff-up that will make unreadable chads, chedds, chits or whatever look plausible.

Medical Talk

29 Thursday Dec 2011

Posted by in Uncategorized

≈ 9 Comments

Tags

, , , ,

"Nurse, can I have a bedpan?" By Warrigal

 

Given the latest brouhaha about diagnosing syndromes and medical terminology I thought I would give you some insight into how we talk to each other at work about patients.

Disclaimer: Any one that can identify or relate to any of the following has both feet firmly planted on the ground and is a realist.

“Hey, RN (Registered Nurse), the PIA(Pain in the Arse) in Room 2 has just had a DNM (Deep and Meaningful) with the PCW (Personal Care Worker) about the TIA (Trans Ischaemic Attack) he had that led to a CVA (Cerebral Vascular Accident)” says the EN (Enrolled Nurse).

“What does the PRICK (Slang for male genitalia) want?” quips the RN.

“He wants a PRN (medication given as necessary) SC(Sub Cutaneous), IM(Intra Muscular), IV(Intra Venous) or O(Oral) pain killer preferably an S8(Schedule 8 of the Poisons Schedule) or S4(Schedule 4 of the Poisons Schedule) but definitely not PR(Per Rectum)” retorts the EN.

“FUCK(Slang for fornication)”says the RN, thinking SHIT(Slang for faeces) I’ll have to do some paper work now. “How about two saccharine(PLACEBO) and a cup of coffee?” parries the RN.

“Nah. I mean the (L)(Left) BKA(Below Knee Amputation) was only 4/7(4 days ago) ago” states the EN.

SHIT, FUCK, PISS(slang for urine)(Therefore faeces, fornication, urine), I’ll really have to some paper work now. “When did he have his last BO(Bowels Open), maybe he just needs C&S(Coloxyl with Senna, a well know aperient) or a PR Microlax(A commercially available enema)?”. Sticking your gloved finger up someone’s bottom is far better than doing any paper work.  “Take a UA(Urine Analysis) from his IDC(In Dwelling Catheter) for an MSSU(Mid Stream Specimen of Urine) and send it to path(pathology). Put him on NBM(Nil By Mouth) and flush his PEG(Percutaneous Endoscopic Gastrostomy) with 100mls of H2O(Water). Initiate a TS(Treatment Sheet) for his ST(Skin Tear) for his (R)(Right) Shin(Shin).” This will bluff them thinks the RN.

“What will that do for his pain?” asks the EN.

“Look, I am the RN, you are the EN, the pecking order is I tell you what to do” asserts the RN but yes it will do SFA(Sweet Fuck All) for his pain but it may take his mind off it. “Is he a BSP(Believer in Sky Pixies)?” proffers the RN hoping another red herring will prevent having to do paper work.

“Nah, look he’s an NFR(Not For Resuscitation) but it says in his notes that he is a Jedi” replies the EN.

Jesus H. Christ, thinks the RN, a loon(an abbreviation of lunatic)(Loon – anyone that does not agree with the RN). “Ok, I’ll ring the MO(Medical Officer) but lets give him some haloperidol(a really nasty drug that sedates you), midazolam (a really nasty drug that makes you forget) and some morphine(a really nasty drug that relieves pain by making you sleep and dream. Morphine is more addictive than air). Bloody hell, thinks the RN, this job would be great if it wasn’t for the patients.

 Keywords: Nursing, terminology, palliative care, humor, humour

 

Foodge 28 – A Hot Foodge Sunday

26 Monday Dec 2011

Posted by in Big M, Foodge Private Dick

≈ 27 Comments

Tags

, ,

Punting - for folks with just a couple of Oxford scholars

Story by Big Magnum

Merv had been pacing the floor behind the bar all morning. Two problems, one was the bloody Christmas decorations. He’d finally found two, foot high, tinsel trees and a red and green banner with the words ‘Merry Christmas’ emblazoned across it, then spent ten minutes sticking the damned thing up. Problem two was Granny keeping a shotgun in the hotel, so had decided that it would be best to get rid of it. The Pleece had an armistice for illegal, or unregistered, weapons, but that was now over. The miserly part of him knew that the Purdy was worth a few Oxford Scholars, so, rather than simply letting the piece go, Merv had started to think about ways to get rid of the gun and, get some easy readies. His ruminations were disturbed, not so much by a presence, but more by an aroma, Foodge had just staggered in, resplendent in his new track-suit and running shoes.

“Jeez, Foodge, it’s thirty five degrees out there, yer gunna die of heat exhaustion!” Exclaimed Merv, as he hefted another tray of glasses into the rack under the bar.

“Well, Merv, as you are fully aware, I missed our morning’s training session so I’m trying to make it up.” Foodge had been on surveillance all night, only managing to take a couple of murky photos of a man behind the wheel of the senator’s car. Later, the man in question would prove to be the hotel valet who was moving the car to the forecourt. “Anyway, thought I could procure some rehydration therapy here.” Foodge had an enthusiastic gleam in his eye.”

“Too right you can, Foodge, here’s a glass a water, on the house.” Merv pushed a glass canoe of cold water across the bar. “I’m not sellin’ you beer in that state!”

Foodge reluctantly took the glass, knowing that Merv was probably right. “Well then, Merv, what’s on the luncheon menu today?”

“Same as it’s bin for thirty three years, but, for you, Granny will knock up a salad.” Granny had been ‘knocking up’ a salad for Foodge for the last eight weeks, which, with reduced alcohol intake, and some training, had brought about a quantum improvement in his overall health. “While yer waitin’, yer can give me a hand.”

“Oh, um…er” Foodge, in spite of his improved fitness, was still averse to any kind of physical labour.

Merv motioned, with his index finger, for Foodge to lean in closer. “What do you know about guns?”

Foodge breathed a sigh of relief. “Sorry, don’t do shooters.” He’d heard Phillip Marlow say this in a film.

“No, not to shoot someone, I’ve got to get rid of Granny’s Purdy, so, thought I might try and sell it.”

Foodge’s pupils dilated. “Did you say a Purdy?? What sort of condition?”

“Sixty years old, and as good as the day it was made.”

“Mmm, let’s see.” Foodge had whipped out his iPhone, and started pushing keys. “Here you are.” He held up the device for Merv to examine. “Nineteen Thirty One model, under and over, sold at auction in the states for thirty one big ones.”

Purdy

Merv went weak at the knees, grabbing the bar to steady himself. “I thought we’d get a few hundred bucks for it, not thousands.”

“Yes, indeed, what you need to find is a high end gun dealer who’s willing to give you a fair price. The other thing you should do is do a Google search and find out what prices people are prepared to pay.”

Merv thought that Foodge was talking gobbly gook with the google business, so nodded and smiled. “Well, thanks Foodge, you’ve earned your keep today.”

“No worries, any Googling needs, I’m your man!” This wasn’t strictly true, as it had taken Emmjay the best part of two weeks to teach Foodge how to use the iPhone. Foodge was hoping that this would be another traditional Christmas spent sucking down Trotter’s Ale, imbibing wedges and regaling the assembled piglets with tales of derring-do, only to wake up on the floor of the Gent’s on Boxing Day. He was surprised to see the place filling up. Gerard and the Mysterious ‘H’ were the first in (he hadn’t seen young Viv pop in through the kitchen to start on the evening meal), followed by Emmjay and his First Mate, both dressed like Bogart and Bacall on a date.

A small band, composed of O’Hoo on the bass, Asty on the guitar, Dr Mick on the euphonium and DCI Rouge playing percussion, had started playing some new fangled pop music. ‘Steely Dan’, or some such thing. Sandshoe and Lehan Ramsay had started to dance, and were quickly joined by Atomou and his missus. The music was suddenly drowned out by the deep throated roar of un-silenced Charlies. Algy’s group had arrived! The party was in full swing, the music occasionally stopping for an oration by J.G Cole, Atomou and even O’Hoo.

Foodge was gob-smacked. It looked like becoming the family Christmas that he’d missed for so many years. “Merv, I think it’s time I shouted the bar, Trotter’s Ale all round!” Merv couldn’t help but notice a film of tears in Foodge’s eyes, but was polite enough to ignore it and started pouring.

“Yes, Foodge, Merry Christmas to us all”

The Big O Visits Australia – O-mania Rocks Canberra

16 Wednesday Nov 2011

Posted by in Emmjay

≈ 54 Comments

Tags

, ,

A Huge wave of excitement washed over the unwashed press gallery. The Big O is in town !

Only the Lonely, Dum Dum Dum Dum-dy doo-wha.

The Pig’s Arms rock critic – with a nose for news – Glen A 20, rang in today with the exciting news that the Big O is in town, scorching rumours that he hasn’t been amongst the quick for years.

Princess PowerFox – the president of Australia is eagerly awaiting her next instructions – after setting up a new US base in Darwin (and raising the hopes of all those US Marines who have grown tired of molesting the women of Okinawa), we look set to be told to export Uranus to Indira – but our correspondent is having a bet that there is no way Pakistan is getting a load because, you know, they’re dodgy and anyway they fix cricket games and that’s not cricket.

Fixing games IS cricket, but getting caught is more like getting caught doing cricket commentary and jumping out of hotel windows because you got very agitated and all those bastards mumbling “kiddie fiddler” can get well and truly sledged up deep middle off.

Let’s hope the PowerFox has more luck with setting up a base for the US Marines than she has had getting up a processing centre for asylum seekers.

Where was I….. oh yes the much delayed and much anticipated drop-by of the Fuhrer of the Free World.   One can only imagine that having stitched up the oil middle east for democracy, the irony sands of the Pilbara and the gassy North West shelf will be the next to be liberated by the sons of Columbus.

From the Halls of Montezuma, to the shores of Tripoli

From the antarctic up to Alice,

We’ll be free, we’ll be free, we’ll be free.

Indian Call Centres – Fighting Fire with Fire

11 Tuesday Oct 2011

Posted by in Emmjay

≈ 48 Comments

Tags

, ,

Simulated Emm-tel Call Centre

The other day I made the mistake of trying to work from my home office.  The phone rang.  It wasn’t my mobile.  It was that piece of Bakelite artistry up the end with the Neolithic dust and the desiccated cockroach carapaces.

I answered it.  Pause.

“Hello – can I speak with the home owner”
“She’s out”
“Who am I speaking with ?”
“Who’s asking?”
“My name is Darren”
“Hello Darren – who are you with ?”
“I’m calling about your mobile plan”
“Why are you calling me on the landline?”
“Is this your mobile number xxx-xxx-xxxx?”
“Might be – what interest is it of yours?”
“I’m calling to offer you a better plan?”
“Why don’t you just give me the better plan?”
“…. something garbled…….. Telstra…….”
“Where are you calling from, Darren ?”
“ I am calling from the Telstra call centre”
“Where?”
“The (somewhere in India) Telstra Call Centre”
“I thought so”
“I am able to offer you an improved plan for your mobile”
“I sincerely doubt that, Darren”
“Do you want to hear about the plan ?”
“No, I was trying to earn a quid to pay my phone bill”
“OK, thank you for your time”
“No, the pleasure was all mine”

It seems that two of the most frustrating timewasters in modern life are accepting rubbish marketing calls – and the other side of the coin – complaining to Telcos when something goes awry.

But I chanced to let the two pains in the arse stew awhile together and in the manner of the old aphorism that if it doesn’t kill you it will make you stronger – or that a tiny amount of some poisons are actually useful, and I think I have come up with one of the great inventions of the 21st century.

I plan to set up my own call centre in some place that’s cheaper than India, – let’s say Chad- but which costs a shitload of money to call from anywhere, but especially from India – maybe even Tierra del Fuego) – and I rent a slice of it out to you.  Well, I rent out a very special service that I can offer you for a very reasonable price.

Here’s how it works:

When a call centre calls your phone, the service switches the call to my call centre where it is answered on your behalf.

“Hello, this is Gez and Helvi’s service, how may you help us?”
“Is this Hung One On’s mobile number XXX XXX XXXX?”
“No, this is Gez and Helvi’s service, how may you help us?”
“Can I speak with Warrigal?”
“No, he’s busy at present”
“When will he be available?”
“Who, Hung ?”
“No, Gez or Helvi”
“I thought you wanted to speak with Warrigal”
“You said that Warrigal is unavailable”
“I could find out if Neville Cole is available”
“Is this his number?”
“No, perhaps you would like to speak with Voice or Vivienne”
“Are they there?”
“No, this is Gez and Helvi’s service – how may you help us ? – I might be able to put Big M or Jayell on”

Of course we would get a cut from TeleChad or TeledelFuego – and we would pay you a dividend for every call that went over half an hour.

But it gets better.

Suppose you need to complain to Telstra about your ADSL line dropping out.  Only a mad person would want to call Telstra directly – otherwise you get to spend an eternity in hand-offs amongst every call centre in the western and eastern worlds.  And I for one love the good people of the Philippines, but their telephones, well, ………

So here’s how my outgoing call service  helps you.

You write your complaint on a crisp $10 note and send it to Emm-tel, briefly detailing your issue / problem / complaint.

We ignore the words and bank the $10.  Then our Chad operator calls up Telstra and complains that your service is not working and that you want it terminated immediately.  We say words like Telecommunications Ombudsman.

We demand a full refund of all monies you have paid for the service and say that we will be phoning Ellen Jones – using our neighbour Sandshoe’s phone.

They offer a full refund and a superior plan.  We say that we will consider their offer after we have had a chat with Optus.  They offer an even better improved plan.  We say that we will consider it.

They say that you can have x amounts of free stuff.  We say we will get back to them.

We call Sandshoe and she asks you whether the deal is a goer or not.
It’s your call.
Nobody recontacts the Emm-tel Chad.
They go ahead anyway.

Note, we suggest (but not strongly) that you only use this service if you have a genuine complaint – otherwise that wouldn’t be ethical, would it ?

Stay tuned we plan to offer a premium service where we call Microsoft for you.

Pig’s Psalm 20 – On Saturday Arvo They Rested

30 Friday Sep 2011

Posted by in Emmjay, Pig Psalms

≈ 12 Comments

Tags

, ,


Blessed be the tireless workers, Our Merv,
For they shall inherit the Long Weekend
At the end of the footy season and
Before the wasteland before the Cricket
And in the morning, it being sunny,  the beach will beckon

But not the beach where the post-season footy tour goes.
Especially the losing teams.
Our Merv, grant everyone their wish for a great season.
Deny only the massed highway patrol their double demerit points.

And the virtuous supporters and the valiant players will walk with thee
Out of the change-room and into the sunny upland of the Sportsman’s Bar.
And restesth there for evermore, with bent elbow and laconic smiles.

Goat Man

26 Monday Sep 2011

Posted by in Neville Cole

≈ 21 Comments

Tags

,

"My goat is very alluring", says Neville, just before .....

Story by Neville Cole

I am Goat Man

As I write this it is 4am. I am brewing some coffee. The sun won’t be up for hours; but I am.

I have just woken from a lucid dream. I was convinced at first I was not asleep but merely dozing. The dream started when I noticed my bedroom light flash on briefly. That seemed strange but I was too tired to open my eyes fully and see what was going on. Then I sensed a woman crawling into bed behind me. Naturally I wanted to turn and see who this mysterious woman was but I could not open my eyes or move. I suddenly became aware I was dreaming but I was convinced that the woman was still behind me. I told myself to wake up. I had to repeat the command a few times but eventually I did open my eyes and roll over to the sudden realization that I do, in fact, live alone and that I was, in reality, just having a weird dream.

I think I know why this dream happened. Call it a perfect mental storm.

For one, I am still very jet-lagged from a recent flight back from Australia. I have made that flight more than 20 times but for some reason this time I have struggled mightily to get back to my own time zone. I have been up each morning by 4 since I got back. I have been napping at sunset for a few hours and for two nights in a row I have been put right to sleep by Bill Maher. Now, I don’t agree with a lot of what Bill says, but he almost always keeps me engaged and entertained.

Apart from this obvious sleep deprivation, I am currently working through a recurring pattern of obsessive self-doubt and regret that is part and parcel of my bi-annual whirlwind tours of my homeland. Add to my fear and loathing the fact that I am currently reading Jon Ronson’s The Men Who Stare at Goats and it is pretty easy to see what is going on.

Ronson’s book is barely recognizable as the source of the enjoyable motion picture romp of the same name featuring among others Ewan McGregor, Jeff Bridges, George Clooney, and Kevin Spacey. At the beginning of that movie is the warning that “more of this is true than you would believe;” but falling into this brief, rabbit hole tale is mind-bending experience of the tallest order. The Men Who Stare at Goats is like something concocted by Hunter S. Thompson for Rolling Stone. In just over 250 pages, Ronson manages to tie the spoon bending skills of Uri Geller; the Heaven’s Gate cult suicides; the atrocities at Abu Ghraib and Guantanamo Bay, and the popular US military slogan “Be All That You Can Be” back to the new age ideas of one Vietnam-vet-turned-hippie.

Ronson sets up his tale by asking his reader to accept one of four possible scenarios:

1. It just never happened.

2. A couple of crazy renegades in the higher levels of the U.S. Intelligence community acted alone to put these events in motion.

3. U.S Intelligence is the repository of incredible secrets, which are kept from us for our own good. Or…

4. The U.S. Intelligence community was, back then, essentially nuts through and through.

As each page turns these four scenarios shift about in your brain (or just maybe they actually shift your brain about in your head). “No, that didn’t happen. Oh, that makes sense. Oh my god! Why did I never think of that before!”

The title of the book refers specifically to some secret experiments reported to have occurred at the military installation at Fort Bragg, North Carolina. Apparently, a select group of soldiers were trained to kill goats just by staring at them. It’s not clear how many goats, if any, actually died; but the program had enough success that a group of psychic soldier (PsyOps) known as the Earth First Battalion was created. The book suggests this group has been reborn today within the U.S. Department of Homeland Security to help fight the War on Terror.

In the end, it’s not the truth that matters; as whichever scenario you finally accept, the story is still by turns entertaining and harrowing but always thought-provoking. All of which adds up to exactly the wrong kind of book for a highly fatigued and self-doubting individual to read into the early hours, especially on a work night.

Still, as Robert Plant once famously sang: “Ooh, it makes me wonder. Ooh, it makes me wonder.”

You see, I have, for a good part of the last two decades, turned my back on metaphysics and anything even remotely new age. That’s not to say I haven’t had my moments of elevated thought; but, for the most part, I have stayed grounded (and mostly satisfied I might add) in the here and now.

I was raised in the distinctly new age, some say cultish, religion known as Christian Science. Yeah, that’s right, the ones who don’t believe in doctors. As my faith faded, I dabbled, as many ex-CSers do, in Eastern thought, Tao, Zen and Buddhism in particular; but finally, in my early thirties, I resolved to accept that life was indeed a cabaret and decided that I would be a lot happier if I just learned to enjoy the cabaret.

I have been pretty happy and pretty lucky and remarkably healthy ever since. I haven’t wasted much time wondering what it’s all about. I’ve been resigned to fate. I’ve described myself from time to time as a secular humanist, a cynical optimist and an hopeful pessimist. I’ve tried to do my share of good things mostly because it feels good to do so. I’ve noted that, for the most part, when I make the effort to do something that I don’t have to do – especially something creative – well, somehow it seems to work out that I gain something from that effort. I’ve also seen that things I’ve tried to hide or lied about eventually get uncovered. I don’t call this karma. To me, it’s just the way things work.

The only problem is, when you leave things mostly to fate for too long, you tend to feel a little bit out of control and I’ve been growing increasingly tired of that feeling. As a result, I’ve been spending quite a bit of time trying to figure out how to get a little bit more proactive with my existence. I’m tired of doing OK. It would be really nice to excel for a while. Maybe I have fallen down the rabbit hole myself a bit this morning but I have a very real sense that somehow things are about to fall into place.

Yesterday, on a whim, I sent in a headshot and resume to a casting agency and asked them to arrange an audition for an upcoming TV commercial. I could really use the extra cash right now. I also have a long term plan. I would like to return to acting before I am forced to retire and see if I can finally realize my dream of getting a decent role in one really good movie. I am interested to see if I can influence my future in some small way right here, right now. Can I project myself to that audition? Am I able to influence the casting agency from a completely blind call and get myself in front of the director? If I do get the audition, how do I overturn past failures and finally find some success? After all, I gave up acting all those years ago because I was useless at auditions.

But now I am getting ahead of myself. If I’ve learned anything from The Men Who Stare at Goats is that metaphysical projection takes intense focus. I need to start with some baby steps. I can’t kill a goat right out of the box. Let’s see if I can get that audition first. Then I’ll take things from there.

After all, if I can control my dreams, why shouldn’t I be able to control my reality? Isn’t it better to be the man staring at the goat than the goat?