After four months without the ABC, Sam realised two things: 1) that The Gruen Transfer has made everyone experts on media and advertising analysis and 2) that he will spend the rest of his days and money attempting to procure a drumkit, a gorilla costume, a video camera and tickets to every simian revival rock concert that comes to town.

It was just after the owner of the caravan park said that she didn't like my t-shirt because of her "strong ties of Buddhism" that I stopped communicating with fully-formed words and started using my wide command of grunts, nods and smiles.

Dream interpretation: they are just the brain's way of using the massive amount of information it gathers and stores to consider the past, ruminate upon the present and plan for the future.

I'm so damn old-school that I watch The Simpsons on analogue broadcast with the ads.

The difference between my high school and Mele's is that they taught us about baby-making in Biology rather than Home Economics.

The Coffee Club on Bribie Island does not distribute the tips dropped by customers into the bulbous green tip jar to its employees.

I often I wake up next to Mele scratching furiously in her sleep after a waking dream that a wolf has dragged us into its subterranean den and is devouring her body while I struggle to wake and save her.

I propose a new blogging standard: Franzy's Law states that referring to one's own blog or blogging activities as a "rant" or "ranting" shall designate the author incapable of expressing ideas without resorting to violence or anger and thus the kind of person not really worth reading until they can calm down and relate their ideas properly without shouting or "talking foolishly".

The phrase "wrong on so many levels" is only used by people who, when pressed, won't be able to come up with more than a few levels of wrongness and are, unsurprisingly, also the kind of people who are more likely to confuse "few" with "many".

I wonder if there is a definitive point at which the damage done by the immediate stress of needing something you have thrown away outweighs the effects of the residual stress resulting from keeping some useless piece of crap, moving it from house to house, arguing over its possible value, defending it from efficient loved ones and finding ever larger spaces in which to store it, all the while convincing yourself that some day 46 pillowcases might just come in handy.

I wonder if blogging has genuinely helped a generation to communicate its feelings, thoughts and emotions more succinctly or whether it has now become acceptable to simply hyphenate a long stream-of-consciousness descriptive passage in an I'm-really-enthusiastic-about-writing-and-want-to-appear-creative-and-intelligent-but-can't-quite-bring-myself-to-go-to-all-the-trouble-of-thinking-of-an-appropriate-metaphor-or-even-a-simile-when-I-can-simply-diarise-whatever-I'm-thinking-without-filters-or-editing-or-snipping-of-tangents-while-still-throwing-in-a-few-pop-culturally-acceptable-but-still-cool-and-quirky-as-the-comeback-of-the-cowbell-references-which-prove-that-this-is-really-the-only-path-towards-clear-written-expression-that-English-teachers-and-politicians-hope-for-in-the-yoof-ov-2day-which-isn't-splattered-with-textlish-and-smiley-faces-and-so-will-have-to-do-until-someone-can-work-out-a-way-of-making-spending-a-week-producing-a-single-metaphor-into-an-immediately-pleasurable-exercise kind of way in order to convey one's thoughts.

I know I'm getting old when the latest fashions seem as hilarious to me now as looking at photos of myself in happy pants at age twelve.

I know the Domino's Cheaper Tuesday commercial is supposed to make me want to buy shithouse pizzas but for some reason it sends me straight to Google.

Religion is like abortion: a personal decision which should be influenced by no one else, ever.

This damn conscience is no way to make a living.

Then there was the time I decided to spice up the beef stir fry with some cumin and discovered just how poorly the edge of your vision is able to distinguish between the words 'cumin' and 'cinnamon' when you are rifling through the spice cupboard with one eye on an ex-non-stick fry pan.

The squinty-eyed, jut-jawed handshakes which were gripped across the kitchen table that evening after we at last tumbled upon the Collins Shortened only to discover that the word 'automated' actually fulfilled the seemingly-opposing definitions defended as unassailable gospel by each hubristic generation were as meaningful as oil region peace accords, twice as tense and productive of a ceasefire over matters grammatical, syntactical and punctuational which possessed only a fraction of the tendency to longevity.

In writing, action without place is just interpretive dance.

When the naughties have died and been reborn in a premature haze of nostalgia marketing and retro-dollar love-ins, I will feed my progeny for generations to come with my one-hit-wonder super group: 'Youtube Sensation'.

If Sam Franzway jumped off a cliff, would you do it too?

I would be so proud if I turned out like my dad.

Last night on SBS I saw an old Palestinian refugee in a bombed-out township talk about the hurt and bloodshed that his family had been through with his grandson standing behind him; listening, watching, picking his nose and eating it.

Men leave the toilet seat up because women leave the toilet seat down.

You know you're an adult when you discover that there are much more mortifying things to be seen buying at a chemist than condoms.

The Queensland tradition of giving everything Aboriginal names after carefully removing all traces of Aboriginal from them is like Muslim extremists colonising Manhattan and renaming it Twin Tower Tumble Island.

My sneezes often smell like I've snorted the dust off the top of a wet dictionary; the kind printed in an era during which masturbation was described as "v. self-abuse".