I'm sure Bill Hicks would also approve

This weekend I:

• Ate four kinds of animal;
• Fixed a car engine. My car engine. Getting my hands greasy and dirty in the process and saving myself further expense at the mechanics;
• Attended a BBQ;
• Drank beer;
• Prepared and cooked BBQ ribs;
• Destroyed a noxious vine, preventing it from further choking my crops, by climbing a tree, attacking it with a handsaw and pulling the fucker out of there with my bare hands, impressing both son and wife in the process; and
• Took care of my family in many manly ways.

So, if someone asks you "Who da man?", you tell that person "Franzy's the man. Franzy is."
Or, if you're more in tune with the late great George Carlin, say "Who da man? Not you! You da fuckin' honky!"

It should also be noted that I prepared a lovely pumpkin soup, shopped for vegetables and plum sauce, did the vacuuming, changed a bunch of nappies, administered shoulder rubs and tended the bonsai.

Like having an injection in reverse

They drill the wires into your bone using a hollow drill-bit and hammering the steel in. The Jurgen Balls are just for protection. The doctor had them off using a multi-tool clipped to his belt.
He pulled the wires out using just a pair of pliers from Bunnings bunged through an autoclave.
"Okay mate, just lie down here and hold still."
"No anaesthetic?"
"Nah. This is quite uncomfortable."
A tradesman who came through work recently knew all about K wires and Jurgen Balls because his wife had had some jammed down her finger-tip.
"She said getting it pulled it out was the single most painful experience of her life. And she's had two kids!"
"Thanks, mate. Just what I wanted to hear."
"Well, it was a bit infected ..."
The doctor gripped my wrist in one hand, tucked my arm under his and pulled the wire straight out of the bone like a stubborn wine cork. I almost expected to hear a 'pop' when the thing came out. I certainly felt like a drink afterwards. A pale-faced intern asked me if I was all right.
"I'm okay. Are you?"
"Not really," he admitted. "I think I might just go and sit down."
Which he then did.

And when the rainbow jerseys arrive it shall be complete

I always sniggered (quietly, behind my hand) about the amount of latent homosexuality in the Australian football codes. You know the line: all those fit, hard-bodied men, sweating together in and out of their tight shorts, gripping and wrestling each other for a living. It's got to be more than one-in-ten in the national leagues, right? But of course, the Australian male hegemony being what it (still) is, of course no-one is openly gay in professional football. Not in such a way that it was ever discussed.
Until now.
In case you didn't know, Matthew Johns, former NRL player has been stood down from his job for his part in a group sex scandal. Turns out it's fairly common practise for NRL players to have group sex with a woman - "team bonding" is a phrase often let slip here, like a sly testicle from ill-fitting shorts.

I'd like now, if I may to set a reading exercise (does the fun never end?!). Read the following passage taken from an article in the Sydney Morning Herald entitled 'Defiant rep star says group sex romps will keep happening'. At the end, I'm going to ask an open question which I believe, if I'm right, might just change the ugly, ugly face of Rugby League in Australia.

THE comments of one senior NRL representative player indicate how difficult it could be to change the sexual behaviour and attitudes of elite league players.

He warned group sex among NRL players would continue regardless of a warnings from chief executive David Gallop that unsavoury sexual acts would put their contracts at risk. The representative player told the Herald that his colleagues were left stunned by Gallop's hardline stance when no player had been convicted of sexual assault, adding that the caution would quickly be forgotten.

"It's fine for David Gallop to come out and say you can't have group sex but the last thing blokes will be thinking about on a Friday night at the club is David Gallop," said the player, speaking on the condition of anonymity. "I don't know how a chief executive can come out and say we can't have group sex if it's consensual. It's like discrimination because that is a person's private life. It's like saying you can't be homosexual, or you can't have such-and-such sexual preferences. How can he tell us what we can do in our private lives?

"We already have so many rules: we can't drink on these days, we can't go to these places, now we can't have group sex. About the only thing we can do these days is go to club functions, and just hang around other players. That's just isolating us more from the rest of the world, and it could lead to even more violent acts."

Are Rugby League players finally coming out of the closet?
Read the passage again, but this time bear in mind the fact that while these players appear to engage in a lot of group sex, there aren't any women mentioned. Based on this, I firmly believe that the NRL is on the threshold of throwing open the flimsy plywood doors, tossing aside the coathangers and shoe racks and announcing to the world "We're here! We're queer! We have group sex with each other!" Imagine that. Out, proud and scoring tries. I reckon the NRL fans and clubs would breathe a collective sigh of relief: no more scandals, no more 'How to treat women nice' classes, no more lies! Just good, honest, consensual sex between large groups of large men without the apparently tricky and complicated inclusion of a woman.
Of course, the game itself may suffer from the channelling of all that built-up homoerotic tension away from the playing field ...

Having returned from my life among the wolf tribes of Mt Lofty

Let it be known that on Saturday the 9th of May, 2009, I officially became a man.
Did I grow pubes?
Kill a rhino?
Build a house?
Back a trailer?

No.

I fixed a mower.

Throttle kept flipping shut so I took the carby apart and stuck a screwdriver in there to give it enough air to tick over, then I had to screw the bloody thing back together while it was running.

Then I mowed the fuckin' lawn.

***
GTH - River, for being funny. TOos for being funny. Shippy gets a consolation point for not taking home the Nintendo.

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

He can also put buffalo to sleep

Work's okay.
Cheers.
I'm getting better at making coffees, nothing anyone's complained about. Yet. That was entirely my fault. I'm still new enough to blame everyone else when I make a mistake for not providing proper training. That shit should fly for about another week and then they're going to get sick of explaining which button does which. That should just about coincide with the moment when my need to please customers and my employer falls below my desire to get away with whatever cut corners I can, so you can look forward to my future job search blogs in about a month's time!
For all those of you who haven't worked for a corporation - here's some of things that come with my minimum wage:
* No free food. Half price during shifts only.
* ONE free hot drink, during breaks only (apparently the counter began to look like a share-house lounge room: half drunk coffee cups and spilled milk everywhere).
* Regular staff meetings for which I assume we are not getting paid, even when you come in on your day off.
* No choice of superannuation.
* Only found out about this last night from a fellow employee: security cameras. They film staff as well as customers. I'm not sure how I feel about this. I don't mind it, because they did actually help catch someone who held up the store (more on that in a minute). But I'm not really down with not being told about it.

Apart from that, the staff are all nice and kind (bear in mind that this is still my second week) and even the boss is probably the best hospitality boss I've ever had. He's business-like without being rude, friendly without being unprofessional and somehow constantly over my shoulder showing me how to do everything without being intrusive, which I find incredible myself. How am I not telling him to piss off?

The store did get held up recently, but it was more entertaining than dangerous. Here's how it went down (Nb. All men will be jealous).

Barry* is a no-nonsense kind of guy. Approaching fifty, works at CC, knows how it runs. One afternoon he's there behind the counter, part of which faces onto the footpath for takeaway customers. He's preparing and arranging cakes for the chilled display cabinet.
'Oi!'
He looks up. There is a fifteen-year-old girl in a hoody brandishing a small fishing knife.
'Open the till! Give me the fuckin' money!'
Barry is dumbfounded. Not shocked, scared or disturbed in any major way.
'Are you serious?' he asks politely. 'You're getting any money and you're gonna get caught anyway because your face is on the security camera.' He points up. She pulls her hoody closer over her face, never having heard of 'record' or 'rewind' or 'pause' (or 'Make higher resolution', but we'll stay away from techno movie pet-hates for now). She waves her little knife again.
'Open the fuckin' till!'
Barry smiles. (Boys, get ready to wish it was you getting held up). He picks up the foot-long kitchen knife he's been cutting cakes with. 'That's not a knife, this is a knife.'
Girl's eyes pop out of her head. She leaves. Barry gives chase and runs off into the Hall of Fame for people who have actually been able to use Mick Dundee's immortal phrase in real life. Lucky bastard. Wish I got held up at knife point.

***
GTH - TWO points to Kath for getting right into the spirit of Guess The Header with an astute summation of how I'm feeling about my life. Because, and here's a clue, GTH is always all about me.

If it makes you feel icky, it worked.

I should start up my own one-man advertising company. I will not stop at distasteful slogans, no!
Behold the Active Bodies Physiotherapy television advertising campaign!

/Know when to roll 'em!/

I had the greatest memory-trigger the other day. I've been temping at the Don Dunstan Foundation and a woman there had a little bowl marbles on her desk - for decorative purposes I assume. Suddenly I was nine years old, inspecting her impressive collection of Speckledies and sizing up values ...

I don't know about you, but marbles were big in Gilles Street Primary. The craze ran in cycles (like all school crazes) and when marbles were in, the grassed-area (irregular hexagon, left) became the first casino we ever experienced. There were the high rollers, the pigeons, the wheelers, the dealers and the stealers.
We didn't have a large circle from which we would try to knock each others marbles. Instead two players started side-by-side and took it in turns to hit the other's marble, keeping the marbles on the grass. You could throw yours to the other side of the grass if you wanted a long match (or if you were a chicken), or you could drop it close by for a genuine battle of skills and wills (or if you were stupid).
The match was only a part of the battle. First you had to negotiate terms and values. One marble was not worth another. If fact, I would venture that this is still the case. Along with the patrons of the marble field (as it was known), there were officials. Marble experts who could be relied upon to correctly judge the value of one marble for another or go through your collection to decide what was worth playing for and who was trying it on. Of course this system was entirely corrupt. The marble expert was often chosen purely because they were bigger and/or bossier than the opponent. Having a grade seven with a large Spiderman t-shirt and real acne tell you that your Big Bluies would have to be included as a prize along with the lowly Cats-Eye for it to be worth a Tri-Colour BirdShit was often authority enough for anybody who didn't want to be seen as a wuss.
The experts would also hold the winner's prize in escrow on particularly big matches, but, since The Sopranos hadn't been thought of yet, they never took a cut.

Every Marble Craze Phase was divided into roughly three eras that would last anything from a few days to a few weeks.

1. Innocent Fun
A few kids bring their marbles to school in their pockets and play a few rounds on the grass. At the beginning of this sweet and simple time kids would even take back the marbles they played with. No one lost their possessions; it was all for the love of the game. After a while a few more kids would remember that they too liked playing marbles, and had them at home. They would bring their own and the more competitive types would begin challenging one another. Bitty Bins would appear, making the beginning of ...

2. The Rush
The grassed area would be crowded. All shapes and sizes. Every second player would have a Bitty Bin tucked under their arm. Gazes were intense. Skills were building with daily play and those with classrooms nearer the grass would always snag the best first few rounds just after the bell before the masses began arriving. Long bombs would pay off and the distinctive, grinding click of hardened glass balls knocking together sounded like the faint rustle of poker chips in a late-night gambling den. The big marbles would appear. The Tombolla sizes and the Giants above them. Rich kids began high-stakes games from which the casualties would begin to mount. Bigger Bitty Bins would appear and the pros even had flunkies to carry them while they played. Then, it would happen. Someone would challenge someone who wasn't ready for it, but didn't want to back down. Their favourite marble would be played and lost and the first tear to fall on the well-trodden grass would signal ...

3. The Ban.
The ban wouldn't happen at first, but it was in the air. Once that first tear rolled off that first quivering cheek. Once that first pout followed the prized Reddy as it floated away from its family (often having been there for generations) and into the 4-litre Bitty Bin of a dead-eye pro. That's when a teacher on yard duty would have to spend most of their time hovering, trying to make sure that the kids in the cubby house weren't about to jump off the roof while simultaneously keeping an adult eye on nineteen separate marble matches to ensure that no one was violating the School Rule about personal possessions. Too much. At around this time the grassed area became known as The Marble Yard or The Arena and it was patrolled by either dead-set, sharp-shooting pros or the angry, confident, future-poker-machine addicts, certain that they could take their last few Galaxies, challenge for that Swamp Tombolla and really turn the tables. Stakes were ionospheric. For a time, the eye of the storm would descend and many gathered to watch the big dogs take one another on for marbles that most would never see up close, let alone touch, let alone own. Then came that sound, and that cry.
'Marble scatter!'
No sound is so electrifyingly, terrifyingly sweet. Sometimes you would hear it during The Rush. Some kid would actually just drop their Bitty Bin and we would all swarm like coked-up seagulls, digging in the dirt and shovelling handfuls of marbles into our pockets while the poor, clumsy owner attempted to both scoop as many marbles back into the container as possible through tears of desperation, and dispense a few elbows about the place to curtail the massive losses they were about to sustain. If a teacher were around, it was simple to claim an insatiable altruistic urge:
'I was just helping him pick them up!'
If no teacher was around, then old Slippery Fingers had better have some persuasive friends or they would be left with a runny nose and a rattly Bitty Bin at the end of the day to help explain to Mum and Dad why taking toys to school was a safe idea.
However, during the time of The Ban, marble scatters were less ... accidental. If you were to unlock the lid of your Bin, then you had better check around first, because all it takes is one burnt, vindictive eight-year-old to believe that you didn't win his Jelly fair and square to walk by, grab the edge of your Bin and yank downwards.
'Marble scatter!'
The marble scatter from a high-roller was doubly delicious. Especially if it happened on bricks, cement or, best of all, inside on a hardwood floor. The same aural rush can only be had by a embezzling slot-jockey when the royal flush turns up. Ch-Ching! Whoosh!! Endorphins and joy!
That's when it starts getting dirty. That's when it's the beginning of the end. It can only be a matter of hours before all marbles are banned from school property. One ban happened after someone pulled a marble scatter next to a major road. Lucky no valuable ones rolled out under the taxis on their speedy way towards the South Terrace Hotels or there would have been a flew still-confident pigeons who ended their rolling days the way they lived them: chasing the beautiful glass balls.

Then all would be quiet, until the next craze hit the school. Snap-bracelets, basketballs, Tazos, skateboards and eventually, like a really hot summer or Australia winning a big soccer match ... marbles would once again come around, and the gentle click of fun and nostalgia could be heard, waiting for the Bitty Bins to arrive.

***
GTH
River once again takes the honours. It is indeed an old chain covered in guano and all the symbolism about the links that the internet forges and the conditions under which it forges them that goes along with that kind of thing.
Better luck this week gang!

Overheard in Adelaide

True, you don't seem to hear quite as many juicy tidbits of hilarity in Adelaide as you do in New York, but in the spirit of cultural research (eavesdropping) here is a conversation I was privy to at the latest meeting of The Gun Club.

Power-lifter #1: Hey, I brought my muscle-shirt along today!
Power-lifter #2: Yeah?
(Power-lifter #1 removes jumper to reveal baggy white Everlast wife-beater and flexes considerably large muscles for Power-lifter #2)
Power-lifter #2: Oh, I thought it was going to be the one that made you look gay.
Power-lifter #1: Eh?
Power-lifter #2: You know - that tight, red one. It makes you look gay.
Power-lifter #1: Nah - I wore that yesterday.

Such are the wonderful things one overhears (eavesdrops upon) in the company of muscular young man. It was a wonderful day for listening in, because after my own gun-related workshopping, I overheard this little ditty:

Gunshy* undergrad (talking to friends next to sit-up machine): So she's like "I've got stomach cramps and I've missed my period".
Friend: Oh man!
Gunshy* undergrad: I know! And he's like "I'm not worried, whatever". That's bullshit, man. I don't care how tough you are, any man hears "stomach cramps, missed period" is going to be worried.

There were then various speculations about the virtuousness of the lady that I won't get into here because they were rude.

I don't think anyone has noticed, but I'm instituting a new theme to celebrate both the embracing of Blogger and the Having a Talk with tBlog. The theme is basically, for every new post I post, I will change the background image of the title header. Last post it contained a genuine Yorke Peninsula alpaca, for this post it is an attractive Yorke Peninsula-caught-and-killed Blue Swimmer (see video below). Every time I write a new post, I will put up a new header so that those without RSS know-how who check back every day and sometimes twice a day just to see if I've written some new self-centred polemic on popular-culture or posted another mildly embarrassing episode from my childhood will get that extra thrill of excitement when they see the new photo strip in the header.
But wait - there's more!
I will also be holding a little competition - guess where the header is from! Points are given for creativity and geographic proximity. Google Maps locations will be richly rewarded. With what? With kudos. Nothing more than net-related kudos. I have already ruined this post's by giving it away, so the (minimal) fun begins next time. Thematic clues will be hidden within the post. And so, here is the crab, getting the way we see it above:


Speaking of themes: here is an artsy photo I took last weekend in Yorke Peninsula.

It's part of an old amenities block for an industrial thingy that we've only ever seen from the road when we whiz past and think 'I wonder why that shed is on the top of that pole? I really must stop and take a look'. This time we did stop and take a look and were none the wiser. It appeared to be some kind of smelter or heat-based apparatus. Anyone who could enlighten me as to its function will be greatly appreciated. It might even post a few more photos of various bits of it if that would help.
























You can't really see the bottom from the road, so it does look a bit strange. Bear in mind that it's the only thing taller than a tree for kilometres in every direction.



































*Gunshy - one who wears a long-sleeved t-shirt to Gun Club

Only a gig ... that poor little mite

I know it's el Crappo to basically just lift web content straight off of other sites like boingboing and The Age, but this video is worth a bit of a post.



This one, however, I found all by myself