I bet the job I have is better than the job you have.
I get to talk to people all day until the time when I get to do even better things and it's all in the name of helping people help themselves. What's more I was offered this job by a beautiful woman and now it's progressing apace. (No, the job, not the beautiful woman. Sheesh, you should know me better than that by now.)
My first week was such a blinder I can scarcely wait to start the second week.
Great people, great location, love the office and fkn LOVE the job and it's going to get even better very very shortly. When they give me a key, I can see myself setting up a camp bed in there and working 24/7 (ish.)
Go on tell me how jealous you are.
Sunday, February 20, 2005
Sunday, February 13, 2005
Ok, here I am dutybound to blog something which, for me at any rate, is always a pleasure.
Call me every dirty name under the sun but there are times when I just LOVE name-dropping and having been poking around one of the few blogs actually worthy of the time, I'm taking this opportunity to bomb google with a link to THE blog. Not just any blog, but THE blog.
The mother of all blogs.
Now here's something you don't know.
In my other bit of blattery, I chided the BLOG god because of an extended period of introspection and he finally got jack of it - and rightly so I might add - and let me know in no uncertain terms what he thought of it. Funny thing is though, another subscriber thought it was him and cursed me out black and blue. The BLOG god was being introspective, the other bloke was, correction IS, seriously in danger of disappearing into his own navel never to be seen again.
He took a swipe at me after the third in the Self Help trilogy of my newsletter came out, but only because he doesn't have the means to come after me with a gun.
In this battle of egos, I'm left wondering where I sit. On one hand, the BLOG god told me off and that was fair enough, but this other bloke went ballistic. Touched a nerve I guess. I love my subscribers and fortunately I haven't lost this chap, but his ego must have taken a pounding for him to come out swinging like that. My ego was, on the one side restored to its rightful place in the natural equilibrium, but on the other, it wasn't remotely budged by this other chap - whom it must be said I hold in fairly high esteem as well - who went right off thinking I was writing about him.
Here's why I wasn't moved:
There's a place for poetry and it's not under my eyes. I hate poetry. Despise it. I like odes, but poetry is for cancerous old browniehounds entering their dotage and taking the opportunity to behave like teenangsters and I spurn them openly.
I'm also not fond of teenangsters.
Am I dithering a bit here? I suppose I am a bit but I have an excuse and if any of you had taken the time to explore where those hyperlinked words go, you'd understand instantly why I have taken this opportunity to express these loosely connected thoughts here.
Here's the bit that got me:
I ran across the following via Technorati while ego-surfing for CBO links. David Churbuck, the blogger what wrote it, is an old pal (more about which below), but we'd been out of touch for years. So, just for the record, I had nothing to do with this glowing endorsement.
So that's why I've taken this opportunity to splatter CBO links all over this particular entry.
Incidentally, and this is a confession and a half on my part, I replied to the email I received with words to the effect that next time any of my beloved subscribers badgered me to put out one of my newsletters, I'd tell them to fuck off. So, just to set your minds at rest, I was not in anyway directed to make amends for my latest screed nor was I admonished in such fashion that I feel or felt obliged to resume my place in the general scheme of e-things. No. The reason I am so blatantly fawning - yes fawning - is because unlike the preceeding episode which precipitated my three in a row rant against navel gazing, the linkages above all lead to something I not only enjoy immensely, but reckon anyone brave enough to click on one of those links will also enjoy just possibly enough to even thank me for pointing them in the right direction.
After all, this is the bloke who started me writing on the internet in the first place.
Don't like it? Blame him. I'm sure he'll give you the same response I will for wasting his time but will be fascinated to know who sent you.
Would that you did because you'll thank me later if there's even a shred of decency about you. Lord knows there isn't one about me.
Call me every dirty name under the sun but there are times when I just LOVE name-dropping and having been poking around one of the few blogs actually worthy of the time, I'm taking this opportunity to bomb google with a link to THE blog. Not just any blog, but THE blog.
The mother of all blogs.
Now here's something you don't know.
In my other bit of blattery, I chided the BLOG god because of an extended period of introspection and he finally got jack of it - and rightly so I might add - and let me know in no uncertain terms what he thought of it. Funny thing is though, another subscriber thought it was him and cursed me out black and blue. The BLOG god was being introspective, the other bloke was, correction IS, seriously in danger of disappearing into his own navel never to be seen again.
He took a swipe at me after the third in the Self Help trilogy of my newsletter came out, but only because he doesn't have the means to come after me with a gun.
In this battle of egos, I'm left wondering where I sit. On one hand, the BLOG god told me off and that was fair enough, but this other bloke went ballistic. Touched a nerve I guess. I love my subscribers and fortunately I haven't lost this chap, but his ego must have taken a pounding for him to come out swinging like that. My ego was, on the one side restored to its rightful place in the natural equilibrium, but on the other, it wasn't remotely budged by this other chap - whom it must be said I hold in fairly high esteem as well - who went right off thinking I was writing about him.
Here's why I wasn't moved:
There's a place for poetry and it's not under my eyes. I hate poetry. Despise it. I like odes, but poetry is for cancerous old browniehounds entering their dotage and taking the opportunity to behave like teenangsters and I spurn them openly.
I'm also not fond of teenangsters.
Am I dithering a bit here? I suppose I am a bit but I have an excuse and if any of you had taken the time to explore where those hyperlinked words go, you'd understand instantly why I have taken this opportunity to express these loosely connected thoughts here.
Here's the bit that got me:
I ran across the following via Technorati while ego-surfing for CBO links. David Churbuck, the blogger what wrote it, is an old pal (more about which below), but we'd been out of touch for years. So, just for the record, I had nothing to do with this glowing endorsement.
So that's why I've taken this opportunity to splatter CBO links all over this particular entry.
Incidentally, and this is a confession and a half on my part, I replied to the email I received with words to the effect that next time any of my beloved subscribers badgered me to put out one of my newsletters, I'd tell them to fuck off. So, just to set your minds at rest, I was not in anyway directed to make amends for my latest screed nor was I admonished in such fashion that I feel or felt obliged to resume my place in the general scheme of e-things. No. The reason I am so blatantly fawning - yes fawning - is because unlike the preceeding episode which precipitated my three in a row rant against navel gazing, the linkages above all lead to something I not only enjoy immensely, but reckon anyone brave enough to click on one of those links will also enjoy just possibly enough to even thank me for pointing them in the right direction.
After all, this is the bloke who started me writing on the internet in the first place.
Don't like it? Blame him. I'm sure he'll give you the same response I will for wasting his time but will be fascinated to know who sent you.
Would that you did because you'll thank me later if there's even a shred of decency about you. Lord knows there isn't one about me.
Wednesday, February 02, 2005
How do people get better in hospitals?
The food is enough to kill an ox. I got served this nukey boxed laundry sponge the other day which was supposed to be a crumbed fillet of whiting.
I took one look under the tin lid and pushed the tray away before it attacked me.
"What" you may ask, "was I doing back in hospital?"
Well, I'm glad you asked, and I'll provide as much detail as possible so you don't have to send emails asking for even more detail because I don't like that sort of thing.
It's common knowledge I've had two heart attacks over the last 30 months, but what you probably didn't know is that the bits of me that are supposed to keep my blood healthy are themselves not entirely functioning on high beam. The result is my blood is full of shit that shouldn't be there and the trespassers in my system love it. In 2003, one of these little bastards made its home in one of my valves, brought its friends and lovers around for a housewarming and before anyone knew what was going on, bug city was a thriving metropolis, thriving its little heart out - in my heart.
Yes I know, what a bunch of bastards.
The upshot of it is I get angina on a regular basis and bad tempered on an almost permanent basis and hospitalised with annoying regularity.
Years ago when my kidneys failed and I spent 6 days in hospital, the food was great. I ate better in hospital than I do at home and I'd snoop around looking for seconds. But since 2002, it has been a gastronomic nightmare. When I was last in hospital in 2003, my hopes of a return to culinary form from those in charge of the mess tent were dashed. It was just tasteless, tepid papier mache dross, the likes of which you wouldn't even expect in a railway diner. How they could possibly have made it any worse is a mystery, but they have.
I've been in and out for the last two weeks (give or take) with more than one overnight stay and my desperation to be discharged is directly proportional to the quality of the food. Or more accurately, the apparent danger of eating anything they put in front of me.
I had to get discharged if only to allay my hunger. Never mind if I had to be readmitted 36 hours later, and it's not like they care. Every time they readmit me, they get a budgetary allowance from the government for more than it really costs to keep me from slipping off the twig altogether.
That carefully disguised item they tried to tell me was fish looked more like something they'd hit with a broom, stunned with lemon juice then smothered with corn flake crumbs before finally leaving it infront of a radar because the ovens were on the fritz.
Sure they can autoclave the cutlery for the sake of hygiene but what's the point of eating with perfectly sanitary cutlery when the meal itself is so damn suspect? It either wasn't properly dead, or it had been dead for 270 years. Either way, it was not going to find its way past my epiglotis.
I don't get scared very easily - that comes with not giving a shit about very much - but when I lifted that lid the other day, I damn near panicked. If someone tried to make me eat that, my only recourse would have been to hit out or make a run for it. And I wasn't properly dressed to make a run for it.
My blood has enough shit in it without adding to it artificially by eating food that defies description as well as identification.
So that's about when I discharged myself, spurred on by an instinct for self preservation and a rumbly tummy that wanted something it could not only hope to ingest, but could actually convert to something useful to me and not the colonies living in the valves of my heart.
I wobbled my way to a taxi and went home for a Vegemite sandwich, a cup of coffee and three cigarettes before falling asleep on the couch after the cricket finished. (Australia beat West Indies.)
I'm not supposed to be smoking either. It's bad for my heart. Too bad. I still maintain trying to stop me smoking is bad for the whole world. I'm angry, nasty and ornery enough without being denied my little indulgence.
Only thing is now I haven't worked for more than two weeks and I can't even afford a bus ride to my next job appointment or even to put juice in the car for the appointment after that.
But I still have the internet until Feb 15 when my ISP tries to get it's monthly due and discovers there's nothing there. After that, your guess is as good as mine on whether or not I shall be able to invade cyberspace and frighten up a few lefties.
Here's to the future: Let's get it over with as quickly as possible.
The food is enough to kill an ox. I got served this nukey boxed laundry sponge the other day which was supposed to be a crumbed fillet of whiting.
I took one look under the tin lid and pushed the tray away before it attacked me.
"What" you may ask, "was I doing back in hospital?"
Well, I'm glad you asked, and I'll provide as much detail as possible so you don't have to send emails asking for even more detail because I don't like that sort of thing.
It's common knowledge I've had two heart attacks over the last 30 months, but what you probably didn't know is that the bits of me that are supposed to keep my blood healthy are themselves not entirely functioning on high beam. The result is my blood is full of shit that shouldn't be there and the trespassers in my system love it. In 2003, one of these little bastards made its home in one of my valves, brought its friends and lovers around for a housewarming and before anyone knew what was going on, bug city was a thriving metropolis, thriving its little heart out - in my heart.
Yes I know, what a bunch of bastards.
The upshot of it is I get angina on a regular basis and bad tempered on an almost permanent basis and hospitalised with annoying regularity.
Years ago when my kidneys failed and I spent 6 days in hospital, the food was great. I ate better in hospital than I do at home and I'd snoop around looking for seconds. But since 2002, it has been a gastronomic nightmare. When I was last in hospital in 2003, my hopes of a return to culinary form from those in charge of the mess tent were dashed. It was just tasteless, tepid papier mache dross, the likes of which you wouldn't even expect in a railway diner. How they could possibly have made it any worse is a mystery, but they have.
I've been in and out for the last two weeks (give or take) with more than one overnight stay and my desperation to be discharged is directly proportional to the quality of the food. Or more accurately, the apparent danger of eating anything they put in front of me.
I had to get discharged if only to allay my hunger. Never mind if I had to be readmitted 36 hours later, and it's not like they care. Every time they readmit me, they get a budgetary allowance from the government for more than it really costs to keep me from slipping off the twig altogether.
That carefully disguised item they tried to tell me was fish looked more like something they'd hit with a broom, stunned with lemon juice then smothered with corn flake crumbs before finally leaving it infront of a radar because the ovens were on the fritz.
Sure they can autoclave the cutlery for the sake of hygiene but what's the point of eating with perfectly sanitary cutlery when the meal itself is so damn suspect? It either wasn't properly dead, or it had been dead for 270 years. Either way, it was not going to find its way past my epiglotis.
I don't get scared very easily - that comes with not giving a shit about very much - but when I lifted that lid the other day, I damn near panicked. If someone tried to make me eat that, my only recourse would have been to hit out or make a run for it. And I wasn't properly dressed to make a run for it.
My blood has enough shit in it without adding to it artificially by eating food that defies description as well as identification.
So that's about when I discharged myself, spurred on by an instinct for self preservation and a rumbly tummy that wanted something it could not only hope to ingest, but could actually convert to something useful to me and not the colonies living in the valves of my heart.
I wobbled my way to a taxi and went home for a Vegemite sandwich, a cup of coffee and three cigarettes before falling asleep on the couch after the cricket finished. (Australia beat West Indies.)
I'm not supposed to be smoking either. It's bad for my heart. Too bad. I still maintain trying to stop me smoking is bad for the whole world. I'm angry, nasty and ornery enough without being denied my little indulgence.
Only thing is now I haven't worked for more than two weeks and I can't even afford a bus ride to my next job appointment or even to put juice in the car for the appointment after that.
But I still have the internet until Feb 15 when my ISP tries to get it's monthly due and discovers there's nothing there. After that, your guess is as good as mine on whether or not I shall be able to invade cyberspace and frighten up a few lefties.
Here's to the future: Let's get it over with as quickly as possible.
Wednesday, January 05, 2005
Bloggy Hell It's ChatRat
I've written one book and got the play finished. Now I have two books floating around in my head. One is the second volume of The Swamp, the name of which I'm tentatively (and tantalisingly dangerously) thinking will contain the name of one of the singularly most unimpressive retail establishments which has success in the market place conversely relative to the quality of its merchandise thanks to the stupidity of the mindless automaton victims of annoying marketing tactics who shop there. I'm talking about K-Mart.
Yes, I'm giving serious consideration to putting K-Mart in the title of the second collection of Swamp missives.
The title I have swimming around in that cerebral cesspool otherwise known as my head goes something along the lines of "The dreams of morons who shop at K-MART are just like the stuff they buy there: CRAP. So that from a distance, it looks like K-MART are CRAP.
Shit, I'm missing Voyager.
Piss off and do something constructive instead of wasting your synapses on the internet.
I've written one book and got the play finished. Now I have two books floating around in my head. One is the second volume of The Swamp, the name of which I'm tentatively (and tantalisingly dangerously) thinking will contain the name of one of the singularly most unimpressive retail establishments which has success in the market place conversely relative to the quality of its merchandise thanks to the stupidity of the mindless automaton victims of annoying marketing tactics who shop there. I'm talking about K-Mart.
Yes, I'm giving serious consideration to putting K-Mart in the title of the second collection of Swamp missives.
The title I have swimming around in that cerebral cesspool otherwise known as my head goes something along the lines of "The dreams of morons who shop at K-MART are just like the stuff they buy there: CRAP. So that from a distance, it looks like K-MART are CRAP.
Shit, I'm missing Voyager.
Piss off and do something constructive instead of wasting your synapses on the internet.
Monday, November 15, 2004
In his first visit to the sunken wreck of the Titanic since 1985, Bob Ballard was shocked at how fast the wreckage had deteriorated and he wants the US Congress to pass legislation giving greater protection ot the sunken vessel.
Huh?
The tub is in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean - international waters. And it's two miles down.
Bob Ballard says most alarming is the damage caused by submersibles landing on the deck.
Damage? It's a fucking shipwreck. Let's just put a little perspective on this. The boat's fucked. It's not like you can paddle your inflatable dinghy out to take photos of the thing on a sunny Sunday afternoon, it's at the bottom of the ocean and you need serious cash and not a little gumption to land a submersible on it. For what purpose and to whose benefit is it to 'preserve' a decaying hunk of metal so far removed from Joe Public the only ones who care what happens to it are those thinking they can profit from it somehow.
Including Bob Ballard.
And what kind of absurd conceit firstly to approach the US Congress to IMPOSE a solution on the rest of the population of planet Earth concerning a decaying lump of metal 2 miles beneath the surface of the middle of nowhere, and secondly to actually believe they would or could do anything to make sure Bob Ballard's rights are given preference over these vandals to make money out of the Titanic at the expense of those who are actually now investing their time, money and lives beating him to the spoils.
I want to kill Bob Ballard. People that unbalanced are a danger to the gene pool.
What a cunt.
And there's more from today's edition of MX that has for the moment planted me firmly into a world of surrealism.
Junk food ads are set to be banned before 9pm in Britain because pommy kids are turning into fat little pooh bears. This is a move to 'protect' children watching early evening television.
Can anyone else see 500 million cubic feet of irony here or is it just me?
And finally...
Ian Fothergill has started up his own business removing dog shit from the backyards of the dogs' owners. With such an outstanding degree of laziness on the part of dog owners in Tasmania, I am looking forward to an exponential increase of double chins on both faces of the two headed Australians.
This week is not the week to be buying up big on lottery tickets methinks. Then again, with this much weird shit happening here and around the world, maybe karma is so fucked up right now, it may give me a win by accident.
Huh?
The tub is in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean - international waters. And it's two miles down.
Bob Ballard says most alarming is the damage caused by submersibles landing on the deck.
Damage? It's a fucking shipwreck. Let's just put a little perspective on this. The boat's fucked. It's not like you can paddle your inflatable dinghy out to take photos of the thing on a sunny Sunday afternoon, it's at the bottom of the ocean and you need serious cash and not a little gumption to land a submersible on it. For what purpose and to whose benefit is it to 'preserve' a decaying hunk of metal so far removed from Joe Public the only ones who care what happens to it are those thinking they can profit from it somehow.
Including Bob Ballard.
And what kind of absurd conceit firstly to approach the US Congress to IMPOSE a solution on the rest of the population of planet Earth concerning a decaying lump of metal 2 miles beneath the surface of the middle of nowhere, and secondly to actually believe they would or could do anything to make sure Bob Ballard's rights are given preference over these vandals to make money out of the Titanic at the expense of those who are actually now investing their time, money and lives beating him to the spoils.
I want to kill Bob Ballard. People that unbalanced are a danger to the gene pool.
What a cunt.
And there's more from today's edition of MX that has for the moment planted me firmly into a world of surrealism.
Junk food ads are set to be banned before 9pm in Britain because pommy kids are turning into fat little pooh bears. This is a move to 'protect' children watching early evening television.
Can anyone else see 500 million cubic feet of irony here or is it just me?
And finally...
Ian Fothergill has started up his own business removing dog shit from the backyards of the dogs' owners. With such an outstanding degree of laziness on the part of dog owners in Tasmania, I am looking forward to an exponential increase of double chins on both faces of the two headed Australians.
This week is not the week to be buying up big on lottery tickets methinks. Then again, with this much weird shit happening here and around the world, maybe karma is so fucked up right now, it may give me a win by accident.
Tuesday, July 06, 2004
There are people employed to be at the service of others. These people are supposed to be encouraging of their clients and whilst catering to the needs of their clients, they're also supposed to ensure their clients meet their part of the bargain.
What a dicey situation in which to be.
If these agents were good, I'd live in their offices. But they're not. They walk this intricate web which marks the boundaries between those who use the service on one side, those who use it on the other side and their own needs as an independent business.
In other words, they're pimps.
These pimps dress in business attire and talk the talk of the business type individual.
So, naturally without being offensive you understand, I do my very best to circumvent all this straight lacedness. In short, I swear a lot. I do it in a non-threatening way of course; I wouldn't want to cause any actual offence - or commit one, but there is no way I'm going to allow them to get the better of me in any way, shape or form.
I'm their client. They are my agent. I can take my business elsewhere if I don't like them and they had just better remember that. In short, they have to put up with my shit whether they like it or not. If I do something outlandish, as is fairly often the case, they have to live with it. End of story.
I just got off the phone to my agent and told him of my latest bit of writing, which was pretty much 90% bullshit, but the punter bought it hook, line and sinker. I told my agent it was pretty much all bullshit and if the punter checks it, I'm basically fucked. And with the usage of the words "bullshit" and "fucked" I could hear my agent squirm in his seat with the discomfiture of it.
The sound of someone's unease through the telephone is, I just rediscovered, immensely amusing.
Here's something you might like to try...
Ring someone up and ask them if they want the good news or the bad news. Guage their reaction. Tell me if I'm wrong about this.
If they say they want the good news, just tell them to Google "ChatRat" and let them find out for themselves what the good news is. If they ask for the bad news, tell them you've been reading this blog and have all manner of evil ideas.
It's more fun when you don't care.
No, I mean when you REALLY don't care. :)
What a dicey situation in which to be.
If these agents were good, I'd live in their offices. But they're not. They walk this intricate web which marks the boundaries between those who use the service on one side, those who use it on the other side and their own needs as an independent business.
In other words, they're pimps.
These pimps dress in business attire and talk the talk of the business type individual.
So, naturally without being offensive you understand, I do my very best to circumvent all this straight lacedness. In short, I swear a lot. I do it in a non-threatening way of course; I wouldn't want to cause any actual offence - or commit one, but there is no way I'm going to allow them to get the better of me in any way, shape or form.
I'm their client. They are my agent. I can take my business elsewhere if I don't like them and they had just better remember that. In short, they have to put up with my shit whether they like it or not. If I do something outlandish, as is fairly often the case, they have to live with it. End of story.
I just got off the phone to my agent and told him of my latest bit of writing, which was pretty much 90% bullshit, but the punter bought it hook, line and sinker. I told my agent it was pretty much all bullshit and if the punter checks it, I'm basically fucked. And with the usage of the words "bullshit" and "fucked" I could hear my agent squirm in his seat with the discomfiture of it.
The sound of someone's unease through the telephone is, I just rediscovered, immensely amusing.
Here's something you might like to try...
Ring someone up and ask them if they want the good news or the bad news. Guage their reaction. Tell me if I'm wrong about this.
If they say they want the good news, just tell them to Google "ChatRat" and let them find out for themselves what the good news is. If they ask for the bad news, tell them you've been reading this blog and have all manner of evil ideas.
It's more fun when you don't care.
No, I mean when you REALLY don't care. :)
Saturday, July 03, 2004
Well I'm just too good!
I have just one option for selling a book through CafePress.com and I put out a collection of my internet musings over the last 3 years, designed a front cover, back cover and spine and within two days, one charming individiual had already bought it.
So how good do you think I feel right now!
The Swamp is and has been my pride and joy on the net since May 2001 and all this time later, It has accrued 98 messages in total and ZERO FlyBuys points!
I've been trying to get someone on my side of the International Date Line to buy the thing and snail mail it to me, but no luck so far. I've offered to pay for it, of course and I've even offered to pay for a second copy so some lucky punter with a credit card could order two, send both to me upon receipt of my payment, then I'd autograph one and send it back.
I mean, how good's that?
You get a free book AND it's autographed by the author and all it has cost, basically, is a few bits of clickage from the comfort of your own home.
Go on, be brave...
The Little Shop of Rat's.
And after having quit all my msn groups bar one or two (down from about 13) I finally put my pyreighted version of Photoshop to good use and designed a few t-shirts.
Forty of them in 4 weeks to be precise.
There's a link to the "Ratwears" bit of my e-boggery in the Batcave
Only trouble is, I didn't factor postage into the price of the things too well. I'd thought, yeah, $6.50 for international postage but it ain't. It's $10.50 for the first shirt and $8 per shirt after that.
So basically, I set the price too low and ferked myself in the arse costwise.
I am going to have to come up with something really cunning now or the sale of shirts is going to send me to the wall. So if you're going to go and have a look, just look. Don't buy. At least not until I've had a chance to build up some sort of inventory.
As for the rest of the wonderful world according to The Rat, it's better to be safe and happy in your own home town than visit Rat in his and be forever disatisfied with your own hovel afterwards.
Ah, the joys of living in Melbourne.
It's almost better than chocolate. :)
I have just one option for selling a book through CafePress.com and I put out a collection of my internet musings over the last 3 years, designed a front cover, back cover and spine and within two days, one charming individiual had already bought it.
So how good do you think I feel right now!
The Swamp is and has been my pride and joy on the net since May 2001 and all this time later, It has accrued 98 messages in total and ZERO FlyBuys points!
I've been trying to get someone on my side of the International Date Line to buy the thing and snail mail it to me, but no luck so far. I've offered to pay for it, of course and I've even offered to pay for a second copy so some lucky punter with a credit card could order two, send both to me upon receipt of my payment, then I'd autograph one and send it back.
I mean, how good's that?
You get a free book AND it's autographed by the author and all it has cost, basically, is a few bits of clickage from the comfort of your own home.
Go on, be brave...
The Little Shop of Rat's.
And after having quit all my msn groups bar one or two (down from about 13) I finally put my pyreighted version of Photoshop to good use and designed a few t-shirts.
Forty of them in 4 weeks to be precise.
There's a link to the "Ratwears" bit of my e-boggery in the Batcave
Only trouble is, I didn't factor postage into the price of the things too well. I'd thought, yeah, $6.50 for international postage but it ain't. It's $10.50 for the first shirt and $8 per shirt after that.
So basically, I set the price too low and ferked myself in the arse costwise.
I am going to have to come up with something really cunning now or the sale of shirts is going to send me to the wall. So if you're going to go and have a look, just look. Don't buy. At least not until I've had a chance to build up some sort of inventory.
As for the rest of the wonderful world according to The Rat, it's better to be safe and happy in your own home town than visit Rat in his and be forever disatisfied with your own hovel afterwards.
Ah, the joys of living in Melbourne.
It's almost better than chocolate. :)
Saturday, June 05, 2004
In the world of idiots, there are those who acknowledge the fact they're idiots and there are those who never will.
I don't like either variety.
If you just happen to be an idiot, do your best to hide the fact, preferably by keeping your fingers off the fucking keyboard. If you can't supress the urge to write, at least have the decency not to tell everyone you're an idiot. If we have to put up with your inane dribble, we sure as hell don't want to have your dirty laundry waved in our faces as well.
Netizens should be harsh with idiots. Stomp them back into the ground wherever you encounter them. They are not worthy of taking up bandwidth. They are the reason supermarkets were invented. They have no idea about what they want so they just grab whatever is available, hence Safeway make a fortune out of them. If these idiots had brains, they'd take a shopping list, spend one third as much as they do and keep the express lanes clear for people who actually do have a brain.
Bastards.
It's these idiots who feel that just because they have a place to splatter their braindead opinions around the place that others actually want to read them. Get a clue, dippies, we don't.
Nobody gives a fuck about your boyfriend/girlfriend troubles - unless you stitched them up in amusing fashion. Nobody cares about the problems your kids are having at school. They're probably fat little pooh bears anyway. Euthanise them now before they make other people suffer later. Fat fuckers are the worst kind of loonies. It's true, just watch an episode of Rikki or Springer and see just how many fat fucks there are on those shows.
Pasty faced morons.
I watch one episode per year of those shows and nothing changes except the level of my incredulity that anyone can be that fucking stupid. It makes it easy to see how Bush got elected.
I'm fed to the back teeth of idiots - especially on the net.
I bailed from almost all of my haunts. Just packed my shit up and left. At least here I can tell you all what a pack of thick mother fuckers you are and nobody is going to assail me with their "Oh yeah, well guess what..." Especially stupid people try that thinking I somehow give a tinker's damn what they think or that they're going to have some sort of influence on my thinking.
Here's a hint: I don't care what you think. If you don't like what I've said, sux to be you. If you do like what I've said, good for you, I still don't want to know about it. Just go about your daily business and don't try to engage me in your tiny little worlds because I'm not interested.
This is my vent space, not yours. And my email is for people I want to email, it's not for you to tell me what I already know - that you're not happy with what I've said, and by default, that you are an out and out moron.
My advice is to go teach a pig to speak. It will doubtless prove more intelligent than you anyway.
I don't like either variety.
If you just happen to be an idiot, do your best to hide the fact, preferably by keeping your fingers off the fucking keyboard. If you can't supress the urge to write, at least have the decency not to tell everyone you're an idiot. If we have to put up with your inane dribble, we sure as hell don't want to have your dirty laundry waved in our faces as well.
Netizens should be harsh with idiots. Stomp them back into the ground wherever you encounter them. They are not worthy of taking up bandwidth. They are the reason supermarkets were invented. They have no idea about what they want so they just grab whatever is available, hence Safeway make a fortune out of them. If these idiots had brains, they'd take a shopping list, spend one third as much as they do and keep the express lanes clear for people who actually do have a brain.
Bastards.
It's these idiots who feel that just because they have a place to splatter their braindead opinions around the place that others actually want to read them. Get a clue, dippies, we don't.
Nobody gives a fuck about your boyfriend/girlfriend troubles - unless you stitched them up in amusing fashion. Nobody cares about the problems your kids are having at school. They're probably fat little pooh bears anyway. Euthanise them now before they make other people suffer later. Fat fuckers are the worst kind of loonies. It's true, just watch an episode of Rikki or Springer and see just how many fat fucks there are on those shows.
Pasty faced morons.
I watch one episode per year of those shows and nothing changes except the level of my incredulity that anyone can be that fucking stupid. It makes it easy to see how Bush got elected.
I'm fed to the back teeth of idiots - especially on the net.
I bailed from almost all of my haunts. Just packed my shit up and left. At least here I can tell you all what a pack of thick mother fuckers you are and nobody is going to assail me with their "Oh yeah, well guess what..." Especially stupid people try that thinking I somehow give a tinker's damn what they think or that they're going to have some sort of influence on my thinking.
Here's a hint: I don't care what you think. If you don't like what I've said, sux to be you. If you do like what I've said, good for you, I still don't want to know about it. Just go about your daily business and don't try to engage me in your tiny little worlds because I'm not interested.
This is my vent space, not yours. And my email is for people I want to email, it's not for you to tell me what I already know - that you're not happy with what I've said, and by default, that you are an out and out moron.
My advice is to go teach a pig to speak. It will doubtless prove more intelligent than you anyway.
Tuesday, June 01, 2004
Writing in short choppy sentences is neither attractive nor artistic. Elongating them is just ugly self indulgence. To put it bluntly, just put it bluntly.
I dislike male authors who write for typically female audience for the same reasons I dislike women authors. There’s just too much damn clutter and a propensity for not telling it like it is, but giving the author’s impression and why. I want to read the story. I want to get from start to finish in as entertained a fashion as I can not spend the entire time trying to sift through the psychological baggage of the author. I have my own baggage; I don’t want theirs as well. I bought the book because I want to read a story, not get an author’s impression of events.
Fortunately, I didn’t buy the book.
Nor will I recommend it and anyone who asks me if I have read it is going to be told I put it back on the shelf after reading the first three pages and skimming through bits and pieces of it. I cut to the chase but even that was painfully beset with literary clutter. I was expecting at any time to see the author address the reader with an example of how an event their life was eerily similar to the story in the book. Instead, I was left thinking the author must have issues with which they can only deal by writing things down in the third person as if these terrible events happened to someone else – only the events weren’t terrible, they were just terribly dull. Anyone who spends two entire pages describing rain hitting a storefront window and being reminded of a family barbecue is not writing a story, they’re wasting time. And for anyone who cares to notice, the beads of condensation running down the sides of a glass filled with champagne look absolutely nothing like raindrops running down a huge storefront window. No they don’t.
This particular book was written by a woman. I’m not going to tell you her name or the name of the book, so don’t waste your time asking. The fact is, I didn’t get the author’s name and I forget the title of the book.
I found myself looking at books because of two I’ve had my nose in recently. The first is the thousand page documentary of The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich by William Shirer and I find myself questioning the accuracy of his work which really is off putting. I’ve already spotted one mistake – or out and out lie, I’m not sure which – and a fair amount of other stuff just doesn’t quite gel with other information I have.
The other book is Account Settled by Hjalmar Schact, who was Hitler’s Minister of Economics from 1934 until 1937. Now, Schact is no writer but he has a hell of a story and it’s the story that is interesting. In fact, it’s better than interesting. There just isn’t a whole lot of aesthetic detail.
Shirer’s book is fascinating for its historical value, but he smatters the pages with his personal opinions. The truth is, he wasn’t present when Ribbentrop signed the Non-Aggression Pact with Stalin, so he has no claim to report how the two men behaved that night based on the available information.
Where Shirer was present in Germany and Austria prior to 1939, he gives descriptions of parades, radio broadcasts, the mood of the populace and so on. That’s valid as far as I’m concerned.
The rest isn’t.
Is it just me, or are things changing in the world of authors?
I dislike male authors who write for typically female audience for the same reasons I dislike women authors. There’s just too much damn clutter and a propensity for not telling it like it is, but giving the author’s impression and why. I want to read the story. I want to get from start to finish in as entertained a fashion as I can not spend the entire time trying to sift through the psychological baggage of the author. I have my own baggage; I don’t want theirs as well. I bought the book because I want to read a story, not get an author’s impression of events.
Fortunately, I didn’t buy the book.
Nor will I recommend it and anyone who asks me if I have read it is going to be told I put it back on the shelf after reading the first three pages and skimming through bits and pieces of it. I cut to the chase but even that was painfully beset with literary clutter. I was expecting at any time to see the author address the reader with an example of how an event their life was eerily similar to the story in the book. Instead, I was left thinking the author must have issues with which they can only deal by writing things down in the third person as if these terrible events happened to someone else – only the events weren’t terrible, they were just terribly dull. Anyone who spends two entire pages describing rain hitting a storefront window and being reminded of a family barbecue is not writing a story, they’re wasting time. And for anyone who cares to notice, the beads of condensation running down the sides of a glass filled with champagne look absolutely nothing like raindrops running down a huge storefront window. No they don’t.
This particular book was written by a woman. I’m not going to tell you her name or the name of the book, so don’t waste your time asking. The fact is, I didn’t get the author’s name and I forget the title of the book.
I found myself looking at books because of two I’ve had my nose in recently. The first is the thousand page documentary of The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich by William Shirer and I find myself questioning the accuracy of his work which really is off putting. I’ve already spotted one mistake – or out and out lie, I’m not sure which – and a fair amount of other stuff just doesn’t quite gel with other information I have.
The other book is Account Settled by Hjalmar Schact, who was Hitler’s Minister of Economics from 1934 until 1937. Now, Schact is no writer but he has a hell of a story and it’s the story that is interesting. In fact, it’s better than interesting. There just isn’t a whole lot of aesthetic detail.
Shirer’s book is fascinating for its historical value, but he smatters the pages with his personal opinions. The truth is, he wasn’t present when Ribbentrop signed the Non-Aggression Pact with Stalin, so he has no claim to report how the two men behaved that night based on the available information.
Where Shirer was present in Germany and Austria prior to 1939, he gives descriptions of parades, radio broadcasts, the mood of the populace and so on. That’s valid as far as I’m concerned.
The rest isn’t.
Is it just me, or are things changing in the world of authors?
Monday, February 23, 2004
My god has it really been 6 months since I last blogged here?
Incredible.
The reason is twofold. I've had writer's block since October last year when some fucked up shit went down in a chatroom and I just didn't feel like being sociable any more. The second reason is because I've been really going berserk fixing up my lovely website.
I have to admit, I really am tickled with the Batcave and also Bravenet web services. I can't recommend them highly enough.
The Batcave (www2.batcave.net) gives you oodles of space and functionality and the freedom to do pretty much whatever you want to do except link to pictures from outside or post porn - but let's face it, porn is so prevalent on the internet these days, it's boring as hell. It makes a change arriving at a site that doesn't actually contain porn.
I have good stuff to laugh at instead. Lots of links leading all over the place and the best part is, since converting the site to a framed site, most of the links are going to bugger up the visitor until I get it all straightened out. I've not done too badly so far. Most of it opens where it's supposed to open.
I didn't Swamp for ages either. 4 months. Gads, my subscribers must have thought I'd given up on them. They knew I wasn't dead or missing in action because they emailed me from time to time to make sure. Isn't that sweet.
I finished my play, converted the archive of the Swamp to pdf format and put both the play and The Swamp up for sale in the batcave too. Had to open a PayPal account to get it all kicking along, but what the hell... now that the account is up and running - and I've started getting money in it - I can put other stuff up for sale as well - my beloved idea of t-shirts and earthware.
Bliss!
Well that's my news, http://chatrat.batcave.net <-- that's my website. It might not look like much to you, but I like it and it's all my own doing.
Nice start to 2004 for The Rat.
:)
Incredible.
The reason is twofold. I've had writer's block since October last year when some fucked up shit went down in a chatroom and I just didn't feel like being sociable any more. The second reason is because I've been really going berserk fixing up my lovely website.
I have to admit, I really am tickled with the Batcave and also Bravenet web services. I can't recommend them highly enough.
The Batcave (www2.batcave.net) gives you oodles of space and functionality and the freedom to do pretty much whatever you want to do except link to pictures from outside or post porn - but let's face it, porn is so prevalent on the internet these days, it's boring as hell. It makes a change arriving at a site that doesn't actually contain porn.
I have good stuff to laugh at instead. Lots of links leading all over the place and the best part is, since converting the site to a framed site, most of the links are going to bugger up the visitor until I get it all straightened out. I've not done too badly so far. Most of it opens where it's supposed to open.
I didn't Swamp for ages either. 4 months. Gads, my subscribers must have thought I'd given up on them. They knew I wasn't dead or missing in action because they emailed me from time to time to make sure. Isn't that sweet.
I finished my play, converted the archive of the Swamp to pdf format and put both the play and The Swamp up for sale in the batcave too. Had to open a PayPal account to get it all kicking along, but what the hell... now that the account is up and running - and I've started getting money in it - I can put other stuff up for sale as well - my beloved idea of t-shirts and earthware.
Bliss!
Well that's my news, http://chatrat.batcave.net <-- that's my website. It might not look like much to you, but I like it and it's all my own doing.
Nice start to 2004 for The Rat.
:)
Thursday, August 21, 2003
To the whiney bitches of the world, collectively and singularly, I say to thee a right royal Fuck Off...
People know I'm rude, nasty, cold hearted, abusive - I'm the embodiment of everything undesirable about males who don't actually go out and inflict physical damage on others or their property.
So I can have civilised conversations which invariably involve the following phrases: I'm single. I'm not looking for a relationship. I loathe all that cutesy pie namby pamby shite, teddy bears and all the bovex associated with Kleenex ads.
And just because I don't (or didn't) go off and abuse [SHE] in this or another conversation, she suddenly thinks she's the exception to the rule, the one who can crack this tough exterior. To her surprise, she finds I'm not impressed and one foot wrong, one word out of place and the icy blast is going to be turned on her just as it is turned on every other dumb bimbo who crosses the bounds of commonsense and my predilection for misogyny.
I told you, I've been telling you as long as you've known me. I'm single, I'm staying that way, I don't want no relationship with someone who is going to expect me home for dinner, who is going to iron my shirts and tut tut because I'm not eating right.
Did you actually have the gaul to think you were going to change me? Change ME???
So, you were on the receiving end of something you found contradicted this stupid idea you've been harbouring that underneath the rough tough exterior, I'm really a sweet guy and you're all hurt and offended. Would it have paid you to remember those sage words I told you when you first started talking to me? I'm a bastard. I have no heart and you can't change me because I don't want to change.
So then what happens?
She runs off and gossips to her friends who all know me as well that I'm some kind of bastard and the shit starts flying in every fucking direction.
Did I ever tell ANYONE anywhere that I'm anything BUT a bastard or an arsehole?
Did I ever at any stage invite you to become emotionally attached to me? No, I most certainly did not.
If you play with fire, you get burnt. Simple. Don't think you are any different from anyone else. You're not.
If you think you can make me change by withdrawing yourself from me and telling EVERYONE that I'm such a bastard, that I lead you on only to turn on you later, you are mistaken.
I am your second to worst nightmare. I am the one who, when he says doesn't give a shit, actually means it.
I came to the internet with no net friends. I found plenty. If you fuck off and start gossipping and telling everyone about me, I don't care. Everytime you say "ChatRat" somewhere on the internet, my identity get's a kick along in the search engine rankings. Talk about me as much as you like, the more you do, the more people realise I am exactly what I say I am. A cold-hearted bastard.
So, new on ChatRat's list of the emotionally damned and terminally stupid are:
Ka-silly-lilly, self proclaimed crone of blogdom - for actually having the stupidity to take on Rageboy at all, and not knowing he has associates who possibly care even less than he does that people like you exist. Know thine enemy, Lily. And know also that there is nothing whatsoever you can do or say to anyone that has the slightest negative impact on me whatsoever.
Silly-Kimi, 26 year old psychotherapist and seriously insane dropkick bitch from hell - not only for possibly losing your home and what-all else on account of a teenage guy who lives on the other side of the planet, but for ACTUALLY relating this contemptible story of your own loss to ME ---- AFTER I told you what a stupid bitch you are in the first place. You actually deserve an award for your stupidity, Kim. It ranks right up there with the very best of them.
**********************IMPORTANT MESSAGE*****************************
People think I'm angry when I write screeds like this. They have this absurd notion that all is not well, that the cause of all this apparent angst is goings on which really have nothing to do with me or are inconsequential and I should just get over it.
To them, I simply have to reiterate, I don't care what you think.
I'm not angry, I enjoy this. It makes me feel more superior than I usually feel and I feel pretty damn superior most of the time.
So, you either marvel at my skill with a sharp word or you shut the fuck up and keep your opinions to yourself.
If I get something wrong, if I have the wrong end of the stick, or I seem to have misjudged the situation, see the above point.
People know I'm rude, nasty, cold hearted, abusive - I'm the embodiment of everything undesirable about males who don't actually go out and inflict physical damage on others or their property.
So I can have civilised conversations which invariably involve the following phrases: I'm single. I'm not looking for a relationship. I loathe all that cutesy pie namby pamby shite, teddy bears and all the bovex associated with Kleenex ads.
And just because I don't (or didn't) go off and abuse [SHE] in this or another conversation, she suddenly thinks she's the exception to the rule, the one who can crack this tough exterior. To her surprise, she finds I'm not impressed and one foot wrong, one word out of place and the icy blast is going to be turned on her just as it is turned on every other dumb bimbo who crosses the bounds of commonsense and my predilection for misogyny.
I told you, I've been telling you as long as you've known me. I'm single, I'm staying that way, I don't want no relationship with someone who is going to expect me home for dinner, who is going to iron my shirts and tut tut because I'm not eating right.
Did you actually have the gaul to think you were going to change me? Change ME???
So, you were on the receiving end of something you found contradicted this stupid idea you've been harbouring that underneath the rough tough exterior, I'm really a sweet guy and you're all hurt and offended. Would it have paid you to remember those sage words I told you when you first started talking to me? I'm a bastard. I have no heart and you can't change me because I don't want to change.
So then what happens?
She runs off and gossips to her friends who all know me as well that I'm some kind of bastard and the shit starts flying in every fucking direction.
Did I ever tell ANYONE anywhere that I'm anything BUT a bastard or an arsehole?
Did I ever at any stage invite you to become emotionally attached to me? No, I most certainly did not.
If you play with fire, you get burnt. Simple. Don't think you are any different from anyone else. You're not.
If you think you can make me change by withdrawing yourself from me and telling EVERYONE that I'm such a bastard, that I lead you on only to turn on you later, you are mistaken.
I am your second to worst nightmare. I am the one who, when he says doesn't give a shit, actually means it.
I came to the internet with no net friends. I found plenty. If you fuck off and start gossipping and telling everyone about me, I don't care. Everytime you say "ChatRat" somewhere on the internet, my identity get's a kick along in the search engine rankings. Talk about me as much as you like, the more you do, the more people realise I am exactly what I say I am. A cold-hearted bastard.
So, new on ChatRat's list of the emotionally damned and terminally stupid are:
Ka-silly-lilly, self proclaimed crone of blogdom - for actually having the stupidity to take on Rageboy at all, and not knowing he has associates who possibly care even less than he does that people like you exist. Know thine enemy, Lily. And know also that there is nothing whatsoever you can do or say to anyone that has the slightest negative impact on me whatsoever.
Silly-Kimi, 26 year old psychotherapist and seriously insane dropkick bitch from hell - not only for possibly losing your home and what-all else on account of a teenage guy who lives on the other side of the planet, but for ACTUALLY relating this contemptible story of your own loss to ME ---- AFTER I told you what a stupid bitch you are in the first place. You actually deserve an award for your stupidity, Kim. It ranks right up there with the very best of them.
**********************IMPORTANT MESSAGE*****************************
People think I'm angry when I write screeds like this. They have this absurd notion that all is not well, that the cause of all this apparent angst is goings on which really have nothing to do with me or are inconsequential and I should just get over it.
To them, I simply have to reiterate, I don't care what you think.
I'm not angry, I enjoy this. It makes me feel more superior than I usually feel and I feel pretty damn superior most of the time.
So, you either marvel at my skill with a sharp word or you shut the fuck up and keep your opinions to yourself.
If I get something wrong, if I have the wrong end of the stick, or I seem to have misjudged the situation, see the above point.
Sunday, August 10, 2003
Where do you go when your major interest - the one with the subcribing audience - Topica.com fucks up?
You come here and blog. That's what blogs are for after all...
I mean WHO in their right minds actually subscribes anywhere any more to get emails?
It's hard enough getting people to visit your website you know the one:
Sheesh... I know that's going to look awful if Blogger doesn't convert that html for you, but we live in hope.
I'd totally forgotten what I wrote a week ago about that black spot thing.
Not that it really mattered, no graffiti artists have done it and emailed me to tell me about it.
Ho hum... does anyone read blogs any more or are they all just preoccupied with message boards where they can tell the owner or hosts to go jump if something doesn't suit them?
I read Rageboy's blog from time to time. (I do prefer the EGR mailouts though). I hate visiting someone's website and all you get is links away from their website. Is that just me or does anyone else find that too? Links around the site are fine, links away from it just strike me as a waste of time.
If this is not how you feel and you have a website of your own, feel free to visit the batcave, rip the masthead and put it up as a link in your own site. I don't mind. You can always tell people you have some seriously insane friends and one in particular has started making demands... you know, put the link up or I'll drive my Winabago through your fishpond - crap like that.
What is it with internet personas?
Why do a few people find it necessary to have 20928204683502975 different nicknames or identities IN THE ONE SITE?
Want to see what I mean?
Check out the member list of an msn community called philosophy and absurdity...
It shouldn't take you long to find out who wins the schizoid of the year award. For that matter, it shouldn't take long to work out the runner up either.
You wanna find me? You look for ChatRat... that simple.
I worry about people who come on the internet with that many different identities. Once you get to know who's behind all of them, you understand why they do it and it has nothing to do with anything worthwhile. It's madness. Pure and simple. These different identities belonging to the same person respond to their own messages. True! I think I may start being rude to one of those identities and feign ignorance. Madness I tell you.
Megalomania is one thing and I can fully understand and appreciate that. After all, it's my form of mental illness!
But this pseudo schizophrenia? Bleh.. forget it.
Oh well.. it's late, I'm tired and I'm going to bed.
If you've read this far, you may as well keep reading. See if you can find out something interesting.
Let me know if you do.
You come here and blog. That's what blogs are for after all...
I mean WHO in their right minds actually subscribes anywhere any more to get emails?
It's hard enough getting people to visit your website you know the one:
Sheesh... I know that's going to look awful if Blogger doesn't convert that html for you, but we live in hope.
I'd totally forgotten what I wrote a week ago about that black spot thing.
Not that it really mattered, no graffiti artists have done it and emailed me to tell me about it.
Ho hum... does anyone read blogs any more or are they all just preoccupied with message boards where they can tell the owner or hosts to go jump if something doesn't suit them?
I read Rageboy's blog from time to time. (I do prefer the EGR mailouts though). I hate visiting someone's website and all you get is links away from their website. Is that just me or does anyone else find that too? Links around the site are fine, links away from it just strike me as a waste of time.
If this is not how you feel and you have a website of your own, feel free to visit the batcave, rip the masthead and put it up as a link in your own site. I don't mind. You can always tell people you have some seriously insane friends and one in particular has started making demands... you know, put the link up or I'll drive my Winabago through your fishpond - crap like that.
What is it with internet personas?
Why do a few people find it necessary to have 20928204683502975 different nicknames or identities IN THE ONE SITE?
Want to see what I mean?
Check out the member list of an msn community called philosophy and absurdity...
It shouldn't take you long to find out who wins the schizoid of the year award. For that matter, it shouldn't take long to work out the runner up either.
You wanna find me? You look for ChatRat... that simple.
I worry about people who come on the internet with that many different identities. Once you get to know who's behind all of them, you understand why they do it and it has nothing to do with anything worthwhile. It's madness. Pure and simple. These different identities belonging to the same person respond to their own messages. True! I think I may start being rude to one of those identities and feign ignorance. Madness I tell you.
Megalomania is one thing and I can fully understand and appreciate that. After all, it's my form of mental illness!
But this pseudo schizophrenia? Bleh.. forget it.
Oh well.. it's late, I'm tired and I'm going to bed.
If you've read this far, you may as well keep reading. See if you can find out something interesting.
Let me know if you do.
Sunday, August 03, 2003
I suppose I'd better actually do something here again, it has been over a month now since I bothered.
I'm busy at the website, dammit.
I love a good paradox, don't you? Ever been to Adbusters.org? A link from their site will lead you to unbrandamerica.com which gives birth to a new paradox. Actually it's an old paradox with a new slant. Well, it's not even an old paradox with a new slant, it's just your run of the mill paradox.
It's a campaign by people fed up with pop-culture (whatever the hell that means) to put black spots on major advertising icons like Coca Cola and Nike and any other famous brand with a billboard somewhere. The idea is to get us all to think like individuals! Stop being led like sheep at the behest of the advertisers! Be subversive and tell the whole world you're not going to play their game any more!!
Listen to US!! We won't lead you astray ;)
It's all in the name of subversion.
Can you see the paradox forming right before your eyes or am I just being paranoid?
It gave me an idea though... My internet persona is the Rat. ChatRat to be nomenclaturatively correct, but Rat will do just fine.
I'd like to send a message to any and all graffiti artists all over the planet to try to outdo themselves putting RAT all over the place. Whether it's a tag or a full on work of art, I want to see RAT everywhere.
The idea is, if graffiti artists and taggers put their own tags all over the place, the authorities take photographs and stow those pics away for use as evidence if the perpetrator gets caught. That way they can be charged for each individual tag or bit of graffiti they have done.
Now, if all of them tagged or did a stirling bit of art with RAT as the theme, it'll lead back to me. And it's just not possible for me to have been in all those places at once. It must therefore be a movement, a conspiracy - and I'll gladly take the rap for that!
The bozos in their little plastic boxes will try to lay the blame for the actual "vandalism" on me and failing with that little charge, they won't be able to get me in court for it again. What's more, I will have no idea at all who is doing it so they won't be able to charge me with aiding and abetting, conspiracy or any other bullshit charge.
Incitement to commit an offence? Possibly, but they're going to have a hard time doing that as well.
The message to the plastic box people is simple - We're withdrawing our support of your stupid ideas and replacing it with NOTHING! That's right, we don't have any political message at all, except to say that we're no longer listening to yours.
We're saying to advertisers that we're listening to each other, not you. We laugh at your efforts to make us believe what you want us to believe, buy what you want us to buy, do what you want us to do. Our message to you is NOTHING. We don't have a message for you. We're too busy doing what we want to do even to bother thinking about you.
The bricks in the wall might be yours, but the message on the wall is ours and our message is that you can't stop us from saying what we want to say.
Taggers and graffiti artists everywhere - Go the RAT! Put RAT tags and art all over the place. Take pics of your work and send them to me - chatrat@graffiti.net
Let them try to blame me for a world wide campaign of shut the fuck up and listen for a change.
The writing has been on the wall for thousands of years - now it's going to have a voice. How loud the voice depends on how many RATs are visited upon the cities throughout the world.
Visit the Batcave and leave your mark there... http://chatrat.batcave.net
See what it's all about and don't become a part of it. Instead, see what it's all about and DO LIKEWISE. Be different from it, apart from it and in support of its ideals. Don't be a follower, be a co-author. Don't say what I'm saying, don't even do what I do, just see what CAN be said and see what CAN be done and SAY and DO what YOU want to say and do. Get it?
My message is "You can have your own message"
I'm busy at the website, dammit.
I love a good paradox, don't you? Ever been to Adbusters.org? A link from their site will lead you to unbrandamerica.com which gives birth to a new paradox. Actually it's an old paradox with a new slant. Well, it's not even an old paradox with a new slant, it's just your run of the mill paradox.
It's a campaign by people fed up with pop-culture (whatever the hell that means) to put black spots on major advertising icons like Coca Cola and Nike and any other famous brand with a billboard somewhere. The idea is to get us all to think like individuals! Stop being led like sheep at the behest of the advertisers! Be subversive and tell the whole world you're not going to play their game any more!!
Listen to US!! We won't lead you astray ;)
It's all in the name of subversion.
Can you see the paradox forming right before your eyes or am I just being paranoid?
It gave me an idea though... My internet persona is the Rat. ChatRat to be nomenclaturatively correct, but Rat will do just fine.
I'd like to send a message to any and all graffiti artists all over the planet to try to outdo themselves putting RAT all over the place. Whether it's a tag or a full on work of art, I want to see RAT everywhere.
The idea is, if graffiti artists and taggers put their own tags all over the place, the authorities take photographs and stow those pics away for use as evidence if the perpetrator gets caught. That way they can be charged for each individual tag or bit of graffiti they have done.
Now, if all of them tagged or did a stirling bit of art with RAT as the theme, it'll lead back to me. And it's just not possible for me to have been in all those places at once. It must therefore be a movement, a conspiracy - and I'll gladly take the rap for that!
The bozos in their little plastic boxes will try to lay the blame for the actual "vandalism" on me and failing with that little charge, they won't be able to get me in court for it again. What's more, I will have no idea at all who is doing it so they won't be able to charge me with aiding and abetting, conspiracy or any other bullshit charge.
Incitement to commit an offence? Possibly, but they're going to have a hard time doing that as well.
The message to the plastic box people is simple - We're withdrawing our support of your stupid ideas and replacing it with NOTHING! That's right, we don't have any political message at all, except to say that we're no longer listening to yours.
We're saying to advertisers that we're listening to each other, not you. We laugh at your efforts to make us believe what you want us to believe, buy what you want us to buy, do what you want us to do. Our message to you is NOTHING. We don't have a message for you. We're too busy doing what we want to do even to bother thinking about you.
The bricks in the wall might be yours, but the message on the wall is ours and our message is that you can't stop us from saying what we want to say.
Taggers and graffiti artists everywhere - Go the RAT! Put RAT tags and art all over the place. Take pics of your work and send them to me - chatrat@graffiti.net
Let them try to blame me for a world wide campaign of shut the fuck up and listen for a change.
The writing has been on the wall for thousands of years - now it's going to have a voice. How loud the voice depends on how many RATs are visited upon the cities throughout the world.
Visit the Batcave and leave your mark there... http://chatrat.batcave.net
See what it's all about and don't become a part of it. Instead, see what it's all about and DO LIKEWISE. Be different from it, apart from it and in support of its ideals. Don't be a follower, be a co-author. Don't say what I'm saying, don't even do what I do, just see what CAN be said and see what CAN be done and SAY and DO what YOU want to say and do. Get it?
My message is "You can have your own message"
Sunday, June 22, 2003
Well, the website is happening apace again...
All the updates and necessary interactivity is up and running and growing by the week.
Since I know you're all just bursting to have a look at it, here's the url:
http://chatrat.batcave.net
Well, if you were hanging on "until tomorrow" like my last post said, and it's now more than 6 months since I was last here, SORRY!
I've been busy doing other things and blogger has been giving me a hard time as far as publishing this blog goes.
It seems the outside world can't get anything more than what I put up about 12 months ago now.
If this post happens to make it, nobody is going to know what the hell I've been talking about all this time.
Then again, that's nothing unusual.
Anyway, go check out the website and tell me what you think of it. There are plenty of bits and pieces you can use on board to do that, you don't have to resort to emailing me.
Ok, that's it for me for the time being... I'm going back to tinker with bits and pieces.
Toodle pip.
All the updates and necessary interactivity is up and running and growing by the week.
Since I know you're all just bursting to have a look at it, here's the url:
http://chatrat.batcave.net
Well, if you were hanging on "until tomorrow" like my last post said, and it's now more than 6 months since I was last here, SORRY!
I've been busy doing other things and blogger has been giving me a hard time as far as publishing this blog goes.
It seems the outside world can't get anything more than what I put up about 12 months ago now.
If this post happens to make it, nobody is going to know what the hell I've been talking about all this time.
Then again, that's nothing unusual.
Anyway, go check out the website and tell me what you think of it. There are plenty of bits and pieces you can use on board to do that, you don't have to resort to emailing me.
Ok, that's it for me for the time being... I'm going back to tinker with bits and pieces.
Toodle pip.
Tuesday, January 07, 2003
Sunday, November 03, 2002
It should almost go without saying that issues of class and status are of very little concern to me. However, some casual observations of my neighbours highlight the enormous deficit between them and people with whom I like to associate.
Regular dippers into The Swamp will know of the screaming horsewhipper on one side and silent but deadlies on the other.
The Swamp
The screaming horsewhipper has no class whatsoever. She screams like a 747 every waking moment of her day. I'm hoping the Crocodile Hunter will lasso her mouth very very soon.
The silent but deadlies also have no class. They broke up recently, and Mr silent but deadly turned up on the doorstep today with his mother and they both waited outside for Mz silent but deadly to emerge. Where's their dignity for crying out loud?
However, we also have a wildebeest in the unit adjoining this one who once had class, but has become resentful because she's now as ugly as 50 pigs and knows it. She still retains a modicum of deportment, but her manners are atrocious. She's the sort you'd harpoon at a beach.
Then there's me!
I sneer at pretensions. I wear old, ripped and faded clothes, I rarely shave and I swear a lot. (You may have noticed.) I loathe pretty things, hate ornaments and kitsch, I'm not fond of pets and generally avoid children.
I'm not into social airs and graces, however ignorance is abysmal. If one is going to be an arsehole, one should at least do it well, and do it consistently.
So, the rules of social behaviour according to the Rat are as follows:
Don't upset people accidently. Don't burp or fart in public unless you intend to display a degree of contempt. Then hold the eyes of the victim and burp or fart with gusto. Just as some pictures are worth a thousand words, a sturdy fart can be more eloquent than any verbal offering. The victim knows the intent and significance of the gesture and that in your eyes, they are beneath words - that a normal display of contempt simply won't suffice.
Avoid the word "nice" like the plague. Assail your audience with grandiose words, like sumptuous, exquisite, scintillating, resplendent or superlative. (Avoid the word "agreeable" as this is pompous and nobody likes pomposity.)
Nothing is sacred except bad taste. You can become the focus of everyone's attention by an eloquent expression of poor taste.
For example:
"Which of you ladies is wearing Essence de Poisson?"
"I think this grated fresh parmessan is actually chopped toenails."
"Dandruff is acceptable in those parts of the world where eating dead babies means survival for another fortnight."
Regular dippers into The Swamp will know of the screaming horsewhipper on one side and silent but deadlies on the other.
The Swamp
The screaming horsewhipper has no class whatsoever. She screams like a 747 every waking moment of her day. I'm hoping the Crocodile Hunter will lasso her mouth very very soon.
The silent but deadlies also have no class. They broke up recently, and Mr silent but deadly turned up on the doorstep today with his mother and they both waited outside for Mz silent but deadly to emerge. Where's their dignity for crying out loud?
However, we also have a wildebeest in the unit adjoining this one who once had class, but has become resentful because she's now as ugly as 50 pigs and knows it. She still retains a modicum of deportment, but her manners are atrocious. She's the sort you'd harpoon at a beach.
Then there's me!
I sneer at pretensions. I wear old, ripped and faded clothes, I rarely shave and I swear a lot. (You may have noticed.) I loathe pretty things, hate ornaments and kitsch, I'm not fond of pets and generally avoid children.
I'm not into social airs and graces, however ignorance is abysmal. If one is going to be an arsehole, one should at least do it well, and do it consistently.
So, the rules of social behaviour according to the Rat are as follows:
Don't upset people accidently. Don't burp or fart in public unless you intend to display a degree of contempt. Then hold the eyes of the victim and burp or fart with gusto. Just as some pictures are worth a thousand words, a sturdy fart can be more eloquent than any verbal offering. The victim knows the intent and significance of the gesture and that in your eyes, they are beneath words - that a normal display of contempt simply won't suffice.
Avoid the word "nice" like the plague. Assail your audience with grandiose words, like sumptuous, exquisite, scintillating, resplendent or superlative. (Avoid the word "agreeable" as this is pompous and nobody likes pomposity.)
Nothing is sacred except bad taste. You can become the focus of everyone's attention by an eloquent expression of poor taste.
For example:
"Which of you ladies is wearing Essence de Poisson?"
"I think this grated fresh parmessan is actually chopped toenails."
"Dandruff is acceptable in those parts of the world where eating dead babies means survival for another fortnight."
Friday, October 04, 2002
Well, one for the books...
I've moved my Swamp from Topica.com to Dwev.net because half the subscribers were complaining that they weren't getting my posts. Now half the subscribers are complaining that they didn't get the most recent post. (Including me, but that's usual because I haven't been getting my own stuff for months.)
I have to start being nice to a certain person because he twisted his boss's arm so I could have some (more) free web space to do something self destructive. When I put some content there, it'll be at http://chatrat.hisplace.net. Sounds almost Spanish, but it's not. It's Aussie. I'm going to be a lab-rat to see what sort of response I can generate. If it turns out to be successful, they'll offer it to other people.
I have to confess to being in awe of The Onion and Fark.com, so I think I'll do something along those lines, with the added bonus of some personal ads. You know the variety...
Man with big hands wishes to meet wealthy blind woman with big boobs... Phone Richard Kiel on +1 212 555 TITS
It occured to me that the biggest users of the internet are women who like to chat and young males who like to play Counterstrike. Well, I don't mind chatting, but Counterstrike bores me shitless. "Fire in the hold!" I wish it was a fire in your A drive, just quietly. So, a-hunting for obscure news I will go. A-hunting for world news I will go. Everything that is in the public domain will be filched and lampooned - as is my wont - and paraded for all the world to see.
I'd invite anyone passing to send me stuff that's weird, but I already have several stalkers who routinely fill my inbox with all sorts of stuff as it is. (One of them is lovely, so don't get me wrong there. The other is a rampant bible humping Christian freak who is determined to make me change my ways. He has two chances...) Well, now that I'm in my content entering mode, it's time to see what can be done at the Rat's new spot on the e-bog. The www.timewastersanonymous.com of e-space.... oooh I wonder if that url is gone yet...
Time to go do some damage.
I've moved my Swamp from Topica.com to Dwev.net because half the subscribers were complaining that they weren't getting my posts. Now half the subscribers are complaining that they didn't get the most recent post. (Including me, but that's usual because I haven't been getting my own stuff for months.)
I have to start being nice to a certain person because he twisted his boss's arm so I could have some (more) free web space to do something self destructive. When I put some content there, it'll be at http://chatrat.hisplace.net. Sounds almost Spanish, but it's not. It's Aussie. I'm going to be a lab-rat to see what sort of response I can generate. If it turns out to be successful, they'll offer it to other people.
I have to confess to being in awe of The Onion and Fark.com, so I think I'll do something along those lines, with the added bonus of some personal ads. You know the variety...
Man with big hands wishes to meet wealthy blind woman with big boobs... Phone Richard Kiel on +1 212 555 TITS
It occured to me that the biggest users of the internet are women who like to chat and young males who like to play Counterstrike. Well, I don't mind chatting, but Counterstrike bores me shitless. "Fire in the hold!" I wish it was a fire in your A drive, just quietly. So, a-hunting for obscure news I will go. A-hunting for world news I will go. Everything that is in the public domain will be filched and lampooned - as is my wont - and paraded for all the world to see.
I'd invite anyone passing to send me stuff that's weird, but I already have several stalkers who routinely fill my inbox with all sorts of stuff as it is. (One of them is lovely, so don't get me wrong there. The other is a rampant bible humping Christian freak who is determined to make me change my ways. He has two chances...) Well, now that I'm in my content entering mode, it's time to see what can be done at the Rat's new spot on the e-bog. The www.timewastersanonymous.com of e-space.... oooh I wonder if that url is gone yet...
Time to go do some damage.
Well, one for the books...
I've moved my Swamp from Topica.com to Dwev.net because half the subscribers were complaining that they weren't getting my posts. Now half the subscribers are complaining that they didn't get the most recent post. (Including me, but that's usual because I haven't been getting my own stuff for months.)
I have to start being nice to a certain person because he twisted his boss's arm so I could have some (more) free web space to do something self destructive. When I put some content there, it'll be at http://chatrat.hisplace.net. Sounds almost Spanish, but it's not. It's Aussie. I'm going to be a lab-rat to see what sort of response I can generate. If it turns out to be successful, they'll offer it to other people.
I have to confess to being in awe of The Onion and Fark.com, so I think I'll do something along those lines, with the added bonus of some personal ads. You know the variety...
Man with big hands wishes to meet wealthy blind woman with big boobs...
Phone Richard Kiel on +1 212 555 TITS
It occured to me that the biggest users of the internet are women who like to chat and young males who like to play Counterstrike.
Well, I don't mind chatting, but Counterstrike bores me shitless. "Fire in the hold!" I wish it was a fire in your A drive, just quietly.
So, a-hunting for obscure news I will go. A-hunting for world news I will go. Everything that is in the public domain will be filched and lampooned - as is my wont - and paraded for all the world to see. I'd invite anyone passing to send me stuff that's weird, but I already have several stalkers who routinely fill my inbox with all sorts of stuff as it is. (One of them is lovely, so don't get me wrong there. The other is a rampant bible humping Christian freak who is determined to make me change my ways. He has two chances...)
Well, now that I'm in my content entering mode, it's time to see what can be done at the Rat's new spot on the e-bog. The www.timewastersanonymous.com of e-space.... oooh I wonder if that url is gone yet...
Time to go do some damage.
I've moved my Swamp from Topica.com to Dwev.net because half the subscribers were complaining that they weren't getting my posts. Now half the subscribers are complaining that they didn't get the most recent post. (Including me, but that's usual because I haven't been getting my own stuff for months.)
I have to start being nice to a certain person because he twisted his boss's arm so I could have some (more) free web space to do something self destructive. When I put some content there, it'll be at http://chatrat.hisplace.net. Sounds almost Spanish, but it's not. It's Aussie. I'm going to be a lab-rat to see what sort of response I can generate. If it turns out to be successful, they'll offer it to other people.
I have to confess to being in awe of The Onion and Fark.com, so I think I'll do something along those lines, with the added bonus of some personal ads. You know the variety...
Man with big hands wishes to meet wealthy blind woman with big boobs...
Phone Richard Kiel on +1 212 555 TITS
It occured to me that the biggest users of the internet are women who like to chat and young males who like to play Counterstrike.
Well, I don't mind chatting, but Counterstrike bores me shitless. "Fire in the hold!" I wish it was a fire in your A drive, just quietly.
So, a-hunting for obscure news I will go. A-hunting for world news I will go. Everything that is in the public domain will be filched and lampooned - as is my wont - and paraded for all the world to see. I'd invite anyone passing to send me stuff that's weird, but I already have several stalkers who routinely fill my inbox with all sorts of stuff as it is. (One of them is lovely, so don't get me wrong there. The other is a rampant bible humping Christian freak who is determined to make me change my ways. He has two chances...)
Well, now that I'm in my content entering mode, it's time to see what can be done at the Rat's new spot on the e-bog. The www.timewastersanonymous.com of e-space.... oooh I wonder if that url is gone yet...
Time to go do some damage.
Saturday, June 29, 2002
The big soccer final is this weekend. A coupla dozen limp wristed shirt-swappers are going to chase a leather balloon around a paddock in Yokohama to ascertain who can get it to the back of the net the most when it counts. Wake me when it's over.
Threatening to eclipse the big event is a turn-up in Pomgolia (Limeria, Wasp Island, England) where the classic tale of The Hunchback of Notre Dame is having to undergo nomeclative surgery in order that hunchbacks not be offended.
Political correctness takes place in the places fewer people really give a shit.
The Bell Ringer of Notre Dame is still going to be as ugly as fifty pigs and lust after the underaged Esmerelda. Poor misunderstood Quasimodo. Poor deformed, illiterate, deaf Froggy toe-rag.
If only he'd used his testicles for niceness instead of evil.
Threatening to eclipse the big event is a turn-up in Pomgolia (Limeria, Wasp Island, England) where the classic tale of The Hunchback of Notre Dame is having to undergo nomeclative surgery in order that hunchbacks not be offended.
Political correctness takes place in the places fewer people really give a shit.
The Bell Ringer of Notre Dame is still going to be as ugly as fifty pigs and lust after the underaged Esmerelda. Poor misunderstood Quasimodo. Poor deformed, illiterate, deaf Froggy toe-rag.
If only he'd used his testicles for niceness instead of evil.
All the world is utterly fucked save thee and me, and I'm really not sure of me.
I'm blatting (blogging to you) for the first time in a month for one good reason. I've been reading Rageboy's EGR newsletters one after the other because Topica.com no longer sends me any email.
BASTARDS!
I'm missing out on all the good shit. I go there to post my newsletter and while I'm there - if I'm not busy stirring up hornets nests elsewhere - I read the efforts of Rageboy and Terry Mertens and occasionally re-read some of my own stuff. (That's why the first line of this particular bit of blattery.)
I'm suddenly aware that there is a conversation going on around me and that some pretty wired people are involved. The try hards who lurk where I stir up those hornets are just too damn ignorant of everything except their own opinions. That wouldn't worry me, but reading that crap, it becomes clear that not only are they largely incapable of stringing two sentences together, they are manifestly incapable of coherent thought.
Ho Ho Ho you say... and then I go off and read a few EGR's back to back and make blatts about incoherent thought?
Well, yeah. As it happens I do.
The difference is EGR is real in the sense that what I'm reading is what he's thinking insofar as I think he's honest enough to share his - fuck, I don't know what you'd call them - musings with us, I guess. And besides, I'm interested in Chris because he's interesting.
Now if that isn't the understatement of the year, I'll kiss his arse. Chris Locke interesting... yep. The sun is that warmish thing in the sky that keeps us from freezing to death, unless you're stranded at the South Pole in which case you'd be entitled to ask for your money back.
My idiot older brother got home from work just before. Just before midnight actually. Wandered in, went straight to his room and shut the door. Well hi, how was your day? Really? Well fuck you.
Then the ol' lady comes home. We have one of those automatic garage door jiggy boos - you know, push the button - open sesame and all that.
Well, mid open there was an emphatic sort of popping sound. I had high hopes that the thing had blown a fuse and I might get even just a couple of minutes more of peace and quiet, until I realised she'd only been inching the car forward as the door opened and she'd run over a gum nut.
So I prepared myself - I girded my loins - for the nightly diatribe of the occupational travails. Women shouldn't be allowed to work together. Seriously. They can't get along, they harbour deep resentment of one another then bring it all home to share with anyone stupid enough to even pretend to listen.
This, people, is the real reason football is televised.
But I'm spared this horror for the evening. She's picked up one of my most treasured resources - The Penguin Dictionary of Quotations. Which means I'm in for another sort of horror.
I'm trying to compile a few thoughts about the idiot brother, and she starts quoting from the damn book.
I wanna know what's currently going on with the Colorado bushfires - the Australian news has moved on to other far more mundane things, like Australian politics (Anarchists should all move to Australia where the government is rapidly fading to the status of irrelevence - even dipping occasionally into the realm of absurdity.) - I wanna know why Rageboy AND Chris Locke have stopped replying to email.
Here's the gist of it:
I want Rageboy to do a tour of Australia. I've hooked up with a smart cookie who knows all the right people and what strings to pull, but he needs something to sell to the people who pay for these things.
So, I email Chris, tell him, yeah the fee isn't the problem, it's just that over here, you're not all that well known. Less well known than you ought to be. So I need something to keep the potential sponsors interested. Comprende?
And that's not all... when I rang him up, he said he'd love to come to Australia - who wouldn't - if some rich motherfucker would pay for him to come over.
Not a problem I think. I'm on the job. Now he goes bush and won't answer his emails. So, EGR I think to find out what's been going on, since Topica seem determined to keep me in the dark, and lo and behold, he's been blogging his brains out for the last 5 weeks.
You're all to blame for this. If you weren't here, neither would he be, and I'd have got an answer to my emails.
So, there's a solution here. All of you know Rageboy. So all of you have to let him know that ChatRat has been waiting patiently for an answer to his emails about him coming to Australia.
In the meantime, as I look at the clock on my puter, I notice it's almost 2 in the morning and I really should do something about my eyeballs which appear to be sinking further into my cheekbones the more I sit at this painfully slow machine.
Would it help if I said "PLEASE"?
PLEASE!
Ok, rant over. You better check your eggs now, they're probably ashes.
I'm blatting (blogging to you) for the first time in a month for one good reason. I've been reading Rageboy's EGR newsletters one after the other because Topica.com no longer sends me any email.
BASTARDS!
I'm missing out on all the good shit. I go there to post my newsletter and while I'm there - if I'm not busy stirring up hornets nests elsewhere - I read the efforts of Rageboy and Terry Mertens and occasionally re-read some of my own stuff. (That's why the first line of this particular bit of blattery.)
I'm suddenly aware that there is a conversation going on around me and that some pretty wired people are involved. The try hards who lurk where I stir up those hornets are just too damn ignorant of everything except their own opinions. That wouldn't worry me, but reading that crap, it becomes clear that not only are they largely incapable of stringing two sentences together, they are manifestly incapable of coherent thought.
Ho Ho Ho you say... and then I go off and read a few EGR's back to back and make blatts about incoherent thought?
Well, yeah. As it happens I do.
The difference is EGR is real in the sense that what I'm reading is what he's thinking insofar as I think he's honest enough to share his - fuck, I don't know what you'd call them - musings with us, I guess. And besides, I'm interested in Chris because he's interesting.
Now if that isn't the understatement of the year, I'll kiss his arse. Chris Locke interesting... yep. The sun is that warmish thing in the sky that keeps us from freezing to death, unless you're stranded at the South Pole in which case you'd be entitled to ask for your money back.
My idiot older brother got home from work just before. Just before midnight actually. Wandered in, went straight to his room and shut the door. Well hi, how was your day? Really? Well fuck you.
Then the ol' lady comes home. We have one of those automatic garage door jiggy boos - you know, push the button - open sesame and all that.
Well, mid open there was an emphatic sort of popping sound. I had high hopes that the thing had blown a fuse and I might get even just a couple of minutes more of peace and quiet, until I realised she'd only been inching the car forward as the door opened and she'd run over a gum nut.
So I prepared myself - I girded my loins - for the nightly diatribe of the occupational travails. Women shouldn't be allowed to work together. Seriously. They can't get along, they harbour deep resentment of one another then bring it all home to share with anyone stupid enough to even pretend to listen.
This, people, is the real reason football is televised.
But I'm spared this horror for the evening. She's picked up one of my most treasured resources - The Penguin Dictionary of Quotations. Which means I'm in for another sort of horror.
I'm trying to compile a few thoughts about the idiot brother, and she starts quoting from the damn book.
I wanna know what's currently going on with the Colorado bushfires - the Australian news has moved on to other far more mundane things, like Australian politics (Anarchists should all move to Australia where the government is rapidly fading to the status of irrelevence - even dipping occasionally into the realm of absurdity.) - I wanna know why Rageboy AND Chris Locke have stopped replying to email.
Here's the gist of it:
I want Rageboy to do a tour of Australia. I've hooked up with a smart cookie who knows all the right people and what strings to pull, but he needs something to sell to the people who pay for these things.
So, I email Chris, tell him, yeah the fee isn't the problem, it's just that over here, you're not all that well known. Less well known than you ought to be. So I need something to keep the potential sponsors interested. Comprende?
And that's not all... when I rang him up, he said he'd love to come to Australia - who wouldn't - if some rich motherfucker would pay for him to come over.
Not a problem I think. I'm on the job. Now he goes bush and won't answer his emails. So, EGR I think to find out what's been going on, since Topica seem determined to keep me in the dark, and lo and behold, he's been blogging his brains out for the last 5 weeks.
You're all to blame for this. If you weren't here, neither would he be, and I'd have got an answer to my emails.
So, there's a solution here. All of you know Rageboy. So all of you have to let him know that ChatRat has been waiting patiently for an answer to his emails about him coming to Australia.
In the meantime, as I look at the clock on my puter, I notice it's almost 2 in the morning and I really should do something about my eyeballs which appear to be sinking further into my cheekbones the more I sit at this painfully slow machine.
Would it help if I said "PLEASE"?
PLEASE!
Ok, rant over. You better check your eggs now, they're probably ashes.
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