Tell Grimlock About Petro-Rabbits Again

2005. The world is still picking up the debris from the Boxing Day Tsunami, New Orleans has been flooded, Decepticons rule the planet Cybertron, Russel Crowe is fined for hurling a phone at a rude concierge, Aussies lost the cricket to the wimpy English, several of our countrymen are residents of overseas prisons/ have been executed and are now a pile of ash in an urn somewhere due to places like Bali/ Singapore having stringent drug laws that discourage us from bringing boogie boards stuffed with drugs. Terrorists are apparently everywhere (Though a harsh reality in certain countries in the Middle East or Ireland the attacks on the Western world are rare. Every once in a while, places like London get bombed and police retaliate by peppering a Brazilian man with bullets. Five bullets. To the head) Chicken Schnitzels are now potentially lethal thanks to the Avian Bird Flu.

Yup. It's been quite a year folks. Though the world has shifted and changed for better or for worse (arguably worse- that f-cking Crazy Frog has released another single) I feel that it has affected me little. I'm a year older but none the wiser. At around this time of the year I think of all those people I've outlived and so I'll offer a quick "Breakfast for My Dead Homies" to the following heroes and villains who will never have to wonder what cereal to buy ever again:

Hunter S. Thompson- Gonzo Journalist
Mr. Miyagi- guru, mentor, sensei, poet, chopstick maestro
Graham Kennedy
Big Kev- the EXCITED seller of shoddy merchandise
John Spencer (not from the Blues Explosion)
Rene Rivkin-Disgraced stockbroker
The Pope- replaced by a German fellow
King Kong- a 25-foot ape
Saul Bellow- Winner of Nobel Peace Prize for Literature
Vincent Schiavelli
Kerry Packer

(And a few I'd forgot but was reminded when I was reading Obi Won Kenardly's blog)

Bob Denver- Gilligaaaaaaaan!
Richard Pryor
Don Adams- Would you believe....that Maxwell Smart is dead?

And I bid y'all a Vaya Con Dios till next year (in a day or two). Stay safe people. Avoid disease-packed chicken for lunch.

Fatman

Yule Find Me in a Corner, Clutching a Bottle of Whiskey

The boys of the NYPD choir
were singing "Gallway Bay"
and the bells were ringing out
on Christmas Day
The Pogues, Fairytale of New York

Santa (played by a flea-bitten lower primate) drinking fermented elf urine

Christmas. A time for vomiting your throat raw from Grandma's special "eggnog" that she has been brewing in a copper still (a bad batch may send you blind, maybe permanently). A time for receiving crappy presents (ie. The JonBenet Ramsey snuff film) in an office Kris Kringle. A time for punching your boss in the face for an unintentional insult. I know that most people will find the prospect of spending Saturnalia with relatives as nauseating as watching the homemade videotape of the murder of a six-year old former Little Miss Colorado ( don't worry- the Proper Authorities have that office "gift" in their custody now and hopefully the finger print lab will be able to identify from the whorls, the tented arches and the radial loops who the sick individual was who gave me the present for the Kris Kringle) but even for the bitter cynics who wouldn't know Christmas cheer if it roundhouse kicked them in the head- it's time to celebrate the things we have.

I guess I still have my health (the flesh-eating virus has been kept at bay as long as I apply some cream on to it every hour), I have a job and a place to live. My friends still visit me regularly- even if I don't want them to. Women haven't pepper sprayed me in quite some time and have agreed to lift some of the restraining orders put against me. Overall, not a bad life thus far. Hope all is peachy on your end too, whoever you are.

Get Thee Behind Me Santa,
Fatman

Two Front Teeth

It's a hot and horrible day. I'm sipping a warm can of Coke in an internet cafe/ laundromat on Victoria street, North Melbourne trying to think of something festive or ,at the very least, topical for the Season of Screaming Last Minute Shoppers. Darren has decided to take his laptop over to Perth with him for three weeks which means that it's either the internet cafe or Meg's poxy computer (see below for why I'm not using it) This is how I always used to write, a one hour deadline to put down all my thoughts in email form, but I've had the luxury of using housemate Darren's computer in the recent years (when he isn't using it) which means that I spend hours on the couch in my boxer shorts instead of typing. I've become slack. Unhurried. Meanwhile the clock is ticking down.....

Meg has a replacement computer at home but it is a sick, unhealthy creature. I have no idea if it is just being a hypochondriac or if indeed it does have more viruses than a Portuguese sailor but every two or three minutes it coughs up the phrase 'Message from SYSTEM to ALERT (a bunch of numbers). TOP! WINDOWS REQUIRES IMMEDIATE ATTENTION. WINDOWS has found 47 CRITICAL SYSTEMS ERROR (then a bunch of things we have to do i.e. Re-install something, get an exorcist, make a will)' It varies the message only slightly, by increasing the number of critical systems error. Whatever the Hell that is.

Wait! I've got a Christmas story. It's going to render the title of the blog meaningless but since I've already spent fifteen minutes prattling on about nothing I'll just pray that no-one notices. So be a pal and ignore the last sentence okay?

We used to have a large Fijian fella named Lenny who used to work as a bussy at the bar. A kind, generous soul who used to tolerate Yours Truly since; a) I was technically his boss and b) we'd share some beers and laughs outside of work- a good thing since he could probably rip the throat of a Tyrannosaurus with his bare hands should the occasion called for it. He asked me some Christmases ago if I would like to join him and his friends for a Fijian feast. 'It'll be great. There'll be beer, a lovely roast. Strippers.'

Strippers?

Apparently these guys had an annual event in which they'd invite girls to remove their clothing while they celebrated the birth of our Lord. 'How does your girlfriend feel about that?' I asked him. 'She's okay with it,' he replied ,' she says "You can look at the moon Lenny....you just can't land on it."'

When Santa says 'Ho ho ho' he's not being a jolly fat guy, just a dirty old letch.

Naked girls- Isn't that what Christmas is truly about?
Fatman

Ignoring is Bliss

Meg has recently discovered that I do not listen to a word she says. The fact that I can sleep with my eyes open with a look of sincere interest on my face has recently dawned on her and she throws more and more "curve balls" into her sentences to catch me out.

(Scene: IN LOUNGE ROOM. MEG has been talking for over an hour. FATMAN is apparently engrossed in a book- a dead giveaway that he has no intention of listening WHATSOEVER as he does not know how to read)

Meg:....and it kinda depresses me that my boyfriend has only been working for a week and he already has more money than me in the bank.

Fatman: Uh-huh.

Meg: What are you doing later today? We're going to a bbq at a friend's place.

Fatman: Really? (flips page)

Meg: Yeah. He's cool. But a bit of a geek. A whole lot of geek actually. At school, the geeks used to beat him up. That's how geeky he was. Imagine having to give your lunch money over to the chess club.

Fatman: That's nice.

Meg: (tweaks that Fatman is no longer listening) Yep. I've just downed a whole litre of Hydrofluoric acid. It should be kicking in any minute now.

Fatman: Uh-huh.

Meg: I'm thinking of hacking off my hand and replacing it with a chainsaw. It'll be a good way to combat Evil.

Fatman: Hmmmmmm. (flips page)

Meg:(absently) Hey, it says in the news that someone ate the biggest bowl of chilli con carne this week.

Fatman: (snapping out of it) Who?

You have my whole undivided attention starting right........now,
Fatman

Talking With Your Mouth Full (Of Unwanted Comments)

Once a month Mum and I catch up for lunch. She does this for a few reasons;

1) She is convinced that if it were not for her I'd forget to eat and the police will one day have to lead her to a mortuary so she can identify my decaying corpse.

2) I tell my friends that Mum is a black market weapons dealer and she sometimes has to make midnight journeys with a shipment of AK-47s. The truth is she exports seafood- an occupation that is also fraught with danger and requires a concealed Glock on one's person at all times but it sounds less romantic. The fact remains that I have no idea what country she will be on a week-to-week basis and if we forgo a few meetings I may forget what she looks like since she is Japanese and all Asians looks the same to me.

3) Mum is a bright, happy person but she will not stop talking about her own mortality. Young Fatman, from the age of 6, has been constantly told of his mother's eventual death and that if she were to perish all her worldly goods would go to her cat Cappuccino. Every lunch I have with her May Be Our Last. I feel obligated to therefore order the most expensive meal in the truck stop we find ourselves in.

4) Although I enjoy cooking I also enjoy burning things down- as the North Melbourne fire department are well aware of. Every time I turn the oven on the terror alert is about the same as that of finding explosives in a football stadium.

5) She knows that I'm always hungry. She could call me at 3 am and I'd still say yes to a light breakfast.

Anyhoo- Mum invites me to lunch at the brand spankin' RACV club on Bourke street. It's a Christmas get together for a whole bunch of Japanese people ( My mother, when not racing around the globe with thermonuclear warheads, is also the president of the Japan Club of Victoria. She was elected to this position in absentia as she was overseas at the time. She came home to find that she had won by a landslide- the last president having fled the JCV in disgrace, having used a large sum of money for his own personal use and is now facing criminal charges) Now, I know that Japanese people seem smiling and polite in general, but put them in a group and they become like a jury made up of Jewish aunties.

Halfway through the entree and I'm bombarded by annual relative questions: 'How old are you?', 'Why aren't you married and spawning grand kids?', 'What do you do for a living?', 'Is that satisfying?', 'When are you going to get a real job?', 'Oi! Gevalt!' The only temporary reprieve I get is when one of them asks me if I was a sportsman. The table erupts into laughter. I have a physique of someone who eats chicken drumsticks on the couch all day and struggles to breathe. Not that that physical handicap would hinder real sportsmen. 'No ma'am' I say, wiping away the tears, 'I tried to go jogging once but then I discovered taxis.'

But then things started to turn ugly. Midori, a cretinous woman with the brain the size of a chickpea, says- this is the first thing she says after I haven't seen her in a year mind you- '(Fatman) you look like you've put on some weight.' OK princess, I'm thinking, do you really want to do this? How about you and I go to a set of scales right now and weigh ourselves. When it turns out that I weigh less than you how about I comment on your tub-of-lard, harpoons-sticking-out-the-side-of-you bod?

Then one lady starts talking about people who come from Hiroshima. They talk with a weird dialect, she says, and they have unusually flat faces. An Australian woman, who is there to help these Japanese ladies with their pronunciation then asks this kid Mustafa, from Istanbul and trying to get into a Japanese university next year, what he thinks of Muslim kids who wear their religious headgear to school. Shouldn't they conform to the ways of white Australia? I couldn't believe what I was hearing.

In times like these I wonder what Mr.T would do. He'd probably stand up slowly and start cracking his knuckles, the sound of which is a memento mori. He'd then stare at these people with his fool-pitying eyes till they shut up. Or he'd just bash them. I trot over to where Mum is sitting. 'I'm about to stab some of your friends with a fork,' I whisper, 'For their safety I'm going to have to leave.' I don't think she heard me properly but she bid me a fond adieu.

Things I have learnt: A jpeg of Mr.T saying 'I pity the fool'= Funny

Can I get a doggie bag?
Fatman

Be Still My Bleeding Ears

Q: What's worse than coming home and finding the disembowelled corpses of your flayed housemates littering the loungeroom and drenching furniture with their blood because you forgot that today was the day you were supposed to pay the ransom and so you went ten pin bowling instead?

A: Finding them very much alive and singing crappy Karaoke at 2:00 am when all you want to do is get some friggin' sleep.

I'd been to the going away party for Ben Weisner and his new wife Olivia at the Terminus Hotel- home of the $5 steak- in Richmond. They had decided to leave for Lud's Town in England to enjoy a lifetime of being drenched every day, warm beer, football hooligans, East Enders, cross-dressing politicians, boiled food, Spotted Dick, royal scandals, etc. and had invited a few close friends (essentially every musician in Melbourne) for their farewell. The beers had found a cozy home in my belly, I was warm but not ex-con slappingly drunk, happy (despite running into Jenks and Paulie. Ha!) and was gearing myself for a nice lie down at home where I could enjoy fantasising about Erika Christensen before going to sleep. Even as I got out of the cab I heard a collective warbling coming from our front door. That can't be good.

Ten years ago to the day I'd bumped into a nerd at an airport and he went crashing into some luggage. 'You'll pay for this one day!' meeped the nerd. 'What're you going to do?' I asked as I poured the rest of my Sprite over his geekly head, 'Invent a Karaoke game for the Playstation 2 where players get rewarded points depending on the notes they hit and filled with every annoying trite from the 80's? I'd like to see that.' Well, it looks like the bastard got his decade-old revenge.

Living with a gay guy and a 20-year old girl has some disadvantages. They unite in unexpected kitsch ways like horrible, horrible pop music. I enter a loungeroom filled with a bunch of people singing off-key. No, not singing. Shouting. Shouting songs of Duran Duran. Screaming to the lyrics of Foreigner. Wonderful.

'Who are these people?' I yell at Megs over the loud discordant din of noise.
'WHAT?'
'I said: WHO THE F-CK ARE THESE PEOPLE?'
'WORKMATES. SOME OF 'EM.'
'I LOVE COMING HOME TO A HOUSE FULL OF STRANGERS.'
'GOOD. WHY ARE YOU YELLING THEN?'
'BECAUSE THEY ARE SINGING SONGS THAT THEY PLAY IN THE WAITING ROOM OF HELL! I'LL READ YOU THE F-CKING SET LIST: BELINDA CARLISLE, CULTURE CLUB, KATE BUSH, TEARS FOR FEARS, WHAM!, VANILLA ICE, SOFT CELL....' I pause as I peruse the rest of the list. Starship, We built this City is my favourite song. And I mean EVER.

'HAND ME THE MICROPHONE. I'LL SHOW YOU HOW IT'S DONE.'

Next up on HELL FM we have Shatner's version of 'Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds'....again

The neighbours are signing petitions asking us to move,
Fatman

Bulletproof

'It’s a simple question, doctor: Would you eat the moon if it were made of (b.b.q.)ribs?'
Will Ferrell, from his SNL Best Of...dvd that I was watching moments before I fell asleep

Apparently, if you fashion a perfect ring of explosives and sit in the exact centre of this perfect circle you would be encased in a vacuum and therefore be absolutely safe. Everything had to be, I repeat, perfect. One screw up, one defective stick of dynamite would result in limbs travelling in different directions. Blood confetti. It's a trick that the Bolsheviks used on Russian noblemen who were scheduled by the State for an early meeting with God but they actually wanted to spare. I have read about this some time ago in a David Foster Wallace book 'Girl With Curious Hair' and my futile effort in searching through Google for some kind of confirmation have resulted in the inventor of dynamite, Perfect Circle the band, a novel by Sean Stewart, Euclidean geometry and that crappy Idaho-approved flick Napoleon Dynamite that makes me want to Rex-Kwan-Do anyone who mentions the film.

My drinking nights with Free Beer are kind of like that. There seems to be a whole lot of simultaneous chaos that leaves us unscarred, safe in the bosom of that perfect circle. We're kind of like Mr.Burns who has every single disease known to Man but thanks to the delicate balance of the "Three Stooges Syndrome" remain, if not healthy, alive. I don't know how we survive. Seat us next to a suicide bomber on a bus and we'll happily argue religion.

The night begins with us squeezing lime juice into each others eyes. It's about ten at night. We've both been drinking elsewhere and have decided to meet up at the Amethyst Bar because it's the only place we can remember when we're drunk. Three shots of Jagermeister later and I'm engaged to Piglet. Piglet- Irish, 22 years old, unlucky in love, neurotic, shop-a-holic Imelda Marcos, owner of rats, slept with/ sleeping with my friend Chris when they're speaking to each other- is currently desperate for residency and is facing deportation. Getting engaged is a necessity for survival. For her I'm a driftwood in the raging storm that is called Going Back To Potatoville. For me, she's a token person to ward off annoying questions from relatives and also a chance to have sitcom situations like in Spaced or first season Ned & Stacy. And I'm drunk so every girl looks good to me.

Free Beer and I change venues. We stumble into the Lustre Lounge. Ten minutes later I'm slapping an ex-con in the face. How it happened was this:

We're sitting next to this guy at the bar and we make conversation. How's your week been? we ask. 'Good,' grumbles the man, 'I got out of prison on Tuesday.' It is then that we notice the tear-shaped prison tattoo under his eye- a sign that he has killed someone while inside the joint. Did he use a fellow prisoner's innards to stuff his pillow? Did he shiv his cellmate for snoring? we ask in succession. He smiles and doesn't answer. For all we know he could have been warding off murderous thoughts all night- dark, scuttling things in the recesses of his brain- but he seemed alright. He spoke about his kids mainly and how happy he is to get to see them again.

It's tequila time.

It's chatreuse time.

It's more beers down our throats time.

He's having a genuine laugh with us now. 'You boys are alright!' he says, 'I wouldn't even hurt ya if you punched me in the face!'
'Why would we do that?' I belch.
'Just saying is all. C'mon- hit me.'
'Sure.' I slap him in the face.

In his mind my innards keep his pillow fluffy. My lifeless body emits no snore. And then he's back at the Lustre Lounge with idiots too stupid to kill. I slap him again. 'My shout this round.' I say, and we drink for a while longer.

Jai guru deva, om
Fatman

Terrorists Have Put a Bounty on Kofi Annan's Head

Possibly the shittiest joke in existence but it has the dubious honour of being the first jpeg ever to be posted on Fat Ramblings

Because I invented it....THAT'S why!

For those who haven't yet heard, and I'd imagine that would be many of you, Tesco has unveiled their Sistine Chapel upon the world for (drumroll please)...... the world's first singing sandwich. I can only imagine the press briefing as hardened journalists, ex-war columnists and hacks alike being struck dumb, slack-jawed mouths struggling to come up with the follow-up question as their brains seize up. After a few polite coughs there would be a thunderous 'WHY?' belching out of every journo's mouth in unison.

In the Kitchen-
Kid: Mum? Do you hear anything?
"Yuckster" Mum: No dear. Should I?
Kid: Yeah. I can't be sure but.....I think I hear someone singing 'Louie, Louie' from the cupboard. We haven't kidnapped any more midgets have we?
Mum: Look, that was just a phase Daddy was going through and he won't be released from prison for another sixteen years.
Kid: Well now I'm hearing 'She's gone Gongwipdu' by Deadbolt. That's it, I'm opening the sucker. (opens cupboard. Beholds Singing Sandwich)
Mum: Surprise! It's a Singing Sandwich!
Kid: Acid Flashbacks. Acid Flashbacks.

(From a scene that may be all too common this Christmas)

Just because you can invent it, it doesn't mean you have to
Fatman

We meet again Robot Einstein

The body of a robot and the head of Albert Einstein:

http://www.engadget.com/entry/1234000360068154/

And another link here as "Albert Hubo" meets President of the U.S.A., former C-student, and all-round idiot (this is the one guy we're talking about here) George W.Bush. It's like the meeting between the Tin Man and the Scarecrow from the Wizard of Oz.

Unforunately for Mankind Albert Hubo went on a killing rampage 45 minutes after the Prez left the building

Domo Arigato Mr.Robot-O
Fatman

A Smith & Wesson Beats Four Aces

or

Hot shots eh? I say let the DICE do the talking!

It's about one in the morning. Closing time for the Amethyst. I get a call from Dean inviting me over for a light game of poker. ' You should know that Benny G. is here.' he warns. Damn. I still owe Benny G. about $170 from September's 'light game of poker' when he had the winning streak from Hell. Every one of the boys owed Benny at least a hundred bucks that month and we'd scurry away like cockroaches to a flashlight at the very mention of his name. Poker games were held in secret for a while and we'd be prepared to turn off the lights and hide under furniture at a moments notice should he happen to visit us unannounced at three a.m. but it seemed all that was going to be resolved this early morning.

There are two groups of people that I regularly play poker with. The first group I'll call the Amateur League that comprises of ex-bar staff Miko, his housemate Smiley and Phil who is the token guy who comes in halfway through the night to lose all his money. The stakes are never very high and even if you have a good night your winnings only translates to a cab ride home and maybe a chicken schnitzel sandwich for lunch the next day. The other group is the Croupiers. All are gambling-crazy current and former croupiers at the Crown Casino who spend much of their lives taking the last dollar out of people's wallets, emptying their bank accounts, stereos get hocked, seeing marriages disintegrate, families crumble, hair pulled out, children sold into slavery, kidneys auctioned and think: I could be that guy. A casual visit to any of the Croupiers may result in a spot of random gambling where we bet on what the secret ingredient is on the Iron Chef and somebody ends up driving away in a loser's car (this actually HAS happened before, though not with these guys. The stakes got stupidly high between two brothers playing cards and one of them placed his car keys onto the pile of money. He lost the hand and his ride.)

I get to Chimp's apartment, a mere five minutes' limo ride from my work, and proceed up the stairs to his room where the lads have been spending the last few hours making each other poorer. Debts settled, I sit down for several hours of berating, haranguing, yelling, near fistfights, drinking and even a bit of cards.

The game du jour is Texas Hold 'Em which has risen in prominence these last few years thanks to films like Rounders and TV shows where celebrities like that snotty kid who played Spiderman and the former Mrs.J-Lo play amid the glitz and glamour of a Vegas casino. It's strange to think that even three years ago playing card games until the sun came up would make you a social pariah, a hideous skunk at gatherings. But thanks to the Hollywood cigaratti the image of tubby men with sunglasses smoking their lungs black and sipping warm beer is starting to dissipate. Which sucks for us.

The lungs of a true poker champ- not like these Hollywood pussies

I like poker because it reveals the true nature of your character. Everyone has an attempt at a poker face (looking like we're figuring out complex sums without use of abbaci) and the mountain of chips migrate from one end of the table to another but the way we play tends to be fairly unique. Doug-Ray, who wins thousands of dollars on horses, bets weird number of chips that make you question his hand. "Cool Hand" Chimp bets in EVERY hand so you never know if he actually has anything. Benny G.'s tactics is to win every hand which usually pisses everyone off (not a good night for the lad however, as he owed about five hundred by the end of night). Dean makes smart ass comments all night long which will make players like Craig throw his cards in the air and leave the building. Paul smiles constantly, makes pleasant remarks, acts stupid ('Is this a good hand?', 'That's a straight flush.', 'Is that good?', 'Shut the f-ck up you son of a bitch!') and bets heavily which means that he only needs a few hands to fluctuate from really rich to can-I-borrow-money and back again. I shuffle cards in a way that causes everyone to duck for cover and win hands due to sheer ignorance.

'Am I bluffing mutha f-cker?' The way real men play poker- beer, nerves of steel and silly hats

Seven in the morning. Beers are all drunk, the sun is up, the trams are now running and have a handful of yawning passengers on their way to work. We cash in our chips and figure out who owes who. Another infant day is about to begin and I plan to spend most of it sleeping.

Know when to walk away, know when to run,
Fatman