Move along now, nothing to see here.

Fixing global warming in one easy step

2008-08-19T22:22:42Z

Never mind that she's married, nor that the chances for most of us are, at best, a million-to-one regardless. "Exceptionally unlikely" and "impossible" are two very different things. To legally deny that possibility, however small, is to crush the subconscious motivation that drives every man, regardless of circumstances or sexual preferences, whether he knows it or not.

What's the point of living, let alone running a multi-billion dollar automobile manufacturer, if you can't say "it is, technically speaking, theoretically possible that I might one day have an intimate encounter with That Weird Chick from The Matrix Reloaded"?

These statistics speak for themselves.

For the powerful women, simply substitute Bellucci for Burt Bacharach, or whoever it is you people pine after these days. The more experimental CEOs, meanwhile, need only consider that Ms. Bellucci might very well have male genitalia. You never know.

And if you contribute to global warming, you never will.

happybob2 @ 2008-02-27T05:46:00

2008-02-26T19:51:22Z

I recently picked up the complete seven-season collection of Buffy the Vampire Slayer (a show I had never given a chance before) on a whim from Amazon.com, while it was going for US$90 as a 24-hour deal of the day.

At least two people have said "next time, tell me". So here you go.
Angel. $56. Twelve more hours. Godspeed.

http://www.amazon.com/gp/goldbox

happybob2 @ 2008-02-05T10:34:00

2008-02-05T00:41:20Z

If I have yet to tie you up, pinch your nose and ram this link down your throat, you might like to know The Rubber Chicken is back after a one-year hiatus. I hope you enjoy it.

She's Writing / She's Writing / She's Writing a Novel

2007-10-31T07:22:55Z

Sorry if I'm treading on redundant territory. I've been a bit out of the loop of late.

Who else is participating in National Novel Writing Month?

Simply signing up already feels liberating. This is an act of self-improvement. I am not, by nature, a fast writer. The words don't flow; they alternate between madly splashing and slowly trickling. Every sentence is copiously considered, edited and reedited. A one-month trial separation from Quality Control will ultimately be a very healthy thing.

As an added bonus, it could help whip my appalling time management skills into shape. More importantly, it's an insane and memorable challenge that will make 2007 that little bit more interesting. Who knows if this enthusiasm will last once I start typing? In the here and now, I am exceptionally, nearly irrationally excited about this.

If it's not a success, it will at least be a noble failure. And then I woke up and it was all a dream.

Edit: That Peter Combe review is also itching to be written. I'll be all too happy to oblige after Friday, when I finish my study for the year.

A bellyflop in a pizza? YUCK.

2007-10-02T00:32:06Z

Remember pre-Wiggles children's entertainer Peter Combe? He's enjoyed a recent resurgence in success with a series of sold-out 18+ gigs catering to the twentysomethings who grew up on his music.

On Sunday Oct. 21 he'll be in Brisbane, performing classics such as Toffee Apple, Newspaper Mama, Mr. Clickety Cane and Spaghetti Bolognaise. It's set to be a very fun evening for those of us who refuse to let their inner child leave home.

I'll be there. Will YOU?

Meanwhile, in a seedy Hong Kong hotel room...

2007-01-05T15:18:32Z

Your livejournals have been free from my patronisingly optimistic comments far too long. Nothing personal - I just took a brief break from reading my LJ friends page, followed by a much longer break from being in Australia altogether. Anyway, just letting y'all know I'm coming home this Tuesday, Jan 9. Really looking forward to catching up with everyone.

As for the last three months in Europe: it was good.

A podcast? On the Internet? How quaint!

2006-06-10T08:28:57Z

http://www.thatchickensite.com/download/podcast.shtml

I do enjoy a good bandwagon jump, don't you?

2006-04-26T23:00:16Z

Create your own Music List @ HotFreeLayouts!

Recycled content? Consider it idea environmentalism.

2006-03-09T01:39:17Z

Dubious Compliments
By Andrey Summers & Alastair Craig
"Your self-confidence is surprisingly high."

"I really respect how non-materialistic you are. You place the important things in life ahead of deodorant and dental hygeine."

"Thank you for inviting me to dinner. It really makes me appreciate my mother's cooking."

"You're more important to me than the very notion of caring for people!"

"Your driving is great! Whenever I get out of your car I feel so safe..."

"Your father, mother, and siblings would all be so proud of you, had they not died a long, long time ago."

"I know it's a horrible dress, but it suits you."

"I love you so much I will kill myself when you leave me."

MORE

Plug of the Day™

2005-12-15T08:16:40Z

http://www.n-chicken.net/features/krangtribute/krang.shtml

happybob2 @ 2005-11-17T20:46:00

2005-11-17T10:45:06Z

I'm not sure I can convincingly swear, but here goes:

Holy fucking shit, I've finished my degree!

happybob2 @ 2005-11-09T11:51:00

2005-11-09T01:51:18Z

Don't mind me - just jumping on the bandwagon.

I'm going to do it.

2005-10-20T01:38:51Z

Right. It's been a while since I've done anything particularly insane, so here we go:

I will not buy another CD until I post mini-reviews of all 236 installments of my existing musical collection here in this journal.

I'm going to do it! Don't you dare try to stop me!

happybob2 @ 2005-10-17T09:59:00

2005-10-17T00:57:25Z

I see them laughing
Mocking
Taunting
But I cry for them
For they will never know
True serendipity
Blood drains from my soul
Like wax from an emancipated candle
Of darkness

Hears a cube picture of a kitten isnt he adorabal???

happybob2 @ 2005-10-16T15:03:00

2005-10-16T05:06:00Z

I awoke. This in itself was not an uncommon thing. In fact, I had made a habit out of waking up on most days. Call me old-fashioned, but if you don't wake up from time to time, you might as well spend your entire life sleeping. Slightly less common, though, was the experience of being woken up by a blood-curdling scream from down the corridor, which was exactly the manner in which I awoke two seconds prior. I opened the curtains to discover it was still dark outside; blacker than a LiveJournal filled with suicidal gothic poetry; as devoid of sunlight as Dean Caine's mailbox is of job offers. There was only one logical conclusion: it was night. I contemplated going outside to practice my Morris Dancing. There's nothing like a good bout of Morris Dancing to enlighten the sinuses and unblock the soul, I always say. I scratched my left earlobe thoughtfully, only to find it was covered in maple syrup. A quick examination revealed I was inexplicably covered, from head to toe, and back to the head again, in the deliciously sticky substance.

Thunder boomed through the night sky. Lightning momentarily lit up the outside world to reveal rain. If there was any higher being controlling the storm, it almost certainly wasn't having a good evening, and my midnight Morris Dancing could wait, damn it. Thunder struck again. It almost hid the sound of a gunshot from the next room. Silence followed, then I heard a dull thud. Thanks to the unwanted maple syrup, my hand was still stuck to the curtain. As I peeled it free, I examined the drapes' patterns. It showed a variety of Sesame Street characters smiling and waving. Funny, I could have sworn it was a nice, conservative beige floral arrangement yesterday. How could Bert and Ernie appear on it overnight? Could this be the work of aliens?

I glanced at the room's other window to see, just as I suspected, a flying, saucer-shaped object settle on the ground. They would be coming for me soon. This made me wonder if I should call the milkman and ask him to cancel my deliveries for the week. Claire from down the road said Frank, the local deliverer, was retiring at the end of the week. I contemplated making a collection around the neighbourhood to buy him a small farewell present. Maybe an alarm clock. Or perhaps a hilarious novelty mug. I looked out the second window and saw a middle-aged woman with an unnatural smile trying to sell me a set of steak knives.

Then the solution struck me. After I got over the shock of being assaulted by a metaphysical concept, I realised the second window was, in fact, a TV. It was screening the National Plate Throwing Championships, and had now cut to an infomercial. The curtains had changed because I bought a new set yesterday, and I was covered in syrup because I accidentally fell asleep in a vat of maple syrup instead of my bed. I hate it when that happens.

Lightning struck again to briefly reveal a human-shaped silhouette burying something equally human-shaped lying still in a large sack. I returned to bed, comfortable in the knowledge that I had learned the true meaning of Christmas.

And so solved...

The Mystery of the Dyslexic Doorbell

Next Episode: The Mystery of the Toilet Paper Dispenser that Keeps Running Out of Bog Rolls Too Quickly

ANGST ANGST ANGST

2005-10-08T08:03:02Z

Why, god? WHY must my confortable middle-class life torture me so?

Only Evanescence truly know how I feel.

Solving Mysteries ...in a VAN!

2005-10-05T15:25:26Z

To explain why I felt compelled to re-assassinate Abraham Lincoln, I must first discuss interpretive dancing.

It was a chilly Wednesday afternoon on what looked to be another uneventful Friday summer’s morning. I approach the stage with a familiar mix of pre-performance apprehension and expired lime cordial. I paused to find my motivation. (It was in my left pocket.) I composed myself. (E flat minor.) It was time.

The music began. From that moment on, there was no self. No me. No you. No them. Not even Richard Wilkins. There was only The Dance.

My left foot leapt into the air in a bold statement on contemporary social class alienation, enhanced by my right elbow’s subtle rotation, representing the collective inner turmoil of a world confined to an archetypal set of capitalist ideals. I soulfully waved my cheerleader pom-poms, each an ironically-juxtaposed eye-catching symbol of isolation, with cheerful pelvic thrusts projecting the reconciliation between bittersweet the acceptance of humanity’s flawed nature and the desire to nonetheless change the unchangeable.

Just before this ray of hope could manifest itself into a triumphant star-jump, the backing tune of Cyndi Lauper’s “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” came to an abrupt halt. My strategically-aimed arm lunge hit not the impenetrable shield of conformity as planned, but the tall, stern-looking mall security officer who had just turned off the stereo.

I hate Mondays.

He asked if I had a busking permit. I said interpretive dance belonged to The People, and he, a representative of The Man, had no right to take it away. He said I was welcome to do as much dancing as I wanted in my own home, but if I wanted to do it in this shopping mall, I needed a permit. I explained that there was no shopping mall; there was only The Dance. Neither of us actually existed, I explained, and so how could I, a nonexistent entity, show another nonexistent entity a piece of paper that, likewise, does not exist? And who were either of us to judge when both our thoughts were clearly only imaginary? He said I was also welcome to do as much dancing as I wanted overnight in a cell. Not a pleasant thought, I imagined myself thinking. With extreme reluctance, I showed him my permit. He fainted.

Curious. This could mean only one thing: my public performance permit was really a magical permit. I decided to express my joy and confusion through dance, but first looked down to find my footing. I couldn’t find it. In fact, I couldn’t see my legs at all. All I could see was another baffling conundrum, and even that looked suspiciously like dull pavement. As I considered the evidence, I decided to scratch my chin thoughtfully, only to find I couldn’t move my hand forward. I looked down again, and discovered I couldn’t see my chin. Or back. Or even my ears. This could only mean one thing: I had lost my body. What was it with Tuesdays and unexpected developments?

Despite my apparent lack of an esophagus, my throat felt hoarse. This reminded me of horses. After Lincoln’s assassination in 1865, the murderer stole the horse of a theatre employee named Joseph "Peanuts" Buroughs. And after the event, the now-ex-president was merely a body… the same thing I had lost! This could only mean one thing: I was the reincarnation of John Wilkes-Booth. Possibly in the form of an invisible cyborg from the future.

My mission was clear: I was to find the reborn Abraham Lincoln (possibly also a cyborg) and, through the power of interpretive dance, finish the job. But to infiltrate human society, I needed my old body back. Perhaps the past had further answers up its sleeve. I thought back along this fateful Thursday’s chain of events…

I showed him my permit.
I thought further back.
…left foot leapt into the air in a bold statement on contemporary social class alienation…
Further.
”Oh Pikachu,” I said, clutching my Game Boy to my heart and gently caressing its Limited Edition Yellow exterior, “one day you will be min-
Too far!
I paused to find my motivation.

Of course! I had paused whilst approaching my “stage”, mid-step, and therefore must have fallen over. I couldn’t see my body because I was now lying on the street, face first.

But what of the fainting security man…?

Oh yes. That wasn’t my permit, it was my rash. Silly me. Why do I always get the two confused?

I stood up. Cyborg Lincoln, I decided, could wait. First, I had some weekend street theatre to finish. I pressed the play button, and once again immersed myself in movement, emotion, and the haunting vocal tones of Hillary Duff’s less popular sister.

(I later discovered she, too, was a cyborg. From that moment on I dedicated myself to warning the entire free world of this impending doom, but few seem interested, no matter how passionately I do the macarena.)

And so solved...

The Mystery of the Elongated Egg-Slice

Next Episode:

The Mystery of the Weird Pink Mark On The Collar Of My Mario Bros. Shirt That Looks A Bit Like Lipstick, But Isn't, No Really, Please Don't Hurt Me

A Public Service Announcement

2005-09-20T02:49:05Z

Why Bus Drivers Should Stop Wearing Reindeer Antlers On Their Heads

July 1986. Veteran bus driver Albert Weissman changes lanes. Like all bus drivers, he wears a compulsory set of reindeer antlers. The cumbersome six-foot head accessory, which had accidentally torn off the rear vision mirror months before, prevents him from turning to check the vehicle's blind spot. He realises too late that there is no other lane, and he has just driven off the edge of a mountain range. This minor shortfall becomes a major one. None are injured, but the fluffy dice are never recovered.

April 1992. Lucy Allston drives past a bus. Distracted by the sight of the driver's antlers, she misses a turn and crashes through a maximum-security prison fence. In the resulting confusion, a prison security van knocks over the neighbouring orphanage's gate, unleashing hundreds of dangerous orphans into society.

September 2004. Markus Vianopoulus pays an antler-wearing bus driver his fare. His change is incorrect. He remains in a wheelchair to this day.
He admittedly used a wheelchair before the incident, but his new one isn't quite as shiny.

January 2005. Amy and Stephen McDougall ride a bus home. The driver has reindeer antlers on his head. They arrive at their destination without any mishaps. That night, their uninsured house is burgled and set alight.

Astounded? Appalled? Anorexic? These are but a few casualties of the reindeer antlers worn by each and every bus driver the world over. This disturbing trend has brought us nothing but danger, inconvenience and liberal use of the present tense. Like television and women's voting, bus drivers' reindeer antlers have become so widely accepted that we rarely question their presence. Yet on every public transportation controller's cranium lies a ticking time-bomb of reindeer death.

Now I can understand the reasoning behind the antlers. We've all been there. But are all the obvious benefits really worth the risk of inadvertently concussing prospective travellers with a polite nod of the head? I know what you're thinking: "I never ride public transport. Why should I care about a trivial danger that has no affect on my life? And how the hell did you know what I was thinking?" Remember, dear sir, ma'am, that public transport is funded by you, the taxpayers.

Yes, dear citizen, with every careless sneeze, another bus loses another windshield... and its replacement comes directly out of your pockets, and ultimately little Billy's college savings. I know what you're thinking now: "Well golly! What on earth can I do to fix it? And isn't that Angelina Jolie hot? Will you get out of my head?" You can start by using jeans with smaller pockets and putting Billy's education fund in a bank that doesn't award interest in spare bus windshields. More importantly, though, we must all take a stand.

Next time you board a bus, refuse pay your fare until the driver takes off his multifaceted horns of destruction. If you can't see any antlers, don't get put off. The antlers probably have nonexistence bubbles around them or something - The System is only one step ahead of you! When reading Christmas stories to your children, replace Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer with Fido the Fuchsia-Furred Ferret. And if you see Ricky Martin in the streets, shoot him on sight. This won't fix the bus problem - I just can't stand the man.

Rival male reindeer use their antlers for combat as they vie for the affections of potential mates. In the same way, that collective pair of antlers embraced by the world's bus drivers is clawing its way into our comfortable way of life. Its potential mate? Satan. Call me a foolhearty young whippersnapper with no understanding of how the world works and occasional bowel problems after eating too much cholestorol, but I know the downfall of society when I see it. My fellow lovers of freedom and casual sex partners of liberty: this cannot go on.

As a wise man once said, or would have said had he been me: "Only when bus drivers stop wearing reindeer antlers on their heads can we truly live in a world free of bus drivers' heads with reindeer antlers on them." Any other world just wouldn't be worth living in. Especially not if you're dead.

happybob2 @ 2005-09-17T13:48:00

2005-09-17T03:48:45Z

Sisters Are Doing It For Themselves
The Continuing Ripping Yarn of Theodore "The Body" Roosevelt

What is in a name? In the case of Franklin Delano Roosevelt, the letters f, r, a, n, k, l, i, n, d, e, o, s, v and t. But without these letters, he would have no name. History was kind to the former president, and he was allowed to operate with his name intact. But what of Roosevelt the man? What of Roosevelt the leader? And, before the accident, what of Roosevelt the woman? The following essay will present assorted points and statements in concordance with a hypothesis of some sort. In the famous words of my friend Joe (2001), "get the bloody hell on with it".

Theodore - if I may call him that - suffered a troubled childhood. His famed dislike of Shakespeare made him a regular target of the nerd clique. Founded in 1899 by the soon-to-be-born Edgar J. Hoover, this powerful society was not a force with which to be reckoned. A misplaced wedgie could lose a prospective bully his ear and his family business, thanks to strong connections with organised crime, the Tax Collectors' Agency, and the dreaded Morris Dancers' Guild of Holland. Throughout his life and presidency, he always screamed at the sound of a ringing bell.

NASA scientists have speculated this early trauma was the primary influence in forming his unshakeable ideals. Teddy - if I may call him that - despised the American population and all it stood for. He set out to change its ways, starting by immediately banning tights. Critics pointed out that he wasn't equipped to change much as a burger-flipper at McDonalds, especially considering his employers would not be founded for another 40 years. He decided presidency would offer more power. In those days the concept of democracy was still catching on, and pretty much anyone who felt like it could sit in the head office for a while.

Theodore Roosevelt is in many ways the founder of freedom. As a famous poet once said: "wake me up before you go-go". (Michael 1985) Doctor Roosemeister the Love Machine - If I may call him that - woke up the nation to the loud music that was The New American Way. And he go-goed. Oh, how he go-goed.

Do I have a choice...?

2005-09-14T07:20:11Z

List seven of your favorite songs of the moment in your journal and force seven other people to repeat this process.

In no particular order...dot

<td width="30"></td><td>

The Smiths Bigmouth Strikes Again

Rufus Wainwright Cigarettes & Chocolate Milk

The Go! Team Junior Kickstart

Frank Black & The Catholics Robert Onion

McLusky Without MSG I am Nothing

Strong Bad Sings Sweet Cuppin' Cakes (Theme)

Gorillaz O Green World

And because I'd feel guilty not including them, here are my All-Time Top Five Songs:

<td width="30"></td><td>

The Beach Boys God Only Knows

They Might Be Giants Doctor Worm

The Beatles Day in the Life

Blur Coffee & TV

Radiohead Paranoid Android

The torch goes on to...

<td width="30"></td><td>

ettin

sheamus

trcbungholio

cammiluna

darkhelix

Richard Wilkins

That other guy. You know, with the thing.

TO BE CONTINUED...

A Heartfelt Limerick

2005-09-08T15:48:38Z

Bobby's gourmet sausage
Was delightfully long
Janey's gourmet sausage
Felt dreadfully wrong

"It's lucky," said Bobby
As he buttered the accompanying bread
"That this is not a phallic reference,
or that bite would render me dead."

Star Wars Episode III.

2005-05-20T15:58:53Z

Revenge of the Sith. A time of contrasts; of quiet reflection and loud celebration. The culmination of a saga that has dominated fans' enthusiasm and child-like sense of wonder for almost thirty incredible years. And on that night of nights - being the crowded but amazingly atmospheric Brisbane midnight screening - Star Wars fandom stood as one to commemorate this joyous, fun-filled, yet curiously sombre event.

I dressed for the occasion:

ANGST ANGST ANGST

2004-10-22T10:53:57Z

I. The Death of Freedom
Oh! Society
Like an injured bee
It buzzes... buzzes...
Then stops.
And misunderstands me.

II. The Blackest of Nights
My mascara; my blood
Running down my face
As the blade of popularity
Falls gently into the Abyss
As I scream at the Heavens
"Why must you torment me so?
...Why, Mother, why?
...Did you have to ground me on the week of the Linkin Park concert?"

III. Happy Sunshine Flowers
As my noose dangles in the night
Like an elongated serpent of misery
All the kittens laugh
With evilness and serendipity
Blood, blood, my bittersweet blood
Drunk from the wineglass of oppression
As I apply my eyeliner
Deeply. Gently.
Into the night.

TMBG Lyrics.

2003-12-14T08:42:18Z

Why the hell not?

I was working all night in my office
When a man I had recently killed
Called me up from a phone near my building
So I looked out the window at him
He had the same obsequious manner
That was the reason I had him killed
So to calm my nerves I sang this song
To him, over the phone

Turn around, turn around
There's a thing there that can be found
Turn around, turn around
It's a human skull on the ground
Human skull on the ground
Turn around

I was out by myself in the graveyard
I was doing an interpretive dance
When I felt something heavy and pointed
Strike me in the back of the neck
And then the ghost of my dance instructor
Pushed me down into an open grave
And as dirt rained down she played a xylophone
And sang me this song

Turn around, turn around
There's a thing there that can be found
Turn around, turn around
It's a human skull on the ground
Human skull on the ground
Turn around

We were waving our arms out the window
Of a fast moving passenger train
Acting in an irresponsible fashion
Until the engineer whose back had been turned
And who we thought would find us highly amusing
Quickly swiveled his head around
And his face which was a paper-white mask of evil
Sang us this song

Turn around, (round) turn around (round)
There's a thing there that can be found (there's a thing there that can be)
Turn around, (found) turn around (round)
It's a human skull on the ground (it's a human skull on the)
Human skull (ground) on the ground (round)
Turn around (turn around, turn around)

Turn around, (round) turn around (round)
There's a thing there that can be found (there's a thing there that can be)
Turn around, (found) turn around (round)
It's a human skull on the ground (it's a human skull on the)
Human skull (ground) on the ground (round)
Turn around (turn around, turn around)

happybob2 @ 2003-12-04T09:00:00

2003-12-03T23:12:52Z

If outdated LiveJournals were ceiling fans, then this one would almost certianly be spinning in a predictable manner. I suppose I'm happy with life, so writing angsty gothic haikus just doesn't appeal anymore.

Anyway, I've revived this account for comment-posting purposes only. Unless you're looking for hilariously outdated teenage life issues, there is little of interest here.

Go on then, piss off.