bedlam updates

Ah, Failure Mountain! You will be the lasting monument to my life's work! I will be known as the The Unknown Failure and everywhere men and women who failed repeatedly and very successfully will be commemorated by a statue in the town square. The Failures. Those who tried but were barking up the wrong fucking tree. Those who persisted but were shockingly wrong. Those who cared about total bullshit and fought like wankers for victories on fields long emptied of meaning. Today I read a review of an historical book that brought home with sudden vomit that I know fuck all about the real world. Oh christ. The more I know the less I fucking get fucked yep gonna vomit again. When people talk about being misunderstood, what they're actually saying is "Why is my genius not apparent to these fuckheads?" Fuckhead of course being anyone unlucky enough to be in the way as the genius makes a beeline for home and the calm of not being around anything real. It's a bit of

Hit the fucking jackpot yesterday. Twitter Lefty announces that dude-I-follow-on-twitter is anti-semitic and I weigh in because I know he's not and that's just fucked. I mean, more people should be anti-semitic amirite Nazis but this guy just isn't so don't be labelling people if they haven't earned it through hard work. Anti-semitic. So anyway, this horrid accusation is thrown at a guy in a public forum and it happens to be exactly the kind of labelling behaviour I hate more than I hate women. Oh, sorry, I should explain that when I sent a tweet to this person calling her behaviour "revolting" (go me, no swear words!) she came back with a strong implication that I'm a rape apologist and followed that up with the even stronger smear that I'm a misogynist. At this point I was just high on life. From out of nowhere I was now Bad Lefty Words with a good chance to collect the whole set of Phobes if I kept going with this unhinged recipient of a uni

Last night I watched Apocalypse Now, Platoon and We Were Soldiers, all Hollywood "war" movies and all in the fine tradition of American crybaby entertainment. When I saw Saving Private Ryan in a packed cinema there was a deep silence throughout the audience as the opening beach battle scene unfolded. No wait, a woman at the back left of the theatre laughed hysterically all the way through. I assumed she was uncomfortable at being in a room full of adults behaving like they were in church. Steven Spielberg went on to make a movie about a bunch of really great guys who assassinated people for Israel. It's funny y'know? If I killed people for my activism maybe I'd be considered a hero too? Probably not and also: I'm not a fucking murdering piece of shit. The Hurt Locker was about a guy so underwhelmed by civilian life that he needed to be where people were being slaughtered- to protect the lifestyle he couldn't stomach? Yeah, I know, that makes no sense

Target businesses. Embarrass them where they live. Go into their offices and ask awkward questions, anything real will do. We are so deep into the bullshit realms now that simply pointing out the obvious is radical enough. Of course it's radical. We live in a real world but argue instead about how we're represented in the media. For that alone we 100% deserve to be oppressed. Every newsagent window across Australia is covered cover to cover by the covers of "women's" magazines. Do women routinely smash these windows? No, because the failure those windows represent is real. It's stuck to the inside of a shop window and everything! Who could possibly fight that?  We earn our oppression every day. Every day is a good time to be outraged but we don't seem to be able to get angry enough to awkwardly block a doorway. We have a hundred excuses. We're scared of being arrested, we have a child's boogeyman terror of What Might Happen. We're way too i

(Much shit-talking about the Left here so feel I should preface by mentioning The Socialist Party provide great leadership to the Tunnel Picket campaign here in Melbourne. Oh, and I'm a Lefty McLefterson, make no mistake.) I feel exposed when I try to describe what the Trans Pacific Partnership is and I have roughly thirty days to write a half hour of stand up comedy about the fucking thing. However I can think of worse fates than indulging in the pleasure of Feeling Brainy as I take endless notes and scratch my beard like an engaged thinker taking himself seriously. I won't get a Christmas break, but I will get a holiday from thinking in fucking soundbites.         The TPP is a corporate takeover, a coup, the next logical step in the consumer nightmare, (but a very stoppable juggernaut if people can get organized enough). It's a series of negotiations held in secret between a whole lot of nations that don't matter and the USA. It's an obvious slap in the face

Mother had recently abandoned us for England and we were under the roof of our insanely angry father. It was ever so early on Christmas morning and we woke and tore into our presents. Only later that morning our Dad discovered us and was outraged at our behavior. An insanely angry father will make you black out in terror and completely forget why you were doing whatever it was that has given him his latest reason to rip into you. It is only now at age 45 it occurs to me that we opened our gifts because we assumed anything good and in front of us could be taken away. We woke that morning well used to having to try fend for ourselves. Mum had warmed us up for the ultimate abandonment by leaving us alone in our depressing foodless flat for long stretches of day and night. My brother would make sandwiches out of pepper and tomato sauce, we had sores and bruises from malnutrition and undernutrition. We continued to behave strangely under Dad's roof in strict accordance to having b

I used to throw my videos out there and rely on word of mouth. Yes sometimes I'd use some smartarse bullshit to publicise them but mostly I was slaved to a retarded non-plan while I worked out why I was even pumping out this self-worship diary. A while ago I realised I was unhappy with nearly everything about online video. I liked The Attention but I seemed to be going backwards. I decided I needed to change the "Sean Bedlam" character and that's when things got weird because I am Sean Bedlam. I'm Sean Bedlam. Hi. I liked The Attention but I wanted Positive Attention. My videos were too often basically trolling people and it was human centipeding me in the dick, whatever that means. I lost confidence and was pretty much saved by Occupy when all my talking suddenly was part of a real thing. Good one. I seem to have neglected to mention getting into standup comedy, which is it's own fucked up hall of mirrors. Anyway, after years of false starts just yest

Like an Australian movie that leaves it up to the audience to decide what happened you are annoying and there is no point to you. Like an Australian movie that tells a little story about ordinary people you are annoying and the point you are trying to make is annoying. Like an Australian movie that refuses to bow to convention but has no political message or clear story a fucking adult human can follow and by 'follow' I mean 'care about', there is no way to kill you and you are annoying.   You are not an Australian movie but like an Australian movie no one can defend your existence without being annoying. You point to the 'quality' of Australian movies. What kind of prick are you? "This is quality art." Doesn't sound right does it, prick? "This is quality entertainment." Prick. You use the wrong words to describe shit that shouldn't exist and you are annoying as that most annoying of Australian attention seeking behaviours: the Au

I will kill you all, Taft Brenderbridgetoofar mused vomitously. Like a ship in the night he passed gas and cupcaked himself to relive That Moment. It had been a dinner, many courses served under the gaze of a gradually melting butter goose. Quince Farbarbengringing had made a joke that stilled the party into a silent silence more silent than the grave or as silent as the grave. No one will ever know. Or will they? No one knows. Or will they. However. Children are best served by their parents in a soup as a stew poorly befits a celebration of childhood and as the child soup grew cold the silence stretched into eternity and the partygoers had time to reflect on the poopy hole.  

Two years on from Occupy I find myself scratching my balls contentedly in the full knowledge that we succeeded and the world is now a better place. Peace has broken out worldwide and in my street children play where once cars whizzed by like fuckheads ruining everything. Oh god I hate. What a total disaster. The cops came in and fucked people up, then they fucked up the people who saw the people being fucked up and that was all she wrote. She being Life, which according to terribly amusing stickers and teeshirts is a 'Bitch'. I used to go to the South Melbourne Market to sell moss animals, animals made of wire and moss, destined to die within weeks if not carefully watered. We were basically tearing up ground cover moss and artfully turning it into problems for people who were momentarily charmed by our green elephants and teddy bears. Capitalism- can I call it that? Who cares. People basing their lives on buying and selling shit? I'm losing the will to live. As God i

The problem I had with most of the nut cases I buddied up with was they had no vision. When my life was an empty pit I moved into a caravan park with my mental uncle. We bonded over being disturbed and hung out with an ex-cop gunslinger we called Bipolar Bill. He tried to teach me to become a driving instructor but I didn't follow through because we were both bonkers. Bonkers Bill.     We were all trying to get our shit together but it's impossible when you're surrounded by mad cunts. You can see that they're mad and they can see you're full of shit. You only have each other and it's not enough. I put it to you that being around the insane is not ideal therapy. We couldn't take each other seriously. Ever been in a room with a bunch of fruit bats judging each other? It's splendid. So you move on, but sooner or later you're with the next group of mad people who won't tolerate you and that you can't stand. You get into each others' hea

My girlfriend woke me and I rushed into the other room and as I watched a plane fly into a building I thought, what's the story with morning television? How benighted are motherfuckers if they simply have the TV on, just on, just there spouting drivel into a private living space, a space where you are not required by law to listen to strangers dibbling shit or watch them smile like money is being fired into all their holes? People will cry their eyes out at whatever tragedy is slipped into them by experts. People will also avoid reflection on weighty matters. Hey people, the inside of your head will not give you AIDS if you touch it. (The TV was on because news radio was alerting the world that there was great footage to stroke to. Yes, we listen to news radio in the morning because we are superior beings. Kneel, dogs.) As the buildings collapsed I thought, I mean, are people that scared of having an original thought that they have to crowd out any possibility of a clue arriving

The WikiLeaks Party buggered my designated pillow hours. The days are fine, but at night in dreams my mind walks in fear. Terrible nights of interrupted sleep. Mornings presented with fresh piles of shit from angry WikiLeaks supporters. Hard core activists idly wondering if we might unconsciously be doing the work of Julian Assange's enemies. The examples of allies going Full Arsehole and speculating about our mental health, integrity, really real actual secret motivations, ego length/width/size go on and on throwing a spanner in my inner workings. We are accused of turncoat antics by people trained by long hours on the internet to make spastic jumps over the truth. To these fucktards the truth is what you know and research is how you arrive at what you know deep inside because you are an elf or some fucking shit. Across social media witch hunters weave snail trails around what is real, never coming close to the salty goodness like the motherfucking slugs they are. Yes, this

So Greg Barns, barrister, Tasmanian, classical music aficionado and frequenter of the very best restaurants reckons those of us who pulled the pin on the WikiLeaks Party are a bit soft in the head, not real complicated thinkers, a bit stupid, perhaps even slightly working class. I'm not sure if I'm getting it straight as I'm self educated and do lack a degree in being full of shit. I also admit not being a committed whore possibly colours my view. Watching Greg jack himself off over Julian Assange's supple intelligence and fierce hatred of seatbelt laws in today's Drum made me glad I didn't pay attention in High School and therefore skipped the process of losing touch with the common man Greg seems to have embraced like an elite minion excitedly stepping into a cigar smoke filled wine cellar where he will be pissed on by opera buffs.   As a man qualified to be a dishwasher I enjoyed Greg strutting his stuff as he plausibly painted those of us who resigned as

I used to live upstairs at the Rochester Castle in a stinky, filthy arrangement with no lock and very handy drug dealers two doors up. I'd like to say this was the lowest point of my life but there have been so many. Let's not play favourites, let's be fair. Yes, I'm saying my bad memories are my children. They always fucking want something. People who want to be writers would kill for this experience, the wankers. I gradually sold my record collection to pay for bong smoke and I choked down those thumbscrewed haystacks like they were liquid gold. Clearly I was lost because dope made me intensely paranoid. I was selling a great vinyl collection so I could experience even deeper mental illness. When you're that confused you feel like people eights blocks away should be able to sense your need for help, but it's not like that. Every mental person grows a kind of shell to protect the ego from being exposed to prying eyes. Your greatest desire is also your great

So if you didn't pick it up, my reaction to the reaction to Tony Abbott's ascension to Prime Minister is, "Your reaction sucks. If you are grief stricken by this news I am absolutely begging you to explain to me how you didn't know this was going to happen months ago. You fuck. You fucking fuck. Etcetera." Tony Abbott was always going to be PM and your sense of shock borders on the criminal. I am distressed that a large chunk of the community is this lacking in clues. Don't get me wrong. My capacity to be outraged is infinite, but in this case it is directed at the cupcakes who, since the election results exploded like a completely predictable shitbomb on a doormat, have wandered the streets wailing and tearing their stupid haircuts out. Maybe I'm just being mean. Maybe I don't get what a terrible surprise this is to people who clearly sleep with their heads up their arse so even their dreams are full of shit. Maybe I'm heartless, but to th

When Tony Abbott became our new Prime Minister some of the young and perfect were presented with the horror of a world where not enough people 'cared'. Caring of course means carefully listening to these amazing young people. All the years since the rise of the yuppies also saw the rise of the worship of the young. Young people were seen as 'wise' and as 'emerging talent' so some of them began to behave like 'fucking little cunts.' They arrived at protest rallies with the resentment of an island resort customer whose holiday has been ruined. Bone deep they felt justice should be ordered like salad with no dressing and no tomatoes I can't eat red food. They arrived at the places of protest without the faintest idea of teamwork. They had the iron discipline of the guy lying on the carpet in a bookshop idly flicking through books as the other customers vividly imagine capsicum spray. When Tony Abbott became PM, these awful young huddled together a

(This is not a funny post, more a case of looking for useful feedback.) I got into Occupy because of Wikileaks, so I've decided I'm going to help the Wikileaks Party get into power, however I can. Already trusted expert activist mates have made it clear they're not feeling it, but I'm not feeling me missing out on this historic moment. I imagine a future where I'm asking myself why I thought I had anything better to do than back a freedom fighter. Oh he's not? Good times. My friends tell me the system is broken and they are right. Occupy is broken too. I was one of the people almost crushed along with the movement. I stuck it out and I'm still to see through one ongoing court case (and another much bigger one relating to The Eviction is being looked at as possibly a goer. In which case- if I lose- I'm up for thousands of dollars. But I'll take the risk.) People talk to me about grassroots movements and I get it- look at my videos from years ago

Went to a lovely wedding and didn't talk to people if I could help it because I really wanted to be back at the comedy festival joking with heartless comics about my little cancer scare. Fucking hell. I shouldn't have gone. I felt so bad about wanting to talk about cancer. I looked great though. I just could not face talking to other dudes, I knew I wasn't even slightly interested in anything they had to say and being me it would be written all over my awesome sunglasses. Partly it's a problem of not having kids, partly it's that the vibe in Castlemaine is so fucking nice. A fight involving bloodshed might have helped me relax. Purely as a spectator, mind. I love watching idiots hit each other. Instead of that I found myself getting way too into the blues band, sitting there by myself and giving it loads of "Oh shit! Now we're talking!" and "Damn!" and, "Mmm....MMM!" Like a total fucktard. I don't even like the blues but the

Yesterday I coughed up blood and though I went through no decision process that resulted in me thinking, "I have cancer", I did decide to go straight to the doctor just in case I had cancer and that made me cry because now I would have to clean up my shed because now I have cancer. I don't have cancer, I have mild bronchitis, but for a little while yesterday the only way to Not Panic was to use my time thinking about settling up my affairs, the most menacing aspect of which would be cleaning up my fucking dirty fucking shed. Fuck it's a mess. I couldn't stand leaving behind a shed that other people would look at and laugh, saying, "That Seany, he's a character!" As they tried to make sense of what the fuck I thought I was thinking as I filled my shed with what looks exactly like garbage sprayed from a cannon. I smoked cigarettes for twenty years and gave up after I started coughing uncontrollably at a meeting of Mildly Amusing Action Squad. One o

To me soldiers are like atheists: right about everything in a way that’s terribly unhelpful to nearly everybody. It’s the kind of rightness where nobody wins and that’s why it’s a great idea to never trust a hero.  Yesterday I’m reading that there’s an exciting new hashtag that’s going to change the world one cupcake at a time, “KidsAreHeroes”. This is an Earth shattering anti-bullying initiative aimed at not attacking any root causes of mutual hatred from the usual gold star farmers who live the mission of keeping us supplied with backrubs, encouraging murmuring noises and meaningful eye contact at appropriate moments. Just enough, not too much, yes that’s my finger up your arsehole, breath gently now and accept my universal love. I quite mistakenly hate everybody which is a huge problem, particularly as it’s actually just idealism, hope and good vibes that have been told they’re naive by stupid people one too many times. As a kid I was bullied and I bullied others a

I do stand up because I need to be creative and I need to show off. People used to say to me, ‘You must have weird dreams.’ No, I’m just like you. I lie face down and lower my heart rate to one beat per minute and astral travel to the 5th dimension.  This is an art form. Sure anyone who can speak can try stand up comedy but no-one in history has ever casually stood up in front of strangers and cracked them up for half an hour without thinking about it first. Can we admit there’s probably some thought going into the totally unnatural act of performing like a seal to a collection of possibly soulless faces? Shit, I’ve been doing it for three years and it’s only just sunk in that there’s no escape from bombing. That’s a huge lesson to learn after 150 spots. (150 is an abitrary number, it could be 200 or 250, or 255, or even 256 spots, gosh, who knows?) It’s not enough to be naturally funny because it only feels natural when the whole night is going really well, there’s a warm m

When I was growing up all the fish’n’chip shops were run by Greeks and people loved being offended that the Greeks would be speaking Greek in their own place of business. The idea was, “What if they’re talking about us?” Because if you’re working another long day in a hot fish’n’chip shop in the middle of summer your customers are going to be so fascinating. I mean, what could be more interesting than someone who trudges into a chip shop, someone who’s just had this electric conversation, “What do you feel like eating tonight?” “Chips?” “Ok.” Cutting edge stuff, humanity at it’s finest, pure fucking gossip fodder. I was an outsider so I hung out with wogs and dagos and they were me mates, just as much as the dumb skip cunts I went to school with, the whingeing pommy cunts, and the kids who magically fit in and knew what the rules were. It was the dumb skip cunts who didn’t understand anything who were most paranoid about wogs speaking Greek. But that’s the working class for yo

I suppose I should start by telling you a little bit about myself: it’s hot and I want to die. I want to see the streets running deep in blood, the time to snap is now, let’s not fool ourselves, madness is the only way forward and these are the end times.  Normally I wouldn’t be so dark, but it’s usually not the Apocalypse. And I don’t even have to work outside! I’ve worked lots of jobs in the harsh Australian climate. Bricklayers’ labouring under the vicious sun, delivering pianos as the sun tries to kill you, working on farms hoping you get sprayed with toxic pesticides because at least it’s wet. Steaming kitchens cutting vegetables as your perspiration pours onto the defenceless potatoes. Welding steel in boiling factories as you feel the working classness washing over you like a pre mixed drink that’s been left out on the roof of your mate Simmo’s panel van.  You could say I arrive at hot weather with a bad attitude because I associate it with working my arse off, my onl

Here's the list of words I'd ask people to avoid using around me as they trigger terrible memories for me: memories, trigger, childhood, mother, school, dad, father, parents, wedding, marriage, divorce, airport, family, brother, step, sister, half, brother, beatings, violence, arguments, abuse, crying, depression, mental, health, illness, apricots, lecture, house, home, night, day, morning, sleep, food, book, reading, education, bullying, haircut, coldsore, lunch, Kraft, Cheddar, vegemite, shop, lifting, police, comic, books, fight, smile, wave, goodbye, airplane, letter, London, Bay, City, Rollers, visit, phone, call, abandonment, development, rear, raise, grow, mature, thwart, damage, ruin, wreck, punish, severely, minor, misdemeanour, tree, fire, burning, yelling, hiding, cricket, stump, hitting, memory, loss, blank, recall, blind, spot, hideous, shame, embarrassment, misery, humiliation, judgement, ignorance, middle, class, job, McJob, vicious, cycle, bicyc

So the way my life rolls now I only have to eat my own shit, which is a position of great privilege, but last night I ate so much crap I almost choked on stage. About halfway through a storytelling spot I wanted to apologize to the audience and walk out the door and walk home and stop eating my own shit. But that's never an option so I simply ate faster. The theme of the night was Life and Death and I planned to talk about my time with Occupy and my support of Wikileaks and the price I pay for being involved and the rewards for taking risks, what with being arrested multiple times and my new scary relationship with the authorities. So far so good, I know what I do and why and I have plenty of stories. But let's eat shit. Doing stand up this year I've worked out my routine: talk to a voice recorder during the day and work in a notebook when I get to the comedy room. If the notes I make just before I get up don't relate to what I worked on during the day that's no

Several years ago I flipped open my new phone and stared into the eye of its camera, little knowing I was gazing into a darkness that would send me on a death march of youtube comments. Curses! I cottoned on to the fact I could make ridiculous ranting videos with this device and began to do so with some success and all the interwebs negativity that comes with it. I'm already an angry bastard, but I really got amongst it for it for a while there. What was supposed to be cathartic became a horrible unpaid job and lost in a forest of bitterness and bitchiness I wandered O very much like a Shit Addict. Of course I also picked up all sorts of skills along the way, made some cool music videos and a few comedy shorts that are quite brilliant but this isn't about me being awesome- let's face it, I really am- this is about my walk on the internet micro-celebrity shame trail. The thing is, I'm a fighter. I like fighting people. On the internet you can fight and fight and ther

As we return from a nice visit to a national park I'm deteriorating. We're driving past the procession of shop fronts on Sydney Road and I recite the names of as many of the shops as I can out loud, letting my friends know the bush therapy hasn't gone real well. The country air was an attempt to calm me down but all I did was perch on the edge of a waterfall, imagining I was a hero and giving my friends the idea they were about to witness a suicide that would be kind of sort of their fault-ish. I wasn't going to jump from the waterfall, I was too busy posing. I seemed to expend much of my mental illness energy on posing, but then again I had no idea how to behave. I remember wandering the streets of Melbourne and it being very important that I held my face a certain way, like my facial expression was crucial. I was probably only guaranteeing nobody mistook me for a sane person. I mean, it's not like you can talk to every person in the street to let them know you&#

I was eighteen and one of the peak local meatheads had just taken a shit in a neighbour's back yard, holding eye contact with the neighbour the whole time. This was Carrum in the eighties. Growing up we moved around a lot but finally settled on the most violent suburb around and there I remained from the age of twelve having horrible experiences until I was twenty-one. Carrum was a hate camp and by the time I left my main skill was drinking until I vomited. I was at the Prince of Wales in St.Kilda, blind drunk, and a friend of a friend offered to buy me a plane ticket so I could get away from all these people. 'These people' were the pissheads I gravitated to because hey, if everyone's drunk, everything's cool, but it wasn't cool, it was sad. Imagine that, a dude takes a shine to you and tells you you're wasting your talents. I didn't know I had any. Around the same time I overheard a friend say to another, "He has no idea how talented he is&q

http://pissandvinegar.libsyn.com/episode-017-spit-polished

Thanks to 70's women's magazine feminism Mother realised she didn't need to ruin my childhood in person and using an airplane as her getaway vehicle, left the burden to Father, who did the work of two parents in this regard, terrorising us like a true penal colony prison guard. The despair continued  until I answered back one extra black day, inspiring him to deliver a character assassination speech that destroyed what was probably my soul. He then kicked me out of the house and offered me cutlery. I declined as I didn't feel deserving of knives and forks for some reason. Life on the Outside consisted of drinking heavily to mask my phobia about communicating using just my personality, as Father's many long speeches had me believing I was an unsightly coldsore full of lies about not being a pus bubble. I also drank because I'm a people person who loves taking a short break from sparkling conversation to go vomit in a piss-spattered cubicle. And people wonder wh

Open Mic Life podcast with Sean Bedlam

http://pissandvinegar.libsyn.com/episode-016-taxi-cab-confessions

I watched Argo, Lincoln and Zero Dark Thirty, all movies about how being an American is a leading cause of anorexia, marriage separation and being shot because you only fought against slavery in a fictional capacity. The hair product lady in Zero Dark Thirty signified her humanity by drinking, eating and shouting at a man in a suit, the suit of course symbolised old people who don't get what it's like to be young and living in the shadow of so many fast food choices. The suit guy I think played exactly the same guy in Argo which shows just how amazing is the spycraft of those CIA guys. I'm not sure though because these movies made me drunk on eagle cum. The modern director knows you can't just fill the screen with flag so it's best to subtly sneak it into every shot. Also, if possible be a female director because that'll Pretend Confuse all the New York Times types who are trying not to notice this is a children's movie. This goes for all three movies be

Growing up when school teachers felt strongly supported in their beatings of children was a perfect opportunity to sample the beating styles of various schools, so I would beg my parents to move me from school to school, which they did, many times, often just long enough for me to experience a beating then move on. The approach was surprisingly uniform but waiting with hands out to be struck across the palms with thick leather never got boring and continued right up until the last moment it was still legal. Which was the International Year of the Child, a delicious detail that tastes like my own boiling blood. Beating kids with leather, talk about hot sex! They say a society is measured by how it treats Sean Bedlam and I tend to agree and to suggest I will kill you all one glorious day is to comically understate the depth of my sense of betrayal by a system of education designed by Hitler's missing testicle and supported by the just and kind everywhere. My father's indoctri

Upon reading an article in the Age about underpaid hospitality workers I felt the irresistible urge to also read The Comments, so how I feel right now is very much my fault. As anyone unfortunate enough to have access to the internet knows, The Comments is where happiness goes to die horribly in a hail of informational AIDS bullets. The information stumbled across in this rich jungle of cuntiness is often wrong, which is actually fine, but hideously the information is very often cooked up in the heart of some embittered fuck who's been broken and remade by the machine into the embittered fuck I mentioned earlier. This article about workers in places where meals are tabled and drinks are poured by underpaid workers attracted the ire of a recent immigrant to Australia who seems to have adopted the worst aspects of being an Aussie, which is a shame because if he wasn't so recently here he'd realize these aren't even the worst aspects of Australianess, if Australianess is

I used to read self help books but now I listen to the most brutal metal I can find and let my creative juices flow out of my fingers and onto the floor, pooling around my feet like the blood of my enemies, of which there are many and imaginary. I don't know, do I have enemies? I certainly think I hate some people. Hi, I'm Sean Bedlam. Let's, shall we?   I had a terrible thought a little while ago. Here we go! It was, "I don't really hate people as much as I think I do." It was a scary moment but then I sensed a presence and somehow knew I actually needed a poo and that would make it all better. Also, the other night in Sydney Chinatown I did wee and the girl before me had hovered over the seat, splashing it with her lady tinkle. If I was wacky as I make out to be I would have licked that up and written about it for Vice magazine. Anyway, I'm in a strong relationship.     People like to talk about 'love' and when I say 'people' I'm

When I was growing up not only did my family explode like the Space Shuttle raining burning abandonment on children young enough to be surprised and delighted by dinosaurs, but my parents were raised in the Catholic Church, which I think is sort of like a bank where slaves store their unused hope. How did I survive intact? I didn't you big funny faces! So let's comedy! What a fucked decision. Choosing to sleep on the couch near the monstrously loud portable air conditioner seemed ideal last night but instead demons ate me. I woke at 4am. Oh shit. This means. But I was slow on the draw and before I could open my nighty-night-time friendly reading book to BLOCK OUT THE THOUGHTS, they were upon me chewing my soul 40 times like it was yuppy fuckhead New York Times super food.   I lay there helpless as steaming nonsense spewed into my mind, so bitterly poorly organised it can only have been put there by the Pope or someone in advertising. I tried reasoning with my own brain whic

http://www.pissandvinegar.libsyn.com/ Ryan Walker and myself have so far made 15 brilliant and amazing episodes of a podcast called Piss and Vinegar. We don't have guests unless you include the people we talk about only to hate. It really is just two extremely talented and driven guys talking crap, much of it quite deliberately offensive and/or stupid. But in a brilliant and impressively talented and very talented way. When we embarked on this journey- and it is a trip on a boat- our only motivation was the driving need to not be the only two comics in Melbourne not doing a podcast. I'm sure more established local podcasters welcome our much needed injection of talent and amazingness to help them lift their game! Not that I listen to any of them because after absorbing 450 episodes of Marc Maron's WTF cast I'm completely burned out on podcasts and if I never hear another comic talk about near or at comedy again I will die a happy miserable bastard. It's hard t

When the team here at Gross Habit gave birth to this blog we couldn't decide whether to eat the placenta or just rub it all over our bodies. Tricked you! There's only one of me. I've started this blog because I need to develop a close personal relationship with my audience, who are often quite negative folk but fortunately all people with bad attitudes are geniuses. Phew! I have a small audience and they're all capable of amazing things. Some of them have been known to use the internet as a time wasting device!     When a man pisses in the reverse cowgirl position he knows he's home. I work from home, which I don't recommend unless you're going to make a point of leaving the house occasionally to stop your social skills from drying up and shrivelling into a dried seahorse. I've been having a crack at stand up comedy like a total manfighter for a couple of years and let me tell you, it's a bad idea to hit the stage expecting to drop knowledge bombs