bedlam updates

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