tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-65583511292513131692024-03-06T10:40:55.433+11:00Chookspot!TastyWheathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08468682376867907441noreply@blogger.comBlogger19125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6558351129251313169.post-50717897148248861302013-03-29T10:43:00.000+11:002013-03-29T11:21:31.675+11:00The LG Optimus L3 E400 - A Phone So Bad It Needs Its Own Awareness RibbonI'm going to start this review off with a backstory because like most great tragedies, the stage needs to be set. This is after all a historical piece.
Back in September of last year, some junkie swiped my iPhone 4. I quickly logged onto iCloud, said three Hail Stevens, and remotely wiped and locked the device.<br />
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After that, I bolted down to the Optus store and made sure they blocked the IMEI. "Enjoy your aluminium doorstop, assholes!" I muttered as I went down to the Telstra shop in desperation. I was not expecting to buy a smartphone today. I needed internets on my train ride home or else babies were going to get kicked into woodchippers.<br />
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"I'm broke and cranky - I need your cheapest smartphone!" I haggardly exclaimed. The salesperson reluctantly showed me the LG Optimus L3. It ran Android, and hadn't caught fire yet. It was within my "2 Minute Noodles" budget, so I threw two fifties onto the counter and walked out with a new phone number and one of LG's budget smartphones. Optus wanted to charge me hundreds of dollars to replace the iPhone and aftet that I'd still be on the Optus network, so fuck those guys.<br />
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This was an experiment, I kept telling myself as I cracked open the box and pulled out all the bits. Once Wifey was off her contract we'd get ourselves shiny new Samsungs. It wouldn't be that bad.<br />
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<b>Plastic Fantastic</b><br />
The phone itself is, well, it's what you'd expect for $100 worth of smartphone. Cheap plastic, removeable battery, small screen. It comes with a 2GB micro SD card and a micro USB charger. It feels pretty good in the hand and is ridiculously light which I suppose is important if you're a preschooler or weak-wristed. I noticed as I was assembling the charger that the LG logo on it is actually the wrong way up.<br />
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<i>YOU ONLY HAD ONE JOB.</i></div>
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Setup was your typical fare, with a new Android version available. Turns out 2.3 is new, huh. Some background process stopped working as I was settling in, but I put that down to bad luck.
It took me less than five minutes to regret my purchase after I'd turned the thing on. Why, you ask? First things first: The screen.<br />
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<b>It's Like A Car Crash</b><br />
The screen is so bad that when the super crashy browser displays a webpage, the text and images are so incredibly pixelated that you're not actually sure what you're zooming into. The native resolution of this display is 320x240. That's right, even the world's shittiest quality Youtube video would stretch this display to the limit. Not like you'd actually be able to discern any detail however, because the colours are horrible and it's impossible to read in daylight conditions. Viewing angles any steeper than "dead on" will invert the colours, and at something around 124 pixels per inch... well, it's almost as if LG contracted engineers from North Korea to build the screen with their cutting-edge Soviet era technology. Thanks a lot, Juchebags.<br />
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To be fair, not everything about the screen is bad. It's a touchscreen, so I suppose it's got that going for it. In a nod to mental health professionals everywhere, LG have seen fit to bless the touchscreen sensors with bipolar disorder. Most of the time it's passable, but it'll occasionally swing from "sluggish" to "Tap Tap Revenge". Touch something once and it might launch something on the other side of the page. If you're lucky it'll double tap and launch into something you didn't even know was possible. Sometimes it'll swing the other way and only respond to your input every 1 in 4 tries.<br />
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<i>Text is incomprehensible, and the keyboard takes up over half the screen.</i></div>
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<b>But I'm Full</b><br />
Onwards to the storage of this handset, and here's eleven syllables to get your heart racing: 157MB. That's all you've got to play with. Even if we were living in a magical land where it wasn't already half-filled with things like the OPERATING SYSTEM, that's goddamned paltry. Now with most smartphones you would probably have the option of say, moving your apps onto a micro SD card. Not here, my suddenly disgusted friend. You can download probably ten or so current day apps onto this korean brick of sorrow before it cries uncle and says it can't take anymore.<br />
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<b>Look, I Make Photo</b><br />
Next up is camera performance. Now the L3 only has a rear facing camera as you'd expect from a budget phone, but nothing, NOTHING can prepare you for what happens when you press the shutter. This is the worst camera phone I've used since the original Nokia models when cameras on our phones were a big deal. Images are tiny, grainy, and just plain embarrassing. To give you an approximation of the horror, I've prepared a nice little meditation exercise for you.
I want you to sit in your chair, relax, and turn off the lights. If it's daytime, draw the curtains. Get the room as dark as possible. Now gently relax your eyes so everything is kind of blurry. You might notice your eyes begin to sting a little if you've going too cross-eyed, so aim for the sweet spot between 'out of focus' and 'full retard'. Once you're at a comfortable yet blurry stupor, squirt lemon juice in your eyes, stumble outside and jump into oncoming traffic. That's what using the camera is like.<br />
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<i>This was in a well-lit room. Note the broken charger.</i></div>
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<b>Handy Reset Function</b><br />
Speaking of motor vehicle collisions, let's talk about crashing. Things you never knew existed will crash just to let you know they care. Everything you do will cause to phone to hang. \In fact, I regularly found myself having to reboot the phone due to the constant onslaught of stopping applications. Of course, rebooting the phone takes an eternity, so I found an alternative; skimming the phone across the table and having it explode into pieces on the ground. The phone might be made of flimsy plastic, but it's robust enough to survive repetitive punishment like this. The screen is plastic so it won't crack, plus it's a nice little stress reliever to watch the phone shatter into three pieces. Since the battery goes flying every time, it'll shut the phone down faster than the phone itself can do it. You'll likely find the phone breaking up like a North Korean missile test more than you'd hope for though, since the slightest bump can set it off.<br />
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<b>The Users: Worse Than The Phone</b><br />
To see if anyone else was talking about this product, I jumped online and had a read of those online forum efforts all the kids are raging about these days.
Big mistake.
It seems that the target market of this phone is the barely literate high school crowd. Out of hundreds of comments, 99% of them read like they were typed out by borderline-retarded Year 10 dropouts. Not surprisingly, most of the user reviews were glowing, likely to cover up the incredible case of buyer's remorse they each must feel.<br />
<br />
<i>"Its very user free phone...i m flng vry cmftble..u ppl can choose fr all types.."</i> (Buyer is fighting heroin overdose)<br />
<br />
<i>"Luk lg izzz a very easy and a very comfortable phone its not just for the shape but it focuses on the properties."</i> (luk LG izzz, but make sure you get your properties focused on.)<br />
<br />
<i>"i can definately say that .. ur peace is a defective one... vaise its a very gud phne,,,,"</i> (Take THAT, Korea!)<br />
<br />
<i>"Its a nice phone . I am using it from post 3 months . Worth for money . thanks LG"</i> (It must suck to live in a world where you use your phone from post for an entire three months and you feel it's still worth for money..)<br />
<br />
Some users to their credit realised that they were being conned, however they still struggle with putting their thoughts to text:<br />
<i>"This is a worst mobil becous it doesn't suport ani bigg apps even templerun and all and RAM memory is small processing speed also less compare to Samsung dues ..."</i><br />
<br />
<i>"i bought this pone before one week the main problem is all the apps are strucking please dont buy this phone" </i><br />
<br />
I mean, I guess I should be agreeing with these people, but, I just... What the fuck? If this is how the budget smartphone crowd communicate with each other, then never let me near a Vodafone outlet.
Can you believe people bought this thing on a two year contract? Not that I condone violence, but I'm pretty sure you'll have a less punishing time spending 18 months in jail knocking out the guy that convinces you that this handset was a good idea.<br />
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<b>Please, End This Torment</b><br />
To be totally honest, it's not all bad news. the one and only thing that actually impressed me about this phone was its battery life. The thing just would not fucking die. I abuse the hell out of my smartphones on the way to and from work, and even though this phone took me back to 1998 in many ways, the one thing I do miss from that time is that phone batteries could last until the heat death of the universe. It's like the cow from Me, Myself & Irene.<br />
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<i>I'm going to pepper you with friend requests until your heart gives out, you bastard!</i></div>
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However at the end of the day that's like saying that despite all the deaths it has caused, HIV/AIDS isn't all that bad because it gave us the Tom Hanks movie Philadelphia. It is a blight upon mobile phone networks the world over, and it reminds me that everytime I've bought an LG product recently I've totally regretted the purchase. Remember that these guys were the ones behind the Internet Fridge. Remember that? Me neither.<br />
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The LG Optimus L3 is the HIV/AIDS of 21st century mobile computing. The only way to combat its existence is through strong drugs and awareness. If you know someone who owns this phone, give them your support. If you are unfortunate enough to be stuck with this phone.... well, I tried to warn you. It is a travesty and downright offensive move by LG to even CONSIDER giving this phone the same name as one of my favourite robots.<br />
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I award this piece of shit no points, and may God have mercy on its soul.<br />
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<b>SUMMARY</b><br />
- Amazing 320x240 display allowing you to play games from 1993 in native resolution<br />
<br />
- 157MB of mostly prefilled internal storage allows you to download tens of your favourite apps<br />
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- Touchscreen display preempts double taps and swipes, sometimes without user input<br />
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- Battery lets your experience last for ages, in much the same way that World War II did<br />
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- Android 2.3 allows you to experience the very best of "This version of Android is not supported" errors<br />
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- 3MP camera realistically conveys images as experienced by the legally blind<br />
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- All plastic "come-apart" design gives the Optimus L3 the ability to explode on the slightest touch, breeze or use of suggestive language<br />
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- Can be used to keep doors ajar or underneath tables at the local food court to stop that inconvenient wobble<br />
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<b>PRICE</b><br />
- Like your resulting white blood cell count, it's too damn high<br />
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(Reviewer's note: After I put the finishing touches on this review, the fucking charger fell apart as I pulled it out of a power outlet. Now the pins are stuck in the socket. Life's Good.)TastyWheathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08468682376867907441noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6558351129251313169.post-26640172125053135292009-10-26T10:40:00.011+11:002009-10-26T12:07:43.953+11:00Fishpond.com.au - a review.<div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin8D1VpuDp2-i56IGQQNLq_ifrHSUvv9O14fztY1KNo1tPLQT67Iel_1_Q9l8HuH5uyqRe_x1le4naGknkDwYJS-IHCv_KTf9TI19GdxjH1um8bp7zCxdjUM038y7rvWqqckVqklevLA/s1600-h/back.jpg"></a></span></span><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Now I'm not usually in the habit of reviewing things on this blog, but developments with these lot have inspired me to put pen to paper, or at least fingertip to keyboard.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Before I go into the delicious creamy filling of the review, I need to give you a little bit of background. My wonderful other half Cheinara and I made a wager a few weeks ago that I couldn't get out of bed at 4am every morning for three days straight. Apparently she must think I sleep too much, but I think the fact that I woke up at 10am this morning is a blessing, and not some kind of disfiguring curse. Anyway, I won the bet thanks to years to shiftwork experience and I was to be rewarded with the PS3 title of the moment, Uncharted 2.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">'Yay!' I exclaimed over the internet. 'I get to explode things and dangle from ledges!'.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 199px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivh5_odSpdvHJfZvoAei7flm4un4iITeeBxL7IG05AAP_E6qoReWHzG_Uf9QL2P_Pqw6FOggMflYAKEhIxGbj0_M1tQDIxbtT4LhxhrgxKWJ9yJxLRgoxoh0NrltrTNOy7b5sfss-y0A/s400/FifthElement154.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396698420321914370" /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">It looked a little something like this.</span></span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I do a lot of bargain hunting over at a site called Ecogamer which scours the net for cheap games for Aussies. As luck just so had it, I found out that a little site called Fishpond.com.au had it the cheapest thanks to a promotion code. The game was ordered with gift wrapping and a card included on the 8th October - Just in time for the release on the 15th.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I immediately received an email from their Customer Service Robot thanking me for the order.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Uncharted 2 Among Thieves is not yet published. Your pre-order has been recorded.<br /><br />This title is due for publication on 15 October, 2009. Your copy has been reserved and we will ship it to you as soon as possible after the release date.<br />------------------------------------------------------</span></span></span></i></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">New status: Shipped</span></span></span></i></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></i></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Huh? That's odd. I mean I know that Customer Service Robot #132 isn't exactly the most knowledgeable hunk of sentient steel around, but they've managed to ship something before it arrives in their warehouse? That's pretty god damned amazing. On the 15th October (Happy Uncharted Day!) I get another email stating the obvious. It was shipped and on its way. Again. That was good to know, but there was no delivery date. After a few minutes of fighting their website, I get info that the expect delivery address was between the 21st and the 23rd of October. WHAT? That can't be right. Surely it's a Worst Case Scenario here. It's coming from Alexandria! That's like two hours drive away at the most.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The 23rd rolls around, and there is no parcel in my mailbox. Tasty is getting agitated. Time to ask some questions. Once again I have a battle of wills with Fishpond's website (Their 'Contact Us' page has not actual contact details which kind of defeats the purpose) I find a way to get in touch with them. I won't stick the whole email here because it's longer than World War II, but I'll let you know that as pissed as I was, the tone of the email was polite, with a side of constructive criticism bigger than Disneyland. Some excerpts:</span></span></div><div><blockquote type="cite"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">'The product has failed to arrive in the delivery window. At first when I saw the delivery estimation I was taken aback, but after speaking to several of your past customers have found that these are quite optimistic. One colleague in Sydney said, and I quote, 'it took them a month to send me a book. a MONTH.' Another in the US responded to my frustrations by saying 'I'll buy it locally here and send it by putting it in a bottle and throwing it in the ocean...might get there quicker.''</span></span></span></blockquote><blockquote type="cite"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">'For an apparently Australian online store, with prices in Australian dollars, I have found your delivery times in Australia to be by far the worst I have ever dealt with.'</span></span></span></blockquote><blockquote type="cite"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">'Although your quoted average response time to queries is 24 hours, I look forward to receiving your reply in my inbox sometime mid-November.'</span></span></span></blockquote></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Lo and behold, I get a reply within 24 hours. At least their customer service section listens, right?</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">We apologise for the delay:</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">* Uncharted 2 Among Thieves<br />We anticipate delivery Australian Post mail, between 21/10/09 and 26/10/09. Please let us know if it has not arrived by 2nd November and we either order a replacement or cancel the title and refund you. </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Huh. Did they even read my relentless onslaught of tactful ranting? By this time it was the 23rd of October. Seems that Fishpond exist in some kind of time-distorting alternate reality where everything is sent and received in the past. My reply this time was something they couldn't easily glaze over:</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">So between two days ago and Tuesday? Where exactly was it shipped from?</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Their reply?</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Australia Post does generally take at least 3- 5 days for delivery, and of course from time to time, delays do happen. We sincerely apologise for that.</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Jimmy</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">How the hell does that answer my question? Sounds like Jimmy is doin' some good old fashioned question dodging. I get pissed off at a lot of things, but when people start pretending I didn't ask them a question, I start getting a little riled.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Yes, I noticed that when I initially ordered the product. However, my question wasn't answered.</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Long story short, the truth came out. Fishpond.com.au, Australia's largest bookstore, is not actually based in Australia at all. They're in New Zealand. Whoops! They must have forgotten to mention that. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">So the package finally arrived, 11 days after local release IN NEW ZEALAND:</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 324px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5q_sQPQuIZJ_RYjwiDRVXwgsH8D4kbCiGZAArM5PSkfTKktqTj7WKRnbPb2MY4pvpS-GwEkbrcv66lbAashOLMIlH6ZqSZ-PdH_pTFXmaK48wG0c2mu9R0kVRtrV6yeNg6BTAIA8EaQ/s400/label.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396700559288707794" /><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Wow, those kiwis have an Alexandria, New South Wales too!</span></span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The game arrive in a dodgy looking brown paper envelope, usually reserved for liquor and pornography. The usually delightful ziptab opening thing disintegrated when I pulled it, leaving me clawing at the exterior like a starving hyena. The game was lovingly wrapped in Default coloured paper (Fishpond don't actually explain what colour Default is, so today I learned it's silver) and the hand written card from Cheinara?</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrAEHw9Rx4GFzqOPo_lAQpao1s9q9QzUeVbkq7jTmMlwUiLyM2J6T2Ti5cqrYZuWnhvS3LDpWmrwlMoUY8EtJVGVjFjcUa-fiFGkHWxTLz6uUL_aGeTXhLgVwrQdf8xe-vSdi0bOwiIg/s400/card.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396702474388129170" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">That's an extremely low resolution printout on an Avery label, stuck to a card. No corners cut here! Cheinara once sent me a slab of beer from an online store in Perth that had better gift wrapping. It even had a hand written card. For BEER. I didn't even know you COULD gift wrap beer before that. Who gift wraps beer? People in Perth do! Sup, Perth?</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin8D1VpuDp2-i56IGQQNLq_ifrHSUvv9O14fztY1KNo1tPLQT67Iel_1_Q9l8HuH5uyqRe_x1le4naGknkDwYJS-IHCv_KTf9TI19GdxjH1um8bp7zCxdjUM038y7rvWqqckVqklevLA/s400/back.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396705826501097826" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The back of the card. For New Zealand's Biggest Australian Bookstore, their proof reading sucks. </span></span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">So in short, I give Fishpond a resounding F- for the entire experience. The entire ordeal was the worst online shopping experience mankind has ever encountered outside Ebay, and their staff not only dodge questions, but have apparently perfected time travel technology to the point where everything happens in the past. Damn you, Fishpond. Damn you for forcing me to do t</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">his. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Anyways, time to play some Uncharted 2. Hopefully Fishpond didn't send me the portugese version.</span></div>TastyWheathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08468682376867907441noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6558351129251313169.post-42400112909221560192009-09-29T09:02:00.004+10:002009-09-29T09:09:05.761+10:00Do they make training wheels for yachts?<div style="text-align: left;">When I was a kid, I was told that I was special and I could do anything if I put my mind to it. Teachers, television, even Timon and Pumbaa from the fucking Lion King all seemed to be queuing up for a chance to be included in my own personal cheersquad. It seemed to be a good thing at the time because if a cel-shaded meerkat has utter faith in me, then success is assured.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>It was about this time that a friend of mine bought a dirtbike around to my house. It was his new pride and joy - yellow, noisy, even road registered. It kicked ass. He had made several modifcations to it to make it a better ride and I'm pretty sure I remember him saying he wanted to be buried with it (He was 16 at the time). It was all those hard-earned life lessons from <i>everyone else</i> that rang in my head as I was offered the chance to have a go at his dirtbike. Nevermind that I've never ridden a motorcycle before or had much of an idea how a clutch operated. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>'It can't be too hard!' I remember thinking, as I revved the bike and waved to my mum who was jumping up and down, protesting over the <i>ning-ning</i> of the engine. 'Just like riding a really loud BMX!' I thought as I pushed the kickstand up. 'What the hell', I exclaimed in horror as the bike launched off at speed, throwing me into the side of the house.</div><div><br /></div><div>My friend ran over to his bike, checking for scratches and dints while I dusted myself off. I wasn't allowed to ride his dirtbike after that. Fucking meerkats.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>The reason I mention this is because of this teen sailor that's in the news, Jessica Watson. You may remember her for trying to be the youngest sailor to circumnavigate the globe solo. Turns out she isn't quite up to the task at this stage, since she managed to crash her boat into a 63,000 ton bulk carrier less than 24 hours into her trip. Riddle me this - how can you possibly expect to safely sail around the globe for eight months when you can't even make it a day without stacking into a target the size of a football field? She didn't just drop the ball with this one - she dropped the ball, tripped over, knocked out her teeth when her face hit the ground, and then accidentally swallowed them.</div><div><br /></div><div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwsb3HvowSjyG0VStV_abL76hbHdE9HnTwPKHfhnCv2Rv-aGsAaRLTd0PsXdeQBOJZ6nPdzhNrujm5qOYJeJRDJidnVMjtqsFEaECw22Y05CxpRmO21l3A9E2QRVt-bDUWZzROpY4LMQ/s400/0,,6985443,00.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 350px; height: 240px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5386544952060321554" /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>OH SHIT LOOK OUT THERE'S A FUCKING BOAT BEHIND YOU</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div>Not discouraged by that, Our Jess declared that she would attempt the feat again. Almost immediately, every government official and maritime authority in the country stood up and told her that this was a stupid idea. 'No! Bad Jess! No Biscuit!' they cried out, using such futile tactics such as <i>logic </i>and <i>reason</i> to persuade her to go back to Boating School. It was revealed that she didn't even manage basic tasks while she was at sea. But no! THAT COULDN'T POSSIBLY BE IT! Her mother went on record this week and said that we were all doubting her <i>because she is a girl.</i></div><div><br /></div><div>Knock knock - We're all doubting her because she can't sail more than 24 hours before crashing into something. This has nothing to do with being female. Don't fucking bring that shit into it. At the risk of sounding like a callback radio guest, I think the parents are to blame. Personally I would've pulled the plug as soon as I learned that the boat she was sailing was <a href="http://www.challengeandadventure.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/07/image000044.jpg">pink enough to lead the next Mardi Gras.</a> Look at that. No, open up the image again and LOOK. LOOK WITH YOUR EYES. I wonder if there's a fucking frangipani sticker on the back.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm sure there are cheaper and less disastrous ways to get your kid to move out of home. I learned my lesson when I flew headfirst into a brick wall, maybe Jessica Watson should do the same before she accidentally falls asleep and crashes into Fiji.</div>TastyWheathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08468682376867907441noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6558351129251313169.post-79563270368543170252009-09-28T09:54:00.014+10:002009-10-07T13:25:06.397+11:00Well this certainly won't go down well<div style="text-align: left;">As an Australian, I've seen many moments of national outrage unfold. Hey Hey It's Saturday being cancelled, Corey Worthington or whatever his name was, but I now hold a special place for every single man, woman and child who was at the Melbourne Cricket Ground during the first quarter break of the AFL Grand Final on Saturday when the name of the new Vegemite was announced.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">There are a number of Americans who read this blog, so I'll describe it in a way you can relate to. Picture this in your head if you will (because I had to) - It's the Super Bowl. Biggest game of the year. Millions of viewers on television, and a stadium packed to capacity. It's the end of the first quarter and the crowd are getting into the spirit of things. Little Timmy is enjoying his first football game, and his father bought him an official jersey along with an overpriced snack and drink. Life is good. Everyone is enjoying themselves.</span><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Trumpets echo around the stadium, and a strangely dressed man is lit up by spotlights as he proudly enters the stadium and walks onto the field. In one hand, a brilliantly white cloth. In the other, a golden cage with an American Bald Eagle. The crowd hushes. and Timmy has the feeling he is about to witness something special. </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">A drum roll begins as this man opens the cage and lifts the majestic animal onto his arm. With his one free hand, he undoes his pants. He then lifts the bird's tail up and begins </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">fucking it up the ass. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Several arkward minutes go by, the shocked silence broken only by the protests of the bird, and the crying of children. After the man is done, he wipes the eagle clean with the cloth, and throws it into the crowd, pumping his fist triumphantly into the air.</span></span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The crowd does nothing at the sight of this almost blasphemous act. They allow it to continue, and await the next quarter.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">THIS is on par with the crowd's reaction when Kraft named the winner of the national 'Name the new Vegemite' competition. Almost 50,000 entries were sent in to name the next iteration of our national spread, and then Kraft fucked the proverbial eagle by calling it something even my eight year old niece laughed at...</span></div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 237px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp6BXLQVPBwqjKt4S5JQlYp_qZ1G10fY_h1Fxrzn32aETlNkwai808tnWspYkl8uXEc8xPqXkuPfBYZTwRK7lxD_BJs_DvT8-yHr03gp-4PMy8CDMwOKyylZlgSbzu795IyvxO13-F2A/s400/6a00d8341c4ec753ef0120a6041710970c-300wi.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389678262260804306" /><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">'Proudly made in Australia?' I'm sure that's about to change.</span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">When Kraft announced that the new Vegemite was now called iSnack 2.0, nobody did anything. Sure, the entire stadium booed, but there were no riots. THE STUPIDITY COULD HAVE BEEN QUASHED THEN AND THERE! But no, tens of thousands of people and not a single one decided to lead the people in a revolt against quite possibly the most retarded name for a product since... well, the dawn of time.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">There are so many things wrong with what I just wrote down (the iSnack bit, although eagle-fucking came on a bit strong). Who the fuck thought that this was a good idea? Has some grossly overpaid, suit wearing shitbag received a bonus for approving this tripe? Kraft's Corporate Head Of Bullshit wrote that iSnack 2.0 personifies the spread's 'personal call to action' as the 'next generation Vegemite'. I don't know how much crystal meth those clowns have been smoking, but I'm quite sure that the entire country is laughing at them because of it. I'm not sure how easy it is to smash a bottle of iSnack 2.0 on the corner of a table and make a shank, but I'm seriously considering trying it out the first time I hear someone ask for it with a straight face. I ask</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">ed Ms. Felicia ab</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">out this debacle, and she responded with this tirade for us:</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">'iSnack. This would mean that not only is Kraft trying to pander (and fail) at reaching a generation, they also fail at realizing that this generation gives two shits about putting the letter 'i' in front of words. In actuality, this generation would rather have it be called 'tits', because let's be honest, who wouldn't want to have some tits on their toast in the morning. Or maybe 'thighs'. Spread some thighs on your breakfast. For breakfast. Whatever the fuck, doesn't matter any more because Kraft's gone and shit in their hands and smeared it all over themselves in a rain-dance of horribly epic proportions.<br /><br />'OH GREAT MARKETING GOD, TELL US OUT OF THESE THOUSANDS OF SUBMISSIONS, WHAT WE SHOULD NAME OUR PRODUCT!' Someone farts, someone else misinterprets it as iSnack 2.0 (probably marketing), and they call it a day.<br /><br />I hate the name, and I don't live anywhere near the continent of Australia. When I hear it, the name alone sends me into a mouth-foaming frenzy in which I stuff dried, rotten leaves into my mouth and find the nearest bar to drown myself in a giant vat of hot oil. Holy mother of fuck, what were they thinking.'</span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The guy who apparently entered the name into the competition, Dean Robbins, is apparently living in Western Australia after relocating from Melbourne. He has two loves in his life - his family, and Vegemite. I'm calling bullshit on this one, because nobody would do </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">this</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> to a product they love. The Vegemite (sorry, iSnack 2.0) website has a photo of this tosser with a giant shit-eating grin (Sorry, iSnack 2.0) holding up a jar of this horribly named, cream-cheese infused spread. He might as well just hold up a sign saying I JUST TOOK A ISNACK 2.0 ON OUR NATIONAL SYMBOL AND THE DICKHEADS AT KRAFT THOUGHT I WAS BEING SERIOUS.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></div><div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8Mwt92zLjdg3PJ4KNQsWrt_s4kJFVVwdLSPWWv1c70wOZ0HieRxRD8MriDAPC2rylYT2KUB3AbnUPkYhIAd8AzdEahgZYuKaCD55DkJ5m7xfB18yqYSf2akPzsUh6eb0bvGqWKez0PqE/s400/kraft.gif" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 288px;" border="0" alt="" /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I found this on the internet. It's a much better choice.</span></i></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The more I hear about this guy, the more I'm convinced that he is now Australia's biggest troll. Instead of going on the internet and enraging a public message board for his own amusement, he's gone and pissed off an entire country. Dean Robbins, if you're reading this... You should have moved interstate AFTER they revealed iSnack 2.0, because now not only does everyone in this wide brown land want your blood, but they also </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">know where you live.</span></i></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></i></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Good luck with this one, champ. Serves you right for fucking our Bald Eagle.</span></div><div><br /></div></div>TastyWheathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08468682376867907441noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6558351129251313169.post-5180486285088871422009-04-06T16:13:00.004+10:002009-04-06T16:58:04.915+10:00I'm absolutely NOT an internet gangstaFacebook is one of those sites that polarises everyone that visits it. They either love it like I do, hate it like I do, or simply don't get it... like I do. It really depends on when I'm visiting and what kind of nonsense I'm accosted with upon my arrival to the main page. I find it therapeutic to e-stalk friends, people I've met in bars and even that funny-smelling kid at school that now earns more that I do. What I do NOT find therapeutic is the fact that all of the aforementioned groups of people have this crazy idea in their head that I want to join in on their Norwegian goat-herding simulation, or that I have ignored the past 438 Mafia Wars invites because theirs is THE ONE.<br /><br />Newsflash, genius. It's not. I go onto Facebook to get in contact with people. I don't visit the site and think to myself "Well, shit. You know what I'm missing out on in life? All this time, I've wanted to know what kind of Hepatitis I am. I'm counting the days until some guy who lives in his parent's garage formulates the correlation between Hep C and answers to an internet quiz. While I'm there, I saw that Jimmy has built a city in his virtual country. I really feel sorry for what I did to him all those years ago... I'll enlist in his virtual army and squabble with other internet nerds IN HIS NAME."<br /><br />Does ANYBODY ELSE see how incredibly fucking stupid this is? When I log into the site I will undoubtedly be eye-raped by multiple invitations over shit I will never care about. The worst thing about it is that nobody seems to understand that I do not give an e-shit about their virtual crime family. Even the wording of the invitations tries to piss me off. <span style="font-style: italic;">Hi, I made an [object] </span><object><span style="font-style: italic;"> in [fucking stupid Facebook application]</span><fucking retarded="" facebook="" application=""><span style="font-style: italic;"> and I thought of you because we connect on a spiritual level. I went and hand-invited all 7,400 of my friends, most of which I've never met before in real life, because I absolutely believe you'll enjoy it.</span> No, fuck you, die in a fire, it was a 'Piss Off Everybody' button you clicked because if you <span style="font-weight: bold;">did</span> click it, you got a bonus mug of snake piss to drink in your virtual harem. Patronise me like that again and I'll break your face. Stylishly. Like this motherfucker here:<br /><br /></fucking></object><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitxDkUWMjoKwJySRksTfTNGRpI8g5AjAhqFYHHjYRpqd8kfA69sdVkdJDBQJT6_6xnehmQhemcuQaVeRiASKngcSro2PeUGdmO7KgHvueYDjDWEKgo71fgzG_mIRloCDW9Vy71kvfWzw/s1600-h/7d7e1292ea4625c906c1f3b8c3443d1f.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 350px; height: 303px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitxDkUWMjoKwJySRksTfTNGRpI8g5AjAhqFYHHjYRpqd8kfA69sdVkdJDBQJT6_6xnehmQhemcuQaVeRiASKngcSro2PeUGdmO7KgHvueYDjDWEKgo71fgzG_mIRloCDW9Vy71kvfWzw/s400/7d7e1292ea4625c906c1f3b8c3443d1f.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5321468056348862786" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Morpheus didn't believe the latest round of chain emails. Joke's on you, Baldy!</span><br /></div><object><fucking retarded="" facebook="" application=""><br />I'm not joining your mob. I'm not a vampire, pirate or viking and don't want to fight the rest of them. I don't care one way or the other if I die not knowing which Days Of Our Lives character I am. If this offends you, get off my internet.<br /><br />- Signed,<br /> <span style="font-weight: bold;">We the people.</span><br /></fucking></object>TastyWheathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08468682376867907441noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6558351129251313169.post-78678785285352108632009-03-29T11:43:00.004+11:002009-03-29T11:50:24.319+11:00Tweety Bird dies, buried with english muffin. News at 11Yes, I'm still alive. Sorry to disappoint.<br /><br />The reason I have not been doing my weekly updates like a good little chook is because I've actually been in a good mood. No rage, no writing – them's the rules. Luckily for you all, a lunchtime trip to the Westfield Warrawong Food Court has solved all your dramas while giving me another fucking headache to deal with.<br /><br />I know all except maybe two of my readers have never been to the esteemed Westfield Warrawong Food Court (WWFC) in their lives so allow me to paint the picture.<br /><br />As you approach the entrance to the WWFC, you are (as is the norm for food courts around the Illawarra) accosted by old Greeks and Italians standing over giant plastic chess pieces, threatening each other's lives. Entering through the squeaking automatic doors, you can immediately see the following food court staples:<br /><br />- A McDonald's, KFC and Subway<br />- Asian takeaway shops that everyone ignores, while a sad old lady with a plastic spoon occasionally stirs the Singapore Noodles<br />- A kebab shop featuring a slightly agitated Turkish man yelling at tomatoes<br />- Anyone sponsored by Centrelink<br />- Two chicken shops right next to each other, selling the exact same things.<br /><br />I've always wondered about those two chicken shops. I wonder if they have a legendary rivalry going on, and now I am going to plan a chef battle where I will sample each of their snack packs and bellow out the winner, WWE style. BUT I DIGRESS.<br /><br />Right next to the two feuding chicken eateries was a KFC. Talk about a case of the big guy kicking over the proverbial sand castle, right? WRONG. I mosey on up to the KFC counter, and order what I am led to believe is the 'Ultimate Box'. From the looks of what I see on the overheard board, the feast is large enough to mobilise an African nation on. I am up for this. I will engage the box of chicken. I pay my money to the barely-happy-to-be-there register chick and a few minutes later receive THE ULTIMATE BOX.<br /><br />Now, I must have been spoiled as a young dutch child, as I unwrapped the chicken burger to find what appeared to be a chicken nugget, 4mL of mayonnaise and barely enough lettuce to constitute a rabbit's fart.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiuv8jCw45Kmfv8kVWeiWnsn9rUMjMS6pLrlTUYuleX8EljFIXwkruiFUiJ7Sp4qFIDZ1pXuOgKUdqFqUiSKeRH8gBhe0Kaa_ESLvw2kc4zVvNnKwRQw9hE0ASGhr5Wh4d_84IerodWA/s1600-h/IMG_0611.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiuv8jCw45Kmfv8kVWeiWnsn9rUMjMS6pLrlTUYuleX8EljFIXwkruiFUiJ7Sp4qFIDZ1pXuOgKUdqFqUiSKeRH8gBhe0Kaa_ESLvw2kc4zVvNnKwRQw9hE0ASGhr5Wh4d_84IerodWA/s400/IMG_0611.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318404519843033266" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Here's my burger after I took a bite out of it.<br /></span></div><br />So is it just me, or have KFC's burgers gotten very.... erm... <span style="font-style: italic;">small?</span><br /><br />I mean for about $8 you're getting the 'burger', a few chunks of poopcorn chicken, a box of chips that's more interested in last month's state cricket matches, and a cup of potato and gravy. I guess I could see the value in that, but the centrepiece of the whole shebang is the chicken burger. Compare this culinary TRAVESTY to great local chicken joints like Chiko's, Chicken Wizard, Chicken King, Tony's Chicken Shop or Caesar's. Those burgers are as big as a person's HEAD (I know this, I once asked my girlfriend at the time to hold the burger up to her face) and these rank amongst some of the greatest poultry-based dining experiences the human race will ever know.<br /><br />It's all a matter of mathematics, apparently. It's a well-observed trend among the chicken chefs that there is a schnitzel-to-chip ratio which can easily show a punter what the better deal will be.<br /><br />Eg:<br />- KFC's schnitzel-to-chip ratio of 1:518 = 'what the fuck is this shit'<br />- Everyone else's hovers around 1:19 = 'Less chips, but that's cool. Look at the size of that fucking burger. I wonder how many chickens died to make this meal for which we are about to receive. I bet it was a lot. A lot of the juicy, succulent bastards. Amen.'<br /><br />I know Colonel Sanders has been dead for years, so I'm not going to address this to anyone in particular, but <span style="font-weight: bold;">What the fuck, nobody in particular? I asked for a chicken burger, not a fucking 1:18 scale model. Look across the food court assholes. Do you see that guy in the smoke shop selling the model racecars? Do I look like the kind of guy who would try to feed the little men inside those cars? No, I don't. While I've got your attention, who is the genius pimping last December's test match between NSW and TAS? Are there even people LEFT on that island? Do you all stand there like a bunch of pick-socked orangutans wondering why I'm not urgently firing up my time machine to spectate that match? Well you shouldn't because nobody really gives a fuck about state cricket anyway.</span><br /><br />Next time, I'm totally going to do the cook-off between the other chicken places. Their burgers would be wise not to disappoint me. I'm a very influential person amongst internet nerds.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">For the American readers, change 'chicken burger' to 'chicken sandwich', then go slap yourself for calling it a sandwich when it's a bun, and not bread. Also FYI I know I misspelled 'popcorn' as 'poopcorn' but it's 4am Sunday morning while I write this and I find it absolutely hilarious.</span>TastyWheathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08468682376867907441noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6558351129251313169.post-31814920159165853292009-03-12T01:02:00.009+11:002009-03-12T02:09:46.790+11:00We Were All Thinking It<div style="text-align: left;">As at least 6 people around this wide brown land would know, I'm a pretty multicultural kinda guy. I'll hang out with Belgians, Americans, Sudanese, even Brazilians (especially Brazilians) any day of the week. I can use chopsticks, I've been known to sing Irish drinking songs and I've even been involved in a knife-fight with a girl from the Phillipines. Which is why I'm still struggling to find out why I'm so touchy about the Japanese.<br /><br /></div>Now don't get me wrong, I love the Japanese. They're a polite and technologically advanced people. Show me any activity on Earth and I could find a Japanese person who has dedicated their life to perfecting it. But to be honest, I think I'm developing a love/hate relationship with the place. I really want to visit, but I'm not quite sure what I'll find there.<br /><br />Here are a few Japanese things that we should all be thankful for:<br /><br />- <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I5vdVx0jpi4">Robots</a><div>- <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WhbCEi_Aac4">Samurai</a></div><div>- <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qdS5lkeN8_8">Ninjas</a></div><div>- <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z1-wJx8j5CE">Takeshi's Castle</a><br />- <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZmXJeheIugU&feature=related">Street Fighter 4.</a><br /><br />A wide and varied selection by any means. However for every yin, there is a yang, and this brings me to the crux of this blog post. Japan has some seriously strange shit that it's responsible for.<div><br />Here are a few Japanese things which frighten me:<br /><br />- Cat weight lifting<div>- Dressing girls up as baby seals and baiting killer whales with them<br />- Sony Corporation, Ltd<br />- Robots<br />- Basically all of their pornography<br /><br />Why is it that every fucking time somebody pushes the envelope, Japan just waltzes in and launches the envelope across the stadium like a human cannonball? Of all things, I'll draw your attention to tasteful photography. Most people could easily find a nice nude shot of an attractive girl artistic (email me, it's for ART) but then some <span style="font-style: italic;">visionary</span> in Japan decided to summon all the rage of his samurai ancestors and bring us this:<br /><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 306px; height: 363px;" src="http://18.media.tumblr.com/hfq8tbnDnko0eydvik0I9zoNo1_500.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></span><div><div style="text-align: center; font-style: italic;"> WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE FUCK</div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;">Is this considered art? Social commentary on the plight of tentacled monsters everywhere? I know the Japanese seem to love their tentacles (I'm not fucking going there) but this is just... wow. THEY ARE WEARING OCTOPUSES. Or is that octopi? I don't know. Fuck you, I'm dealing with emotional trauma right now. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The only way this photograph could get worse is if it was a candid shot, and not staged at all.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Oh hey Natsuki, what's happening?"</span></div><div style="text-align: left; font-style: italic;">"Oh, just wearing an oct... OH HEY I LOVE YOUR OCTOPUS HAT!"</div><div style="text-align: left; font-style: italic;">"I love yours too! Which flavour did you get?"</div><div style="text-align: left; font-style: italic;">"Oh, salt and pepper squid." </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I'm going to stop with the virtual conversation there because... look, I don't need an excuse. LOOK AT THAT SHIT. I could keep on giving examples all day, but I'm sure you don't want that kind of burden on your mind, because the above image is nothing compared to some of their other ideas. I really don't want to bow and shake hands with the guy who thought gymnastics equipment was sexy enough to be involved in hardcore pornography. To all the girls reading this (remember: for art) - remember the last time you went to the uh, ladie's doctor, and he pulled out those salad tong looking things? Substitute that with a POMMEL HORSE</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVaLcurCNuysDGal7whyphenhyphengD29TSzxMGzSMk6r-59sb9k55VUXeTECGn7nH_sfSHwShBc0w0gBjL6vbnCVE5rQasTT7wAgmRfIF2hOHlAwRkdhGI7Fz19DT6epXO7CdfMRhTOP4fvyQ_RQ/s1600-h/Picture+1.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 175px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVaLcurCNuysDGal7whyphenhyphengD29TSzxMGzSMk6r-59sb9k55VUXeTECGn7nH_sfSHwShBc0w0gBjL6vbnCVE5rQasTT7wAgmRfIF2hOHlAwRkdhGI7Fz19DT6epXO7CdfMRhTOP4fvyQ_RQ/s400/Picture+1.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5311941335083308130" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Images not to scale</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">Now it's <a href="http://sportscucumber.com/wordpress/2008/08/10/korean-gymnast-loses-virginity-during-pommel-horse-routine/">not the first time this has happened apparently</a>, but World War II taught us that some things should never be repeated. I'll be starting a support group for everyone who has been exposed to Random Horrific Japanese Stuff over the next week or so. I just hope you all don't get flashbacks the next time you meet a Japanese exchange student at the pub. Sorry Tomiko - you were great fun but that twitching wasn't because I had something in my eye AT ALL.<br /></div></div> </div></div></div></div></div>TastyWheathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08468682376867907441noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6558351129251313169.post-75697162614877178412009-03-04T00:00:00.012+11:002009-03-04T14:10:08.172+11:00Lest We Forget<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilZ8-xvlnebopw79UqGHTXIsaY5soPAyEsqy6Lesss5fVsBtDmhEFGoBH0NXpCEgquMmOFxbeoctKajKQhODdaajRkd9ZHAA7nwrhK3v1bLJGModskjkB29jB59hRGe8BaH2j2owpxmw/s1600-h/Picture+3.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 216px; height: 199px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilZ8-xvlnebopw79UqGHTXIsaY5soPAyEsqy6Lesss5fVsBtDmhEFGoBH0NXpCEgquMmOFxbeoctKajKQhODdaajRkd9ZHAA7nwrhK3v1bLJGModskjkB29jB59hRGe8BaH2j2owpxmw/s320/Picture+3.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5308949853509506194" border="0" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;">Time out, people - It's time for a fucking history lesson. Today is an extremely important day for Australians everywhere as they remember a conflict which is often talked of, but almost never recognised. It is the 4th of March, which marks the 20th Anniversary of V-A Day, 1989. What's that? Victory in Asia Day? No. Wrong. Get the fuck out of here. It was Victory in America Day, which ended the Australian-American War.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Now it's quite possible you haven't heard that much about the Australian-American War (Or AA War for short), and that's because not only was the entire conflict strictly land based (which most believe is boring) but the war itself only lasted for 76 hours. It was primarily caused by tensions regarding the American VHS release of Crocodile Dundee II, which had been planned to include an alternative ending where Mick denounces his Australian citizenship and moves to America with Sue. The ending credits included shots of Paul Hogan singing 'God Bless America', which infuriated the Australian Department of Tourism.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZJqwg9Ku4Waj63Hqr7ArCXmynNoMf1n9gPc4YsE5WSAiyS1YsgK0kXc_9UWa_nDmKjEGOY-ie33Yy19-fvetWTRCRPeGAGMK1DDPSRrbQlmWswhpjvHWAG4xbXTuWjOLERBjUR_MKFw/s320/V0109903.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5308953618197541826" border="0" /><span style="font-style: italic;">Australian troops advance on El Paso, March 1989.<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: left;">Even after weeks of negotiations, diplomacy failed and Australian SAS troops began landing along the shores of California, Texas and New York City on the 1st of March. While initally met with fierce resistance from US forces, the Australian advance was helped by empathetic locals who were swooned by our smooth accents and packets of Tim Tams. After eight hours of American bloodshed, the US Government still refused to surrender, or reverse its decision on Crocodile Dundee II. It is hotly debated by historians that the Pentagon simply did not know what to do against a land based army that did not just stand still and wait to be shot (see the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/American_war_of_Independance">American War of Independance</a>), although what they all agree on are the consequences of fucking with Australians.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-9zK9CBTYYq2IJOkhj9FY2dLyUAtIGAaqrqV-9edOOfucEj-m2KeZowIAii1d24G9fLDF6Z78ByeRdv0WvEke_eauvORm_E92aNo2SZvi0ACJp2Xhtm1NoQUV74bcTSs50Pycr3wy0Q/s1600-h/Picture+4.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 276px; height: 207px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-9zK9CBTYYq2IJOkhj9FY2dLyUAtIGAaqrqV-9edOOfucEj-m2KeZowIAii1d24G9fLDF6Z78ByeRdv0WvEke_eauvORm_E92aNo2SZvi0ACJp2Xhtm1NoQUV74bcTSs50Pycr3wy0Q/s200/Picture+4.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5308959286470734770" border="0" /></a></div> <div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Total War erupted between Australian and US forces in the early hours of March 3rd.</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">Within hours, Australian generals had green-lit the aerial deployment of koalas, <a href="http://shrisharavanan.googlepages.com/Kangaroos3.JPG/Kangaroos3-full.jpg">kangaroos</a> (including the infamous 5th Explosive Joey Battalion), wombats and even echidna espionage units over the front lines. The results were devastating - while it was common knowledge that koalas possess two sets of genitalia, it was not until March 3rd, 1989 that we learned koalas have the ability to fire a pistol with each hand. Echidnas stowed away inside ammunition boxes and mortally wounded any US solider reaching for another clip. Kangaroos bounded into enemy encampments and killed dozens of soliders single-handedly.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNc14n7HQWAKri7wWEBI6mlA0p3W4eHHpWjQ2W-7qMPip48_Th8gLrOLuy_06ydMKODpZaO-96CHJ83ignBrHz7l28XwfjhU4Pbri9E_rHc4UXySrXogfYBJ8hXbk5E4kgCQIZ0eJrjg/s1600-h/roo.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 321px; height: 207px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNc14n7HQWAKri7wWEBI6mlA0p3W4eHHpWjQ2W-7qMPip48_Th8gLrOLuy_06ydMKODpZaO-96CHJ83ignBrHz7l28XwfjhU4Pbri9E_rHc4UXySrXogfYBJ8hXbk5E4kgCQIZ0eJrjg/s200/roo.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5308963728984325762" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">A member of the XVII Kangaroo Battalion clearing a building in Florida, March 3rd 1989.</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">Initial reports to come from the front lines all told the same story: Complete devastation. Sugar glider recon showed that for every marsupial that lay fallen, hundreds of fully-armed Americans would join him. In an ironic twist of fate, the US Army was now facing extinction.<br /><br />Shortly after 2 A.M on the 4th March, US President George Bush attempted to call Prime Minister Bob Hawke to announce his country's unconditional surrender. Bush was put on hold and would be answered by the next available operator. After numerous phone calls to Telstra Directory Assistance, five hours on hold, and the phone numbers of Hoyts in Burwood, Sam's Hairdressing in Yagoona and Mrs. Yvonne Slater at 16 Carinya Way Goulburn, Bush finally managed to surrender to Australian Forces. Crocodile Dundee II was later released worldwide with the original ending intact.<br /><br />While no official numbers have been released by either side, The death toll for the Australian-American War have been estimated as:<br /><br /><ul><li>United States - 997,450 dead, 36,700 wounded</li><li>Australia - 18,200 dead, 5,100 wounded</li><li>France - 0 dead, 2 wounded, Unconditional Surrender to Australia 2nd March</li></ul><br />While not disputing the estimated death toll, the Korean American Historical Society released a report in 1995 claiming that 78,650 of the US casualties were caused by <a href="http://www.fandeath.net/">sleeping with their electric fans on.</a><br /><br />Let us not forget those who fell in the AA War, or those still kept as POWs in zoos around America. We won't leave you behind.<br /></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>TastyWheathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08468682376867907441noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6558351129251313169.post-88457197598493142422009-02-24T17:40:00.005+11:002009-02-24T18:21:21.229+11:00Help I'm being stalked by frangipani stickersFor some retarded reason I decided to go and get myself ill earlier this week. The biggest pain about being sick is not the "I can't move and I think I spat out my lung" part, but going to the doctor. I'm sure I'll cover that in more detail soon (I HATE WAITING ROOMS) but I'm going to have a little informal chat to all my readers about something very close to my heart.<br /><br />Shitty little cars that have their rear windows plastered with frangipani stickers.<br /><br />If you're guilty of this, DO NOT LEAVE THIS WEBPAGE. You're going to sit your Boost Juice sipping ass back on that chair and you're going to get EDUCATED.<br /><br />Nobody thinks your car is "prettier" except you. You're absolutely not original, and in 25 years time when you've successfully figured out how to breed you're going to hate yourself for it. And your kids will probably hate you too.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6hL7E_WVJJJfMBNn-rxT_ZbsavZZ9OXudnD00oXNzzfaa2uZ7u5vPuMeHUv_gUdRPXGHUYcIIT1cKcHx7zVB0SY0gKHsBpadKzQztKmAT55os6sEcnHlwTkksr9nGE-W0Z6vP7OIvzg/s1600-h/1476355496_eac7d3bdbb.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6hL7E_WVJJJfMBNn-rxT_ZbsavZZ9OXudnD00oXNzzfaa2uZ7u5vPuMeHUv_gUdRPXGHUYcIIT1cKcHx7zVB0SY0gKHsBpadKzQztKmAT55os6sEcnHlwTkksr9nGE-W0Z6vP7OIvzg/s320/1476355496_eac7d3bdbb.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306253261694498978" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">This is one of the less severe cases I've seen. Even still, my rage knows no bounds.</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">It started off innocently enough a few years ago where you'd only see the average beach-going blonde girl driving around with one. You know what? I was kind of okay with that. It might have been because I was harshly accelerating to get a better look at the driver. But then it started spreading at an alarming rate. Every Excel, Echo and Barina I saw on the road had massive yellow frangipanis on the rear window. AND THEN THEY DISCOVERED THE OTHER COLOURS! It was well and truly on like Donkey Kong now. I can now head out and see cars with multiple coloured frangipanis, in rainbow patterns. Frangipanis in each corner. Spreading to the other windows of the car.<br /><br />You know what else I could be describing here? SMALLPOX.<br /><br />Here's an actual conversation I had at the pub one night with a girl that admitted to having <del>smallpox</del> frangipani stickers.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> Wait. You have SIX frangipani stickers on your car?<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Girl:</span> Yeah! Why not?<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> They're tacky and unoriginal. I'm also being incredibly polite about this.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Girl:</span> But they're cute!<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> How is a tacky vinyl flower 'cute'?<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Girl:</span> They're... I don't know, they just are!<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> No, PUPPIES are cute. The Easter Bunny is cute. Putting an over-priced frangipani sticker on the rear window of your car isn't cute. It's posing.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Girl:</span> You can't buy puppy stickers! Besides, I got them for like $35.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> Wow! Look at all the money you've saved!<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Girl:</span> My car's cute. I like spending money on it.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> Give me a contact number for your father, he needs to know what's happening to the car he's paying off.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Girl:</span> Whatever. I'm thirsty. Want to buy me another vodka and lime?<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> No.<br /><br />If this was feudal Japan, you'd all be committing seppuku for this.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE2vHC109VG8u-6Yj-e-ZDA5ynA_MBopT2Z8ro2soQLyiwBj5kv_9iDodypaVRE_Hapr50IguuaoBJWx4aOf5OKts6zavnFl8HsYBpE8Iy9fBK13EBYTbqzDFJl9BdyCv1wGbI-JYccA/s1600-h/487918576_610072a406.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE2vHC109VG8u-6Yj-e-ZDA5ynA_MBopT2Z8ro2soQLyiwBj5kv_9iDodypaVRE_Hapr50IguuaoBJWx4aOf5OKts6zavnFl8HsYBpE8Iy9fBK13EBYTbqzDFJl9BdyCv1wGbI-JYccA/s320/487918576_610072a406.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306259054779574050" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /></div></div>TastyWheathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08468682376867907441noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6558351129251313169.post-70836626011636315252009-02-17T15:26:00.002+11:002009-02-17T15:58:03.807+11:00I am a picky eater and so is YOUR FACEIt was at my local chinese mess hall on the weekend when I was getting spattered by fallout from my Sizzling Beef. I'm pretty sure it was then, anyway. I was having fun, throwing white hot strips of cow onto my plate of rice, picking out the prawns from the bits of egg. As I heaped another mouthful onto my spoon, one of my friends asked me why I wasn't eating the prawns. I simply looked back at her and casually said "I don't like 'em."<br /><br />You could not have cut the resulting tension with a chainsaw. Everyone looked at me in disbelief. "WHAT? You don't like PRAWNS?" was the reply. I would not be suprised if people AT OTHER TABLES stopped their lunchtime coversation so they could listen in to this apparent AFFRONT against ALL THAT IS HOLY.<br /><br />Whenever I tell people I don't like prawns, they are taken aback as though I just cancelled Christmas. If I mentioned that I didn't like cauliflower (and I DON'T) that would be okay. You might even get a few compassionate nods from across the table. But <span style="font-style: italic;">prawns?</span> Don't even fucking go there, hombre. At no time is this seen clearer than during summer lunches when everybody is shelling and eating prawns, watching television and feeding a few wayward crustaceans to the cat. Why can't we go back to what the Vikings did and skin rabbits around a campfire?<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos-804.friendster.com/e1/photos/40/82/41532804/1_135919053m.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 250px;" src="http://photos-804.friendster.com/e1/photos/40/82/41532804/1_135919053m.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">A quick Google Image Search revealed these people may also hate prawns.<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: left;">While tearing something's head off and throwing it's nervous system into a bowl invokes memories of Mortal Kombat, the actual taste of the little bastards is something I can't stand. If it didn't die screaming in a field somewhere, I CAN'T EAT IT.<br /><br />Oh! Oh! Hang on! Did someone mention beetroot? Get the checkout chick on the PA system because there's about to be a <span style="font-style: italic;">cleanup in aisle three.<br /><br /></span>I know plenty of people who like beetroot, but they constantly whinge about it. It's like a porn film full of bipolar nymphomaniacs.<span style="font-style: italic;"> </span>The ultimate love/hate relationship<span style="font-style: italic;">. </span>They somehow love the taste, but those stains are a bitch, aren't they? My opinion of beetroot is this:<br /><br />a) It tastes like dirt. 'Earthy' is never a good way to describe food.<br />b) The aftermath looks like a fucking murder scene.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.tvsa.co.za/images/shows/d/dexter_big.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 296px; height: 236px;" src="http://www.tvsa.co.za/images/shows/d/dexter_big.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;">'Get SWAT on the line. The killer had a hamburger with The Lot.'<br /><br /></span></span><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span>No matter how delicate you are with food, add beetroot to it and it will never be good enough. Trying to finish a burger with beetroot on it is more stressful than defusing live explosives. The slightest case of the shakes will end up with several people covered in claret and a stampede towards the nearest chemical bath to DE-CONTAMINATE themselves. How is that fun, nutritious or even <span style="font-style: italic;">legal?</span> Time to call my solicitor. We have history to make.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span></div></div></div></div>TastyWheathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08468682376867907441noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6558351129251313169.post-77144465050506042232009-02-09T12:15:00.004+11:002009-02-09T17:41:37.427+11:00Cruelty to animals: IT STOPS NOW (either that or when the steak's cooked)Now you're going to have to believe me when I say I'm not some kind of bunny-hugging hippie (Rabbits carry diseases) and that I'm not one to burst into tears when a tree gets chopped down. I'm sure if you regularly read this page you'll have somehow formed the opinion I'm a pretty easy-going guy (Besides well, most things ever). Well allow me to crush your opinions like the hopes and dreams of the Australian Cricket Team.<br /><br />This is my spot to say that if you're cruel to animals, I'll break your face in twain like a twiggenbottle.<br /><br />Don't get me wrong, I love steak and if I could eat it 24/7 like the cavemen did, <span style="font-style: italic;">I would, </span>but there are things that push me over the edge. Things like being poked repeatedly, being called "tiger" by the elderly, and shit like this:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://tastywheat.shackspace.com/blake.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 395px; height: 295px;" src="http://tastywheat.shackspace.com/blake.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>This is my dog, Blake. Say hello, Blake! Oh wait, you can't because <span style="font-style: italic;">you're too embarrassed to exist.</span> Years of intensive training to be a heartless killing machine and then it all gets thrown out the window because some clown thought it might be cute to put a Christmas hat on him. I can guarantee the only reason this happened is because I wasn't there to give him the green light to rip everyone to shreds. I only got sent this photo yesterday and to be hone-OH WAIT HERE'S ANOTHER ONE<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://tastywheat.shackspace.com/hrm.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 382px; height: 282px;" src="http://tastywheat.shackspace.com/hrm.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">They're not looking at the camera because they're plotting their revenge. By scoping the building for weak points. For the demolitions team.<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span>Don't they look kind of... sad? The other labrador probably had a temporary indentity crisis and thought she was a reindeer. Speaking of mental health issues, do you know they have animal psychiatrists? How the hell does that work? And don't ANYONE mention dressing dogs up in little t-shirts either or taking them to some kind of fucking <a href="http://www.aol.com.au/news/photogallery/sydney-dog-hotel-012909">dog hotel</a>. Cats are okay. Fuck those guys.<br /><br />Dogs are supposed to be dogs. They roam the countryside, take down wildebeest and hump your girlfriend's leg when you're introducing her to your parents. They have the perfect life. If I was able to do that and not get caught by your parents I probably would. Pretending they are something else entirely is demeaning and a downright disgrace.<br /><br />Also I'd like to thank William Shakespeare for the whole 'twiggenbottle' thing. Mad props Bill. If you hadn't been dead for centuries, I'd buy you a beer.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></div></div>TastyWheathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08468682376867907441noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6558351129251313169.post-21601035513265428092009-02-04T23:26:00.005+11:002009-02-05T00:13:53.141+11:00'Concentrated' is the new BlackSo last week when I was out being awesome, I realised that I was out of laundry powder. This is a big thing for me because not only do I do my own washing (oh my god), but I get to browse the aisles of my local supermarket and attempt to get the finest laundry powder available. I usually fail.<br /><br />Why, you ask? Well because if you haven't figured it out yet, the laundry powder section is pretty much the same goddamned thing packaged 800 times over. And because it's POWDER and not a toothbrush, they just can't slam in some bullshit gimmick like a tongue scraper or subsonic telepathy. They need to sell their white powder by the packaging alone.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/25/37851703_02c460f4fe.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 364px; height: 273px;" src="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/25/37851703_02c460f4fe.jpg?v=0" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Yes, Yes and More Yes.<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: left;">Notice how pretty much every laundry powder you can buy is now concentrated? You only need to use one poof-teenth of a thimble to cleanse every garment in your house! As opposed to... a picture of a cap with... more in it. Concentrated as opposed to what? Since everything is concentrated now, shouldn't that be the norm? And don't give me that "But some are stronger than others" bullshit either. Laundry powder is like bottled water - no matter the brand, it all comes from one giant tap in a factory operated by a tiny mexican lady with a clipboard and a pair of goggles.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.kelaroo.com/images/femaleScientist.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 196px; height: 317px;" src="http://www.kelaroo.com/images/femaleScientist.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Look how white her clothes are! SCIENCE.<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: left;">Packaging white powder for purchase in a supermarket is the most cliche thing I have ever seen. Outside of 'Concentrated!' your laundry powder box will either have:<br /><br />a) the word "Power" on it somewhere<br />b) 'FRESH' written in huge letters<br />c) an unexplained explosion, probably of the aforementioned freshness<br />d) a duck.<br /><br />I for one am issuing a challenge to laundry powder manufacturers everywhere. Be inventive! How about submarines? Everyone loves those. 'Now works better on bloodstains!' could work too. How about 'Doesn't smell like beer and cigarettes'?<br /><br />In fact, why even pretend your product is even designed for clothes? If I ever start a laundry powder company, I'll simply name my product 'CRACK'. The box will have an illustration of laundry powder being snorted off the back of a barely-conscious hooker while she desperately tries to finish her last cigarette. Housewives will hate it but it would be funny to see junkies try to rationalise why it's only $2.50 a box.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></div></div></div></div>TastyWheathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08468682376867907441noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6558351129251313169.post-47634964472219748132009-01-29T21:26:00.006+11:002009-01-29T22:14:19.898+11:00The revenge of the two minute noodleI'll let you make your own jokes up about that heading because it just sells itself. What I'm actually going to talk about tonight is the delight of two minute noodles. The yanks call it Ramen, but I think that's stupid.<br /><br />I have this thing where if I'm after a serving of two minute noodles, I won't even wait those two minutes. If the situation is <span style="font-style: italic;">so bad that I am eating two minute noodles</span>, then the kettle can jam it because I need a feed and I need it immediately. I'm not alone here - I eat them raw. "But Tasty!" I hear you cry, "That's nasty! it's... it's UN-NATURAL!" No shit! Of course it's un-natural! When was the last time you went for a drive through the countryside and saw Noodle Trees growing in the forest? You're eating a cake of wheat flour, vegetable oil and chicken salt. If you expect a delicious three course meal out of that bowl, <span style="font-style: italic;">seek help.</span><br /><br />If you're eating instant noodles then you're already in a lose-lose situation. You might as well make it a consolation prize by chewing it like a sandwich. Let the crunchy, flavourless pasta dissolve in your mouth. Break the noodle-cake in half and pretend you are the Incredible Hulk. Wait -- what's this sudden explosion of sodium you are tasting? The chicken flavouring? You bet your ass it is! The packet says 'Instant Noodles' on it for a goddamned reason. I shouldn't have to boil a jug of water and stir, serving with or without broth as desired. It's the year two-thousand-fucking-nine here! I want my meals heated with lasers!<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.cyberpunkreview.com/images/fifthelement15.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 425px; height: 183px;" src="http://www.cyberpunkreview.com/images/fifthelement15.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">CHIKKUN! Leeloo Dallas Multipass!<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: left;">Once you're done thumbing your nose at that barbaric water-boiling FOSSIL, simply finish off the noodle-cake, use your feet to flick the crumbs under the nearest furniture and you're ready to take on the day. If you find the noodles have turned into a lumpy paste in your mouth, swig down the water in the kettle and you'll be fine. I promise. If you decide to boil the water first then make sure you have a friend recording it on video because I am easily amused by people hurting themselves in the kitchen.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></div><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></div>TastyWheathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08468682376867907441noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6558351129251313169.post-36959852275579216632009-01-27T13:51:00.005+11:002009-01-27T14:37:42.126+11:00Ordering delivered food is interesting<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.explodingdog.com/drawing/telephone.gif"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 401px; height: 323px;" src="http://www.explodingdog.com/drawing/telephone.gif" alt="" border="0" /></a>Since I'm a 20-something guy living in a fairly interesting city, there is always going to be times when I'm feeling hungry, lazy or drunk (sometimes it's all three) and I can't be bothered to make proper food. This will most likely end up in me calling some nearby food joint and asking them to bring me food in exchange for money. What's that? Go outside and do some shopping? No thanks - I've got drunken mates over and I doubt they would see the fun side of "Yo, come over to my place. We'll play Xbox, play some music and then if you're lucky we'll go to Woolworths and hunt for specials on Continental Cup-A-Soup". We usually prefer the approach of "Dude, I've been drinking since 1pm. I'm hungry. BRING FORTH THE WHITE PAGES."<br /><br />Now, I'm experienced enough to know that there are some numbers you need to have on speed dial. Those numbers are taxi companies, and takeaway places. The entire point of ordering a pizza from Dominos or chinese from The Golden Retriever is getting fed without walking outside, <span style="font-style: italic;">quickly</span>. That's why the initial phone conversation is SO IMPORTANT. Luckily for me, my favourite chinese restaurant is always a memorable call.<br /><br />Now, don't get me wrong. I love the chinese and their food, but this joint has stereotypes written all over it. It's a tiny little shop and I imagine their kitchen has one angry chinese chef wearing a white singlet and swinging a meat cleaver around. They're the best chinese place in town but explaining what you want to the girl on the phone is like negotiating a hostage rescue.<br /><br />Girl: "CHINESE HEP ROO?"<br />Me: "Buh, wha-"<br />Girl: CAN I HEP ROO?"<br />Me: "Oh shit, sorry you startled me. Can I get a delivery please?"<br />Girl: "WHAT YOU LIKE" (Did I mention she talks loudly?)<br />Me: "Let's go with some dim sims, chicken omelette, and some mongolian beef. Oh, and 4 litres of coke. We're running out of mixers here. "<br />Girl: "THAT NO PROBLEM, BE THERE IN 45 MINUTE!" *hangs up*<br /><br />I call back.<br /><br />Girl: "CHINESE HEP ROO?"<br />Me: "Yeah it's me again - Just thought I'd let you know where I live so you can deliver the food."<br />Girl: "OH OK WHAT ADDRESS"<br />Me: "Wallaby St."<br />Girl: "WARRABY? THAT SPELL W-A-R-R-A-B-Y?"<br />Me: (Blown away) "Uh wow... no? W-A-L-L-A-B-Y."<br />Girl: "OK 45 MINUTE!"<br /><br />Putting the phone down, it took me a few seconds for it to soak in that she actually swapped L's and R's while spelling something. I found that incredibly funny because that kind of thing just shouldn't happen. I mean, if you have a lisp do you thpell everything like thith?<br /><br />Twenty minutes later I hear my doorbell ring. Turns out that famous Chinese efficiency is alive and well. Damn those guys are quick. I open the door, give the starving uni student delivery boy some cash, and run upstairs. I am victorious! I have ordered exotic cuisine!<br /><br />Turns out the girl confused "dim sims" with "onion rings". No biggie.<br /><br />The local pizza joint isn't anywhere near as precarious as that, but because pizza and beer go together so well it just seems like the natural choice. I used to order from my local joint all the time when I had friends over. And they are GOOD. So I found it a little bit creepy when I just had moved to a new unit and I ordered pizza for the first time. I opened the door and the delivery guy goes "Oh! hey dude. You moved house?"<br /><br />Well shit - I might as well just open an account with them. BBQ CHICKEN OR DEATH!<br /><br />Also, I don't actually live in Wallaby St. I'm doing the Internet thing where I hide my address in case one day a crazy woman shows up at my house wearing a wedding dress covered in motor oil or something. The street I used to live in DID have R's in it however. Shit, I mean L's. Damnit now I'm doing it.TastyWheathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08468682376867907441noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6558351129251313169.post-55650553444768984832009-01-26T15:30:00.006+11:002009-01-26T16:01:29.756+11:00Quick everyone! Split up!So it's Australia Day, and while everyone else is out getting plastered and sunburnt our house is a little different. My flatmate is playing Fallout 3 on my Xbox and I'm chewing on a Maxibon and wondering why I have to work tonight. Nestlé is Australian as far as I can tell, so that will do.<br /><br />Last night I met up with a few buddies and went drinking, which is something I haven't done in a while. And then I was faced with that startling reality: Whenever guys get completely hammered and THEN try to go on a pub crawl, they will undoubtedly get split up and spend precious drinking time trying to find each other by fumbling on their mobile phones. Getting an SMS that says "hey duder im with this chicks come met us at teh back" doesn't help me find you at all. The back of <span style="font-style: italic;">what</span> exactly? And more importantly, <span style="font-style: italic;">did she bring friends?<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://tastywheat.shackspace.com/stripper.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 364px; height: 272px;" src="http://tastywheat.shackspace.com/stripper.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Here I am with a stripper. You probably weren't there.</span><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">The best example I can give would probably be Parklife 2007, where a mate of mine replied to my "Where the hell are you?" with "dude im near the lights, look for the glowsticks". This incredibly descriptive message has two <span style="font-style: italic;">very minor </span>things wrong with it:<br /><br />1) We're in the middle of Moore Park and there are lights absolutely fucking everywhere<br />2) It's a music festival - every ecstacy-fuelled pinger brought a crate of glowsticks with them.<br /><br />I later found him arguing with a bus.<br /><br />I guess my message to anyone reading this would be IF YOU'RE OUT DRINKING FOR CROM'S SAKE BE SPECIFIC. Dude I'd love to find you again and talk about the time we nearly died but I can't unless you at least tell me which pub you're at. Thanks. I mean it.<br /></div></div>TastyWheathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08468682376867907441noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6558351129251313169.post-79302001555549197272009-01-24T21:07:00.005+11:002009-01-29T22:22:35.084+11:00It's hot, we get it<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi22_GWiTpGarzY1GJWD3ida6RZX0YetCIOm1K3DvVk7_2fL-EXZ8qsqMkP9KuCYx2HInoppQRJKeK89ciW475GmQkgbhg_nbuCyMSY4UKUzWktxGamrcHFWEPRLq-8Mqyf4AGyg4VJGQvI/s400/the+truth.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 367px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi22_GWiTpGarzY1GJWD3ida6RZX0YetCIOm1K3DvVk7_2fL-EXZ8qsqMkP9KuCYx2HInoppQRJKeK89ciW475GmQkgbhg_nbuCyMSY4UKUzWktxGamrcHFWEPRLq-8Mqyf4AGyg4VJGQvI/s400/the+truth.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />So while I was sitting in a nice cool windowless government office today eating mince pies and savouring the best the local vietnamese slave bakery has to offer, I kept myself amused by spamming Twitter on my iPhone. So anyway it turns out that it was really hot today and everybody except me knew about it. Everyone was carrying on like the sky was falling, posting things like "MY FACE IS MELTING OFF" and "IT'S SO HOT MY KIDNEYS ARE FAILING" and such. I found it very entertaining - probably how Arnold Schwarzenegger feels at the end of Conan The Barbarian, sitting on his little mountain of skulls ruling the known universe. <span style="font-style: italic;">Comfortably.</span><br /><br />However the most promising thing about summer is that whenever you step out of an air-conditioned office smack bang into a wall of flame and humidity, you know that for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. Newton, bitches! I'm talking about the epic storm that is soon to follow, bringing lightning and thunder and drowning kittens to the masses, people watching from their hospital beds as they recover from the day's heatstroke. It's a well known fact that thunderstorms <span style="font-style: italic;">fucking rule,</span> and everytime I see my street flooding I can sit and watch it for hours. It's very therapeutic, if not a little bit morbid.<br /><br />So here we are on pretty much the hottest day in months, and it's 9:30pm. I'm sitting in my room STILL wondering why I donated my electric fan to the Salvation Army (oh, that's right, <a href="http://www.fandeath.net/">nevermind</a>) and typing at my computer, waiting for the storm. Except it ISN'T COMING. That's right, it's the meteorology equivalent of buying backstage tickets to the Pussycat Dolls, wading through hordes of screaming overweight teenagers, sitting through the shitty support acts and then finding out that the hot one has laryngitis and took the night off. FUCK. THAT.<br /><br />If I can't wake up at 4am tomorrow and catch fish from my second floor balcony I'm going to kick Mother Nature's ass.TastyWheathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08468682376867907441noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6558351129251313169.post-88028602273009198472009-01-23T18:06:00.013+11:002009-01-24T00:42:53.051+11:00Hey bro I heard you like photos... so I put a photo on your photo so you can photo while you photo. *sigh*<br /><br />Anyway the entire point of this post (besides starting in the worst fashion possible: A MEME) is to announce to the internets that I did the "nostalgic housewife" thing and bought a digital photo frame. They were going cheap at this dodgy-ass little shop in Cabramatta. It was pretty much the only place where you could buy bubble tea, a mango, and a digital photo frame all in the one store. Pretty<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.2dayblog.com/images/2008/october/spf71e_1.jpg"><img style="margin: 10pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 196px; height: 129px;" src="http://www.2dayblog.com/images/2008/october/spf71e_1.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a> much like an asian Aldi.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Random asian attentionseeker proudly displaying the model of photo frame I bought. I wonder how they're operating WITHOUT BEING PLUGGED IN.</span><blockquote></blockquote><br />It's a pretty shitty one as far as digital photo frames go (They have ones that are wireless for god's sake) but I guess it does the job. I'll head to JB's in a few minutes to buy an SD card for it because 120MB of internal storage isn't fooling anyone.TastyWheathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08468682376867907441noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6558351129251313169.post-89131112660051787362009-01-23T00:26:00.004+11:002009-01-23T00:42:01.221+11:00The day I nearly got exploded<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhu5sd-q_MdUUj3PM1ii0aipfG350WE-ICImu_K19FHHU0LLq_LzavWok-aKFUabxQzSQRVhBIYsfHYnGDUpU9ZS-zVPUx6wgi4vRAAy08A5Z-ygoeNqYWzJJ-JCfr9LpdBf6_w4bPbg/s1600-h/n635248884_276100_34.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhu5sd-q_MdUUj3PM1ii0aipfG350WE-ICImu_K19FHHU0LLq_LzavWok-aKFUabxQzSQRVhBIYsfHYnGDUpU9ZS-zVPUx6wgi4vRAAy08A5Z-ygoeNqYWzJJ-JCfr9LpdBf6_w4bPbg/s320/n635248884_276100_34.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5294109903564712658" border="0" /></a><br />Strangely enough, for someone who really CANNOT COOK AT ALL, I seem to have this knack (read: passion) for cooking and eating pizzas. It all came about a few years ago when my parents built an outdoor entertainment area at their place and decided to add a woodfired pizza oven. This was a brilliant move for quite a few reasons:<br /><br />- It gave me an excuse to burn things<br />- Woodfired pizza without some smug fuck dumping lettuce, artichokes and sundried tomatoes on your pizza.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.juvela.co.uk/recipes/images/ham-olive-pizza.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 167px; height: 164px;" src="http://www.juvela.co.uk/recipes/images/ham-olive-pizza.jpg" alt="Excuse me waiter, what the fuck is this?" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Excuse me waiter, what the fuck is this?"<br /><br /><br /></span><br /><br />While I’m at it, I would like to point out that I have absolutely nothing to do with the slice of SHIT pictured at the top of this post. I took that photo at Cooney’s one night. I can tell why their pizza is free.<br /><br />Anyway I digress. The pizza oven was built with a gas system included (I really don’t know why, it’s a WOODFIRED OVEN) and this was pretty fun for a while when I learned that I could yank on a lever and have an Xbox-huge jet of burning death engulf the inside of the oven. I did this for a few months until one day when I was peering inside watching the flame, and the flame sucked back in on itself.<br /><br />Now, I don’t trust gas systems in the slightest. I’d never seen the flame retreat in on itself. The very next thing I remember is a loud BANG and getting knocked on my ass a few metres back from where I was standing. Seems that there was a small leak in one of the connections and it allowed gas to collect underneath the oven. Eventually it got a spark and the whole pocket of gas exploded. It blew the front of the cupboard in half and the explosion took off a lot of hair from my legs. The oven itself was unharmed (Resilient things those woodfired ovens). I was fairly lucky that I had instinctively leaned away when the flame disappeared because I was usually poking my head pretty close to the oven. Apart from a few slight burns, the stench of burnt hair and a few grazes from where I slid across the concrete, I was okay.<br /><br />We don’t use the gas system anymore.TastyWheathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08468682376867907441noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6558351129251313169.post-10190251134352986322009-01-23T00:15:00.002+11:002009-01-30T03:06:15.944+11:00Wait, I don't get it<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfVEa6imfMR_maRomfnuWSg9oxZh4WhJkQzHbiVopawoNEWEUODFJQhVKXyQi5Isx_7HJP4l8o9Rs1b9hn2fWuec1als7UdffnJ2-uaDGF7muF35yCxRlk5HybJbISxD67x472N-tr2w/s1600-h/IMG_0339.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 186px; height: 139px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfVEa6imfMR_maRomfnuWSg9oxZh4WhJkQzHbiVopawoNEWEUODFJQhVKXyQi5Isx_7HJP4l8o9Rs1b9hn2fWuec1als7UdffnJ2-uaDGF7muF35yCxRlk5HybJbISxD67x472N-tr2w/s320/IMG_0339.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5294106800572320626" border="0" /></a><br />You know what? I’m not going to say ‘Welcome to my blog!’ because everyone does that. The problem with welcoming people to a WEBPAGE is that you’re giving them the impression that it’s a nice friendly place with campfires and grief counsellors and dogs and stuff.<br /><br />Instead, I’d like to let you all know that this is a webpage that may be updated regularly with tales of my heroic exploits (lol) and random thoughts (wtf). If for some wacked-out reason you find this page entertaining, I wish you luck. For the rest of you, AHGLGAH.<br /><br />The main reason I started this is because right now it is ridiculously bloody hot and I can't sleep. Between sweating like a dog (ie: through the bottom of my feet) and <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fan_death">death by electric fan</a>, I'll take my chances and sweat like the dog pictured above.TastyWheathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08468682376867907441noreply@blogger.com1