Lest We Forget

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.

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.

Australian troops advance on El Paso, March 1989.

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 American War of Independance), although what they all agree on are the consequences of fucking with Australians.

Total War erupted between Australian and US forces in the early hours of March 3rd.

Within hours, Australian generals had green-lit the aerial deployment of koalas, kangaroos (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.

A member of the XVII Kangaroo Battalion clearing a building in Florida, March 3rd 1989.

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.

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.

While no official numbers have been released by either side, The death toll for the Australian-American War have been estimated as:

• United States - 997,450 dead, 36,700 wounded
• Australia - 18,200 dead, 5,100 wounded
• France - 0 dead, 2 wounded, Unconditional Surrender to Australia 2nd March

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 sleeping with their electric fans on.

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.

Help I'm being stalked by frangipani stickers

For 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.

Shitty little cars that have their rear windows plastered with frangipani stickers.

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.

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.

This is one of the less severe cases I've seen. Even still, my rage knows no bounds.

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.

You know what else I could be describing here? SMALLPOX.

Here's an actual conversation I had at the pub one night with a girl that admitted to having smallpox frangipani stickers.

Me: Wait. You have SIX frangipani stickers on your car?
Girl: Yeah! Why not?
Me: They're tacky and unoriginal. I'm also being incredibly polite about this.
Girl: But they're cute!
Me: How is a tacky vinyl flower 'cute'?
Girl: They're... I don't know, they just are!
Me: 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.
Girl: You can't buy puppy stickers! Besides, I got them for like $35.
Me: Wow! Look at all the money you've saved!
Girl: My car's cute. I like spending money on it.
Me: Give me a contact number for your father, he needs to know what's happening to the car he's paying off.
Girl: Whatever. I'm thirsty. Want to buy me another vodka and lime?
Me: No.

If this was feudal Japan, you'd all be committing seppuku for this.

I am a picky eater and so is YOUR FACE

It 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."

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.

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 prawns? 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?

A quick Google Image Search revealed these people may also hate prawns.

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.

Oh! Oh! Hang on! Did someone mention beetroot? Get the checkout chick on the PA system because there's about to be a cleanup in aisle three.

I know plenty of people who like beetroot, but they constantly whinge about it. It's like a porn film full of bipolar nymphomaniacs. The ultimate love/hate relationship. They somehow love the taste, but those stains are a bitch, aren't they? My opinion of beetroot is this:

a) It tastes like dirt. 'Earthy' is never a good way to describe food.
b) The aftermath looks like a fucking murder scene.

'Get SWAT on the line. The killer had a hamburger with The Lot.'

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 legal? Time to call my solicitor. We have history to make.

Cruelty 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.

This is my spot to say that if you're cruel to animals, I'll break your face in twain like a twiggenbottle.

Don't get me wrong, I love steak and if I could eat it 24/7 like the cavemen did, I would, 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:

This is my dog, Blake. Say hello, Blake! Oh wait, you can't because you're too embarrassed to exist. 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

They're not looking at the camera because they're plotting their revenge. By scoping the building for weak points. For the demolitions team.

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 dog hotel. Cats are okay. Fuck those guys.

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.

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.

'Concentrated' is the new Black

So 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.

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.

Yes, Yes and More Yes.

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.

Look how white her clothes are! SCIENCE.

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:

a) the word "Power" on it somewhere
b) 'FRESH' written in huge letters
c) an unexplained explosion, probably of the aforementioned freshness
d) a duck.

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'?

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.

The revenge of the two minute noodle

I'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.

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 so bad that I am eating two minute noodles, 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, seek help.

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!

CHIKKUN! Leeloo Dallas Multipass!

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.

Ordering delivered food is interesting

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."

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, quickly. That's why the initial phone conversation is SO IMPORTANT. Luckily for me, my favourite chinese restaurant is always a memorable call.

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.

Girl: "CHINESE HEP ROO?"
Me: "Buh, wha-"
Girl: CAN I HEP ROO?"
Me: "Oh shit, sorry you startled me. Can I get a delivery please?"
Girl: "WHAT YOU LIKE" (Did I mention she talks loudly?)
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. "
Girl: "THAT NO PROBLEM, BE THERE IN 45 MINUTE!" *hangs up*

I call back.

Girl: "CHINESE HEP ROO?"
Me: "Yeah it's me again - Just thought I'd let you know where I live so you can deliver the food."
Girl: "OH OK WHAT ADDRESS"
Me: "Wallaby St."
Girl: "WARRABY? THAT SPELL W-A-R-R-A-B-Y?"
Me: (Blown away) "Uh wow... no? W-A-L-L-A-B-Y."
Girl: "OK 45 MINUTE!"

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?

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!

Turns out the girl confused "dim sims" with "onion rings". No biggie.

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?"

Well shit - I might as well just open an account with them. BBQ CHICKEN OR DEATH!

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.