Having a rare moment of solace from work responsibilities whilst on the laptop, I ran through the exhaustive list of blogs that I used to read religiously and now only stop in on once a month. Interesting what’s out there and what some of my favourite people are writing. Many are heartily in favour of the recent US election results and some are not. Despite all of the things I could say about how I feel and how much I support an outcome, I still feel the same way about politics as I always have. That being that the election of a president is essentially a job interview, and I cast my vote for whoever I think will do the best job. I also think it’s the lesser of two evils, and I always will. The job in question isn’t to be my ethical leader and a tower of morality, it’s actually quite a dirty job and I don’t expect the guy that does it to be clean.

The first time I could vote, in ’92 a few months after turning 18, I was excited at the novelty of it, but also because of that feeling you get, the one where you really feel like a part of what changes the world. I knew he was an adulterer and a bit slippery, but I felt he was right for the job. So I voted for him instead of a couple of guys that I really didn’t find that distasteful.

The next time I could vote, I once again found one gent not all that distasteful, but the fella that couldn’t keep his pants on (and did lie about it) was still the right guy for the job. He got my vote again and won again.

After that, an apparent successor was running for the White House and I found that I genuinely liked the new guy. For a politician he was alright, and his wife and daughters were all hot. Didn’t hurt a bit. I figured he’d win over a man who I honestly considered of a lower intellect and therefore not fit for the job as the most powerful person in the Western World. I “threw away” my vote in a fit of rebellion, and possibly residual drunkenness as I’d been out quite late the night before, and wrote in an NHL goalie who’d appeared in a mock presidential ad to boost ticket sales and a friend of mine who was neither 35, a politician, or even born in the US. I thought it was funny, at the time, and giggled when I told the story for days afterward. Unfortunately, in the days following, the votes that were counted really counted, and a man that I thought a bit of an idiot won.

Next time around, I did what I’d always feared I’d have to do as a voter. I voted “against” someone rather than “for” someone. In the national job interview that is the election, I didn’t really want one guy in so much as I simply wanted the idiot out, and I didn’t get my wish. I’m still scratching my head as to how that happened, though deep in my heart I know that, deep in their hearts, most voting Americans are not a small bit selfish and also a bit greedy. When you’re a money worshipper, it influences at least 95% of all your decisions.

Now I live in a different country where I am not able to vote (yet), and enough of my ties to the US have been severed such that I am not eligible to vote there any more. I wish I was. Not because I wanted a different outcome than what happened, but simply so that I could feel more legitimate in my voice. An election ad that we even got to see here in Australia said something along the lines of, “My dad told me that you have to either vote, or shut the hell up.” That’s how I feel about it, and I would’ve liked the opportunity to say something regardless of whether or not things are going my way.

Something did happen though, that didn’t go the way I preferred. A large and very important state voted on the issue of Gay Rights and the people decided that they wanted to take away something that had recently been given. To refer to my feelings on this as disappointment, would be an understatement so monumental that it may actually knock the nearest planets and orbiting heavenly bodies off their natural axis.

I have very little to actually say about this. Intelligent, rational, logical and functional human beings simply don’t operate this way, or at least they shouldn’t. There you go though, my own judgements on how people should act shouldn’t distract from the actual point. To those rational beings, some things just don’t make sense. To call them “wrong” is to state a perspective and judge all other perspectives accordingly. This would never really be my intent.

My intent is to simply call into question things like why anyone should care about who you love and who you marry. Do we need to dissect a culture’s behaviour down to the level of considering whether or not we support a legal union because somebody puts their nether parts on like parts?

I won’t even begin to expand upon the question of why you would need an archaic and eminently questionable book, written by people you don’t know and nobody you know ever knew, to tell you what is “right” and what is “wrong.” Honestly, aren’t these things that we should have a pretty good idea about on our own? Personally, I don’t need an invisible person, whom I’ve never met and nobody I’ve met has ever met, to tell me I should love my neighbour and not kill him because it’s wrong. When faced with decisions and dilemmas, I look into my heart and seek answers there. Hell, even if I did kill him, I’d still know it was wrong.

Again though, I am being judgemental of those that seek answers that aren’t clear in their heart that this book can help clarify. Maybe they need that book to tell them how wrong it would be to kill that neighbour and they need to weigh the options, I am in no position to judge. To each their own.

To each their own… something that others don’t necessarily subscribe to. I’ll leave it at that, lest I judge again.

On that note though, I will proudly and happily announce the marriage, the legal and abiding union of my aunt (my own mother’s twin) to her same-sex partner of almost 40 years last week. These two Californians are going to live the exact same way that they’ve lived for these past decades, except now they are protected against certain idiocies of our society. Again, I’m very proud, and not in the flag-waving, wear purple and/or dress-in-drag kind of way. Just a loving nephew who has known nothing but these two women as such an immutable couple that he openly wondered (at the tender age of 5) why, if both had husbands before that filled the same role, weren’t they then considered “married” when they got together. Awwwwwww, cute little guy.

I have nothing more to say on this here.

As I started this missive whilst watching “Rove” and the programs have now shifted, I am subjected to numerous ads for other programs that will happen on this channel later in the week. Two of which are on the same night, one right after another, and both deal with a quirky and/or eccentric male character behaving quirky and eccentrically around what appears to be mildly fucked up (read: normal) people in a normal profession (TV professions, that is). One is House and the other Life, both one-word descriptions of these characters on their respective shows.

Hugh Laurie was apparently a part of a comedy team on British television, back in the day. Something I didn’t know until my brother-in-law fucked up his knee and I made him a flame-coated cane in homage to the popular television version of his dry and sarcastic doctor self. He told me about Laurie’s history upon being presented with the cane and then looked at me like I was an idiot, as he often does, when I expressed surprise that Laurie was British.

Having dealt with the idea that many of the popular characters from Hollywood’s film and television output are, in fact, not originally from America (Aussies’re takin’ over Hollywood), I wasn’t surprised in a negative way. “Good on ‘em” I’ve learned to say, especially when discovering a rock-faced character from The Matrix and Lord of the Rings actually hugely boosted his film career as a flaming drag queen right here in the desert outback. If I remember correctly I was staring at the back of the DVD cover in the middle of Video E-Z and expressing loudly across the aisle, “Hugo WEAVING is Aussie? He’s Agent Smith! He’s Elrond! What’s he doing imitating an flamingo on the top of a bus in full makeup!?!? I knew Wolverine said ‘Crikeyg’day matedingocrocs’ but Hugo WEAVING!?!?”

A long build-up for a continuing surprise that hit me today while watching the ABC (not the same as in the States. Equivalent in the US would be… NPR?) and seeing an ad for some Brit movie. There he was, big as life, Damian Lewis, speaking in a perfect English accent. “Holy crap” I remember thinking, “another pom is leading one of my favourite shows. How did I not hear about this?”

To draw it all together, I’ll leave it at this: While still stepping on their dicks as far as true equality is concerned, America did take a bold and New Millennium step forward and elected a black fella (half-black, I’m told, but like the Aborigines here, in for a penny, in for a pound. If you’ve got a drop, you’re in. Simple as that.). While monumentally important to America’s previous International image as a Powerful Land Run by an Idiot, I’d like to believe that it’s more than just where you’re from and what colour your skin is. My microcosmic community here supports this thought. It also shouldn’t be about who you love, but I guess we’ll keep working toward that one and take what we can get.

Hopefully, it wasn’t really about race. Know what most people talk about here instead of race? That Sarah Palin was potentially the new international whipping idiot and only a minor coronary away from being the Leader of the Free World. That Obama could be talking about Socialism or Nihilism or whateverthefuck else and it doesn’t matter because he does it articulately, sans mispronunciations. That’s really about it. Oh, the economy and the environment and all that shit too.

Know what else? Nobody here mentions that a couple of limey gits are playing Americans on two of our most popular television shows so effortlessly that many of us (me) have failed to noticed they’re foreign.

Over here, we’re all just taking it as it comes. It’s how it should be.

No worries. Live in The Now.

So, where are you right Now? Thinking about your new president? Thinking about your favourite TV shows? Thinking about how the World is bound to change in the coming years? Thinking about that bit of food stuck in your chest hair and wondering if it was from the chips at lunch or the cookie after dinner and deciding “Fuck it” and just picking it out and eating it regardless of it’s origin?

Wherever and whatever, don’t forget a few basic things. One of them is that no matter how revolting it may seem in a social sense, there are a myriad of things you can get away with in your own bedroom. Another is that the World is always changing, is always different, and is always so diversely interesting that you only need to look to see it.

And finally, wherever you happen to be right Now, it’s where you are in your life.

You’ve spent a moderate bit of time to even get to this point in my ramblings… go now, and spend a comparable amount of time taking a look at where your actual life is.

Look at it, learn from it.

And eat those crumbs.

While this can describe any number of things that one may possibly see on their respective local news in their respective cities and countries, I’m referring to the nationally-televised morning show that had a story about how a Kindergarten was going to ban bullying by children in Superhero clothing as they have a tendency to beat up their classmates.

I can’t even begin to find all of the things wrong with this, so I’ll simply focus on one point that I’d like to make, and then I’ll go back to my scrambled eggs and this-looks-important-to-you-so-I’ll-put-it-in-my-sloppy-mouth baby daughter.

Making someone else’s asshole kid stop punching my kid isn’t done by stopping them from pretending to be superheroes, giving them less sugar, or having them play less competitive games so they can all feel better about themselves.

I don’t know when it happened, but at some point parents started making concerted efforts to stop bullies from bullying. This may sound noble enough, but it begs the question: Didn’t we ALL get bullied to some extent or another? Did our parents stop it every time?

Stopping a bully from bullying is done in only a few ways…

Either standing up for yourself or running the fuck away.

And that’s what I’ll be teaching my kids. None of this special and unique snowflake bullshit. My son talks about some kids in school and says that they pick on him, so I ask him if he knows why. If he does, I ask him if it’s worth changing who he is to keep from getting picked on. If it isn’t, then I tell him that he’s going to get used to getting smacked in the mouth for a bit, and he’ll have to settle for the knowledge that he’s the bigger and better person in the long run.

If he doesn’t know why he’s getting picked on, then I tell him to tell those kids that they’re being assholes, and that they should cease and desist if they don’t want to be widely considered as afflicted with assholitis.

You bet your ass I tell him almost exactly that too, that way he knows I’m serious. That kind of castigation threat works too, because no matter what age they are, a bully is ALWAYS concerned with everyone else’s opinion of them. If they weren’t concerned, they wouldn’t pick on others. Unless they’re pure Evil, but that’s a different concern altogether, as once you start measuring a kid’s potential in kilonazis, he’s pretty much irretrievably fucked.

If my boy gets hit, he is instructed to weigh the situation and react accordingly. “Tell a teacher” is the stalwart, but isn’t always terribly realistic and I know this. “Hit back” or “run away” are really the only two immediate options, and while getting “hit” in the first place isn’t limited to being a physical action, neither are the two possible reactions. Biting commentary has gotten me out of far more drunken bar violence than my fists ever have. So has biting for that matter.

I’m raising the kind of people that don’t attract the level of aggression it would take for me to step in and fix the situation for them. If they can’t handle it on their own, then they’re doing something stupid and not what I’ve taught them. To the best of my limited abilities, I’m teaching them not to be stupid. Those that know me know this is NOT exactly by example either.

At the risk of sounding ridiculously back-in-my-dayish, I don’t remember a whole lot of protection for the victim when I was a kid. Sadly enough, I don’t even really remember when all this horseshit about stopping bullies got started either.

I’m thinking that I was probably part of the last generation to ever get beaned in the face during dodgeball, get a Nuclear Wedgie, a Swirly, and stuffed in a locker. It’s almost as if all of people in my generation that grew up and became teachers and legislators and lawyers, as well as Parents, decided that they hated that shit and it ruined their life (or at least that’s what their $250 an hour shrink told ‘em) and they were going to put a stop to it.

Did I want it stopped? At the time, you bet your ass. But I couldn’t stop it, and my parents wouldn’t, so I put up with it. I got busted in the mouth and I took it, and I grew and I learned and I toughened the fuck up.

It can be packaged to look like I was simply biding my time until I was able to mete out similar punishment in a misguided attempt to garner some payback, but I was different. I still wanted the opportunity, absolutely, but I wanted to be the one that chose not to actually go through with the “crippling” part of the Nipple Crippler. I wanted to show how much better I was than those meaty-craniumed smarmy-faced hormonkeys. I wanted my chance to show my benevolence, and in doing so prove myself better than the fuckwits before me. I wanted my chance to make the World a better place.

And I didn’t get one. I missed my chance to be as rotten or merciful as I wanted. The choice for me to be either was taken away by Soccerbitches who think that hiding little MackenzieDakotaMontana under a mound of Xbox games, Coke and Oreos is the answer to keep the other kids from calling her “fatty fatty two by four who can’t fit through the kitchen door”.

The rules changed and someone decided to fight back a little too late, via the wrong adolescent.

Nerdly McGeekington comes to Principal PretendsToCare absolutely livid because little Twigtastic WheresMyPuffer got his glasses broken when Tuffy O’ShitForParents drilled him in the kisser during the Weed Out the Pussies Round of the Dodgeball Tournament, and the possible solutions to this are:

A) Ban yet another activity that *gasp* separates the physically strong and able from the rest, thereby reducing the risk that kids can hurt each others feelers.

B) Encourage Twiggy to put his only real weapon to work and hatch a fiendishly intelligent plot of humiliating and public revenge while taping his glasses back together.

C) Make ‘em all wear little pink tutus, only go all Harrison Bergeron on ‘em and make some of the tutus pinker and more gay the tougher the kid is.

I think it’s pretty evident which selection I endorse, and I truly believe it’s made the World a better place.

Without the ritualistic beating of a nerd, we wouldn’t have Microsoft (whose societal value is still in question but I enjoy nonetheless), Teh Intraweb (and all that pr0n), PC Loadletter (best battle cry for smashing electronic equipment EVER), Doom, Madden ’96, Toy Story and Shrek, Transformers, microscopic girl’s dorm cams, and phones that are so fucking futurtastic that they not only play the latest music, highlights from the footy, take frameable pictures and screenable videos, but can tell us when we need to drop a deuce.

We really should thank the nerds more. Go on, go hug a nerd right now.

And by “hug” I mean, “grasp and pull the elastic waistband of their undergarments with such force as to cause discomfort and pain to their genitalia and/or rectum”.

What’s that? What about the bullies? Well the World needs them too. Bullies are the foundation of the White Trash segment of our society as well as some of our best law enforcers, lawmakers, and legislators.

Without good and proper assholes doling out youthful undergarment punishment, we wouldn’t be able to sue for millions of dollars after burning our genitalia with boiling refreshments, we’d pay thousands more per gallon of fuel, we wouldn’t have a venue in which to drink pisswaterbeer and scream ourselves hoarse at gladiatoresque sweatdemons, and what would we call our favourite all-rounder in upper body clothing? White singlets? Thin white tanktops? Sleeveless undershirts?

No. It’s a wifebeater, and everybody knows that.

If that first bully, wearing one of those multipurpose masterpieces, didn’t loudly and proudly proclaim his household dominance with his drunken fists, we’d have no clever name for them. And then, dare I say it, they might not even be as equally popular with Rock Stars, skateboarding punks and lesbians.

So, raise your kids up right. If you were a pussy, then coddle and swaddle and grow yourself some quality dominance-establishing fodder. Who else is to teach us how to passive-aggressively change the World while making billions?

If you were an asshole, then by all rights raise yet another asshole. It’s not like anyone could ever envision a world without them, and besides, whatever would become of the Wars over Oil and Pro Wrestling?

While my kids aren’t going to sit in a field and toke their way to self-enlightenment while centering their shakras or shakraing their centers, they certainly aren’t going to step on anybody’s fucking face to further their own worthless asses either.

They’re going to get where they’re at in Life, to that wonderful place I’m in with all of the wonderful things in it, the same way that I did…

Blind Luck.

Go get ‘em Tiger!

Andy Lee, half of the long-time comedy duo “Hamish and Andy” and national radio star, has a secret. And I’ve found it out. And now that its out I realise that it’s not a very well kept secret.

See, Andy Lee has a girlfriend, an international oozingpurehottitudinal soopermodel. And she’s from Perth. Now that he’s won one of the more prestigious Glamour Contests, one may reckon that Andy could land just about any tomato on the vine right?

Well, there’s a reason he chose one from Perth folks. Perth is also home to the AFL Premiers, Champions of the League, Awesomest of the Awesome… The West Coast Eagles.

See, skinny and a bit dorky may fly when you’re on radio and that’s the look you’re shooting for. Tall with the curls and the slightly Jewish nose and the I’m-the-guy-you-buy-beers-for-cos-you-just-love-me-straightaway smile is more than just a look for this comedic talent.

It’s a front. A cover-up. A smoke-screen AND a red herring. Shit, it’s a purple herring even.

Andy… I’m onto you. It didn’t take a Rocket Surgeon to piece it together, I’m just amazed that no one else has stumbled across this amazing connection.

Say it with me:

Andy Lee…

Andrew EmbLEY…

And again. And again. One more time…

BOOM, check this out:

I know, I KNOW. Man, it threw me for quite a loop too, and I’m not only a rabid Eagles fan, but I usually listen to these clowns in the afternoons on 92.9 and it still took me a year or so to put it together.

What’s that? STILL not convinced? Okay… I didn’t want to have to do this, I mean this picture was taken without their knowledge and would be used, on this website only, without their permission but…

There it is. Hamish Blake, caught in a moment that says so much about the pair, their relationship, and his feelings towards his partner’s double life.

Hamish has obviously dolled himself up in an Eagles uniform, snuck on into the Eagles Premiership Celebrations, and is attempting to fit in as “one of the boys” with the rest of the crew.

No doubt that the look that Andy… or should I say Andrew? is giving him is because he can’t very well ADMIT his secret to the rest of the fellas. Especially not after just winning the Premiership (AND Norm Smith Medal).

He HAS to play it cool for the sake of the Eagles Team, who surely would have NO chance of a repeat Championship with the distraction of a Supermodel-schtooping, oddly-named-dog-racing, ah-ain’t-he-sweet-ing NATIONAL radio star in their midst. The fact that he didn’t simply throw his oversteppin-the-bounds Radio Cohort out is probably only due to the good will and celebration in the air.

So there. I’ve said it, I’ve outed him. The secret is out and I’m NOT sorry.

Seriously, you’re a freakin’ Rock Star on the radio, a Ninja on the Footy Field, you win Footy Championships and you roll around nekkid with a supermodel. I’m not sorry at all that I exposed your little secret.

In fact, I may be secretly jealous.

But I’ll never tell.

My Life has changed recently, and I don’t just mean when Wife had a PERSON squeezed from her belly either.  I basically up and quit the job, the office and the entire icky Rat Race in favour of a more sedate existence.

I now sell my own hair and oil secretions to burgeoning mole farmers.

Nup, but me and Wife really did start our own company and we’re like, for real and everything.  We pay taxes and have deductions and our own payroll just like the grownups do!

I’ve got an office that doubles as the shit-cleaning station, or “nursery” as some may call it, and I can rock-a-bye baby while I rock online, it’s beautiful.

So, when Life changed and some online changes were needed, like hosting and control and some domain names to tout our company (www.juddrocksallupinthisshit.com was AVAILABLE, go figure), I remembered that I actually had a very good friend that dabbled in that shit, mi amigo Pedro.

Pete got me all kinds of hooked up, and I can’t continue to say good things about him without feeling a bout of Friendly Fellatio coming on… so I’ll stop now.  Seriously, go getchoo somma dat.  It’s fkn awesome.

Now I’ve got a new home for all the sites (later to D-Land, you were what you were and I’m thankful but flah) and will no doubt be doing nothing but building on that love in the foreseeable future.

I’m also going to be doing something a bit different with the Ol’ JuddHole… like fucking updating, for starters.  I’ve preached it for long enough, yet fail to actually practice it (as I tend to do) but I’m actually going to be writing.  Writing, writing, writing, as much as I can.  And, as promised, if it’s not in here then I’ll try to post it in the other blog.

If it’s not there, then it’s rammed up my butt and you wouldn’t want to read anything that’s been in my butt, trust me.

More writing, less jackassery.  Cos I’m a grownup ‘n shit now.

We went Trick-or-Treating.

And by “cold and cruel” I mean… um… ha ha, it’s Spring here.

Wife had a few rows with some e-folks about the origins of the celebration of Hallowe’en (which is why I now spell it “correctly” after ResearchGirl sprung into super action) and I was prepared for the worst to greet us. I figured we’d get a few “we don’t celebrate that” or “you’re not in America anymore” or even “only freaks and pagans scoop still-steaming goat entrails onto their heads whilst screaming at the moon and rubbing themselves in poo… and we’re not them.”

I understand that it’s a Consumer Culture, which can sometimes be construed as an all-devouring beast hell-bent on World Domination. I understand that there’s a difference between wanting to be like America for the cool shit, like 35 Cent and his G Unit and the ways that he carjacks and fires an Uzi, and NOT wanting to be like America for the dumb shit, like… well… the same shit really.

The hypocrisy is not lost on me though, when I am told in one breath that Burger King is called Hungry Jacks and the signature food item of this entire continent, Vegemite, is owned by Kraft, an American company, then in another I am told that “We’re NOT American, so we don’t celebrate Hallowe’en” (though they don’t spell it properly when they say it).

Sidenote

I almost officially renounced my country after the recent announcement concerning the “V” stuff. Seriously. What the fuck?

I don’t give 5 shits if customs comes to my house and GW himself mispronounces some words while arresting me, I stowed some of that wonderfully pasty brown stuff in a package to Mom just yesterday.

It’s awesome and one of the 3 Best Ways to start the day aside from coffee and sex. Almost in that order.

/Sidenote

I listen to an extremely popular radio DJ poke a bit of fun of the “holiday”, saying that it’s not exactly necessary to glom on so wholeheartedly to the American bullshit right fucking before he plays a song by The Fray (whom I frickin’ LOVE, don’t get me wrong, and are even from Denver) that gained overnight popularity of insane proportions from a TV show.

An American TV Show. About doctors and drama and sex ‘n shit.

The Morning Show DJs take this show, which had some serious dramatastic finale the night before, and TALK ABOUT IT ALL FKN MORNING. Then, when they play the song, it’s got lines from the show interspersed throughout it.

The Song. On the RADIO. HAD TV IN IT. The AMERICAN Song had AMERICAN TV in it.

But you’re too fucking hotshit for Hallowfuckingwe’en. Gotcha.

Free Candy.

Jeezus-H-Crickets-stuck-in-a-Roach Motel, is there anybody who doesn’t like dressing up and pretending to be something else?

And Free Fucking Candy?!?

My little girl had previously decided to be very naughty and blatantly ignore some very steadfast rules, so she missed out on the fun, but Buddy had a freakin’ great time.

While sorting his booty in the kitchen, he quietly and earnestly told Wife that he really liked Trick or Treating, “I was a bit shy though” he admits, “but I got used to going to other people’s houses.”

Testament to the Wonder that is this child, his first instinct for the first 3 houses was to give THEM the candy. He honestly thought that the whole idea was to go door-to-door and give out candy, as that’s what we do when people knock on our door.

Heh, though we only had 4 visitors, they came in a group, and they weren’t wearing anything other than their school uniforms. The red-headed, heavily freckled one carrying the skateboard was wearing his backwards, Wild Man that he is, and he busted out some of the best Human Beat Box that I’d heard in a while. Seriously, my inner Talent Scout wanted to sign him to a contract.

The only redeeming thing that I heard from the radio talent was a story exactly like that, where he’d heard that in America they spend weeks planning and decorating houses and children, and when doors are banged upon a loud screeching “TRICK OR TREAT” is the cheer.

By a decent contrast, he received a trio of yardapes much like us, who were wearing nothing other than street clothes, and who greeted him answering the door with a shuffling of feet and a grumbling, “got any lollies?”

We made some friends, we met some of our neighbors close up, and got nothing but rave reviews for the “little Ninja man!” even from the old Asian lady whose dinner we apparently interrupted and who had no freakin’ idea what we were on about until I repeated (for the 3rd time) “Happy Hallowe’en!”

So embrace some �Merican Shit or don’t. But, if there is any reason to loosen your sphincter up and ditch that goddam hypocrisy about my culture, I can’t think of a better one right now than dressing up in something cool, visiting all of my neighbors, and wangling some free candy.

I could go on and on with social diatribes and any random, yet no less poignant, observation that I may have made since my arrival here. I’m not going to do that.

Hell with it, I’ll simply drop you into and out of a day in my life. Today, for example.

The news this morning was heavily-laden with the terrorist doings. Naturally. Then the newsies say things like, “Um, Aussies… it can happen to us too, so don’t go anywhere for a while.” No long, drawn-out messages about traveling safely, what to consider when planning a holiday, who to scrutinize when getting on buses in the middle of Beirut… nope.

“Don’t go where they blow shit up.”

That’s the message. The rest is just fluff.

I get into the classroom with my son after stumbling late, once again, out of our house a mere 2 and a half minutes away. We are greeted with no less than 5 kids that Boy describes as “brown people.” Though they may all be (in relative order) Indonesian, Aboriginal, Indian, Liberian, and Malaysian, he really only comments on their differences in light of the fact that their skin is darker than ours, and how much he loves when some of them speak “Chinese” (because when you’re 5, every foreign language is Chinese).

While we read a book about a duck that’s learning to surf, I notice that, of the 15 children leaping randomly and flea-like about the room, there are no less than 9 different nationalities represented. This is only an estimate, of course, because I’m guessing that the slightly olive-complected boy named “Kalib Hashnihakanahhakansomething” has roots from somewhere near the Middle East.

You’ll never hear anyone there calling it a “Melting Pot” though. It’s just the Pre-Primary School.

I fought traffic whilst flipping through stations that are playing the same song at the same time (probably the same one you flipped from this same morning). There is some meaningless banter between the flamboyantly gay host and a footy star, which I pause on because I’m hoping for far less tolerance from the jock and more lisping and wrist-limping from the poof.

No such luck, and then I doze at a light while 3 people in a row try to sell me radio airtime, energy bars, and car insurance (which they neglect to tell me I don’t really need as it’s included in my licensing fees).

At work I talk to a guy on the phone with such a thick Romanian accent I start giggling and dropping Ali G references with nary a hint of suspected ridicule. I have a meeting with a couple of Poms that want to sell flowers online here in WA, but aren’t sure how many other online florists they may be competing against, but assure me that it’s “absolute rubbish” that they can’t register their company name because it’s too close to an existing company that also sells… *gasp* flowers.

I entertain my coworkers with the same trick I do for my wife. I take ordinary, average, run-of-the-mill SPAM emails that want me to have longer lasting erections and eat painkillers by the handful, and read it like it’s a personal letter from family or a close friend.

My journey homeward involves more fighting of traffic, and the obnoxious and highly entertaining afternoon hosts are giving shit to Hugh Jackman for being so incredibly humble:

“Seriously mate, Harrison Ford doesn’t get in an interview and say, �So, it’s a pretty good show, hope you go out and see it, the archeological stuff isn’t TOO heavy and over your head, and there’s some pretty good action too, with a whip and a cool hat thrown in.’”

He takes it all in stride and ad-libs some theoretical lines from X-Men 4: The Musical.

Laziness rules out over DinnerPreparingness, and we feed the kids “Baked Beans” which I recognize as the item I grew up calling “Pork and Beans.” As Wife points out that “Fruit Cocktail” always has a multitude of cherries on the label and there are freakin’ 3 in a liter can (and they’re HALVES), I share with her that “Pork and Beans” is really “Baked Beans and a Square-Inch Hunk of Pigfat Potentially Construed as �Pork’.”

I eat a Tim Tam as pre-dinner, and it’s still one of the finer compilations that Chocolate and Cookie ever did together. I won’t even go into Hedgehogs and Caramel Slices. Oh, Sweet Baby Jeebus.

We read The Jungle Book, stick the kids in bed, and settle in to The 2006 MTV Movie Awards. While I’ve forgotten the reason behind a channel originally devoted to music videos (called “film clips” here) hosting an award show that had more to it than the BIG ones (the ones with the little golden alien dude with the sword on the trophy), I did enjoy all the hooplah. And the fact that an Aussie won one award and a dude got another for kissing an Aussie dude. And they were COWBOYS. That’s realistically one of the only things that keeps the “ew” factor as low as it is for me.

The highlight of my night arrives. Well, the other highlight that isn’t hanging out with my incredibly awesomely cool wife, bullshitting for hours about nothing and everything.

No, the highlight is a Toohey’s New beer commercial. If you’re here in Oz, you may have seen it.

A city, any city. It’s downtown inhabitants are using gigantic trebuchets to launch Volkswagen-sized bags of Malt, Barley, and Hops into a nearby cloudbank. They happily fling them from throughout the metropolis as folks in their offices watch them disappear into the vapour.

They all slow to a bit of a halt, and on a taller buildings rooftop an elevator dings, and those that were previously loading another ton’s worth of beer-brewins turn to stare excitedly at… a deer.

It took me a few times of watching this ad to realize that this is the same deer from the label on the bottle I was imbibing, but that changed NONE of the comedic impact of those beer-craving idiots leading that wide-eyed, innocent, impressive-looking creature onto the trebuchet and WHOOSH… off he flies stoically into the clouds.

Then, it starts to rain beer and every single living soul in that city is engulfed in pure rapture. That part gets me a bit teary… give me a minute… *sniff*

I love this country.

Hell, I left out the part from the longer version of that ad where they load a couple of Lauderdale-esque chicks onto the thingy and shoot �em into the clouds too, giggling and hooting all the way.

It’s late now, and even though it’s Friday Night, I know that yet another beer and additional hours of non-sleep will only hurt me when it’s pre-dawn and two little yard-monkeys are clamoring for pancakes, because I may not actually be a grown-up, but I play one in the kitchen.

Good night folks. Love where you are and the ones you’re with.

So, here’s to all 7 of you. You Rock like Toohey’s New Ale on my balls.

Working now, every weekday, and it’s a bit fuckin’ crazy. I’ve now realized that being Management has nothing to do with simply getting more money for being smart and shit while still not caring. It means that the underlings can do their stupidlish things, and I get to stress about it while they pick their asses and say such profound things as “I don’t know, it should’ve worked… *wipes nose*”

Sigh. I miss the days when I picked my ass and shot Nerf Darts at my boss.

I’m all about being a father and a husband and a boss and an Aussie and all that.

And Life is So Damn Good I wanna burst.

Here’s a bit of what I been up to lately.

Went to visit that most wonderfullest of Teh Awesomestinest Sis-in-law and for Wife’s birthday I got her this beach.

I know, I know, I really shouldn’t have, but I’m all thoughty like that ‘n shit.

This is just to prove that I was there and didn’t just rip a brochure picture up and hand it to my bride for her birthday… like that shot of my junk I gave her for Valentine’s Day.

Now that I’m working, we enjoy our weekends to the fullest.

And by “enjoy” I mean “drink Tequila til I throw up and Wife points out to me that my lip is pukeglued to the toilet seat.”

This is a randomoddobscure reference to my other diary. The one I update. With pictures of my kids that I refuse to post here because I KNOW some of you sick fucks are waiting outside my son’s school and watching me teach him the finer aspects of the Farmer Blow and waiting to kidnap me and make me slap my buttcheeks together to the sweetsmoove rhythms of Kevin Federline (that’s for Disco, whom I’m too lazy to link yet love no less). edited: Bitch has some ballticklingly funny rappin shit, blows jizz on his face to teach Rubbers to Retards, and visits this CrapHole. He’s that fuckin’ awesome.

Love and Smooches.

Bah, only part of the above is true. The Final Inspection (sounds serious as a testical malfunction doesn’t it?) is tomorrow, and if anything is wrong, say the house is still the dump that it was when moved into for instance, then we get a chance to fix it, otherwise we get our keyesh back.

An hour-and-a-half search of our new house for our old house’s keys yielded nothing more than a couple of throbbing headaches, some colorful swearing (”Pigshitting bugfucker” was my favorite), and my forearms coated in the past three weeks worth of garbage. I DID find that damn remote though, and it wasn’t wedged in my asscheeks like it sometimes can be.

RealEstateLady was terribly nice and understanding about the missing keys though. She didn’t swear at me or demand I drop my pants and march around the office with one thumb in my mouth and the other in mah bum, and as soon as I come dangerously close to causing Shaken Baby Syndrome, one of the kids should cough up the whereabouts of said keys so that we can avoid any further hassles.

Though I wasn’t there to see the state of the old house when Wife moved in, I can only imagine what just a few young, shiftless, weed-smokin blokes can do to a place when one of ‘em owns the joint, especially when it wasn’t even cleaned before they dipped out.

Heh heh… “joint”… I kill me.

Washing the walls in the kid’s room was taken on by Wife, and I didn’t envy her the task at all, though I got to spend a day or so at that madcap carnival-like place… The Kitchen O’ Unidentifiable Scum.

I shouldn’t bitch, I mean Wife cleaned the bathroom and toilet too (they’re in different rooms here, like rich people’s bedrooms ‘n shit), but the tedium of scrubbing made my mind a bit wonky as well as reminding me that certain groups of muscles in my forearms haven’t been used since… well, since I moved out here.

Married Life has been good to Judd… REAL good.

I used to think that I was a thorough enough cleaner that I could even have viable employment doing such, but the revelation that I may have been scrubbing a bit too hard when the stain got bigger instead of smaller while coating the sponge in paint chips, was enough to tell me that I should probably use a bit more of my mental processes on the task at hand.

I felt like I had reasonable amounts of logic behind this though, as I was working on a surface, previously unused by any of us, that was coated in something that could only have been created when all of the ants that were surely eating it simultaneously ejaculated onto it before igniting it, as well as themselves.

You know, like that monk during that war, except without the massive amounts of insect semen or that slimy/greasy/sugary base.

I won’t go into detail concerning the unrecognizable substances Wife cleaned off the walls of OtherBroInLaw’s temporary room, but I’ll make a brief reference to a previous surface’s description and let your li’l minds run apeshit wild with that.

Yummy.

The old house wasn’t really that bad, it’s probably nasty only in comparison to how Fuckin’ Sweet this house is. The kids love it, though the constant shuttling from FuckinSweetHouse to CrazyCatLady’s while we clean the old place has taken its toll on both their behavioral patterns and hygiene.

CatLady’s place is layered in… well, cat hair, and the kids receive treats from her, of much stickiness in nature, that create a veneer on their little bodies leaving me wondering if all 73 cats took turns licking and/or urinating on both of our children until some sort of ownership agreement was reached.

As for their behavior, I’m chalking it all up to the up-and-downedness of our days, though I just took a break from writing this to ask my boy if his voice had recently changed.

“Um… no?”

“Did you just start High School? Are you learning to drive?”

“Nooooo… noooo…”

“Are you growing hair in specific places?” I asked while making him lift up his arms to show his pits and causing raucous giggles, “are you dating girls?”

“HAHA! NO Daddy!”

“Then you’re NOT a teenager yet, so please stop with the attitude.”

My shower was then promptly interrupted, once again, with a little blonde head and the question of, “Daddy? Are you famous?”

My reply was a resounding, “Yes” and concerned something along the lines of being nekkid underneath loose fabric with the King of all Blogs, Pigmeat WeatherPhenomenon himself.

This reply was quickly clarified that we weren’t nekkid together in a vain attempt to clear up her incredibly confused countenance.

I gotta get some locks on these doors.

“Tard-Again.”

“Re-Tard.”

Go ahead and Google it. Unless we can prove that dude tapped into her brainwaves, she’s not the first to come up with this feat of funninessitude.

And by “dire need of consoling” I mean, “once the kids are in bed it’s NekkidHole time.”

I happened to be over at Mum-in-law’s one afternoon when said BigBlackDude stopped in to pick up his dog, and I was warmly introduced to him with pleasantries of what city we were from respectively as well as a handshake that nearly powdered the bones of my fingers. I mentioned that I was fairly new to the country and he instantly produced a flyer for a Thanksgiving Day Feast at a local park, featuring a gathering of roughly several hundred of my fellow ex-pats. Wife and I eagerly agreed to go.

A few days later, after we’d completed the move to our new house (because the owner’s of the old one decided they’d rather live there AND completely fucking ruin Christmas…), we received a call from a Telstra employee who was in the area to hook up our phone. Wife hung up and asked me if I caught the Phone guy’s name (I had, as it’s fairly uncommon) as well as the fact that he was American (I hadn’t, because I’m fairly retarded).

Sure as ShitPickles, a half hour later and BigBlackDude cruised up in his PhoneHookyUppy Mobile and ended up hanging out for a bit, showing us pictures of his Aussie wife and gorgeous li’l Aussie girl. Being in need of a ride to the Feast, we invited The Düd and his girl too, as they are also two of my (and Wife’s) absolutely mostest favoritest people on this planet.

Düd and his girl had both had hard nights, the former working the night shift at the hospital and the latter drinking 4 shots of absinthe, so Wife and I weren’t expecting that they’d want to hang out much at the Celebration de Americana. Especially in light of the fact that they were not only grossly outnumbered in the Aussie-to-’Merican ratio, but that The Düd and I were 2 of the only 4 white males there (out of about a hundred or so).

His uncomfortable, and sometimes politically incorrect, joking aside, I did my best to reassure him that this type of gathering was exactly like any old picnic shindig that I’d been to while I lived in Texas, it’s perfectly okay to be the only white guy, and that it was unlikely that there’d be any random shooting of automatic weapons.

Though I know he isn’t really racist, far from it, and that he’s far more enthralled with American stereotypes as opposed to ethnic stereotypes, he did seem inordinately pleased that there was a watermelon-eating contest. I forgave him though, as I likened it to the idea that I’d be just as tickled were I to see somebody in khakis scream, “Crikey, she’s a big ol’ gehl!” ride on a ‘roo, wrestle a croc, and fuck a koala… um… I mean, throw a shrimp on the barbie, for surely the sheer novelty of it would make all those stupid stereotypes seem less retarded.

‘Cept for that koala thing, I s’pose. Heh.

After introducing Wife and the crew to some of Turkey Day’s finer offerings, like Pecan Pie (argklhlglglghhh… *drools* pecan pieeeeee…), activities began, and The Düd mentioned that he wanted to try and hit some “zingahs.” After figuring out that he meant “zingers” and that this was something he picked up from The Simpson’s (where most of his knowledge of all things ‘Merican come from) he grabbed a bat and a Chris Rock look-alike warmed up on the mound to pitch him a few.

Watching my undersized(HA, I was undersized next to these behemoths)-extremely-white-not-exactly-athletic-looking brother-in-law gearing up for a pitch from a dudded-up, pimped-out, ChrisRock was sure to be some fun, even if it had the potential to be at The Düd’s expense, so I was quite amazed when he cranked his first-ever-swing-with-a-bat shot WELL into the outfield.

After hanging out for a bit in the shade, and after several beers, he and I also kicked 5 kinds of ass at the Egg Toss Event, winning a bottle of wine and the respect and admiration of the congregated Aussie/American half-breed kidlings*. As I was formulating plans for how to trick him into playing the Egg Toss/Judd Throws Egg Straight at Düd’s Head game, we stumbled our way through a good old fashioned gridiron ball getting thrown around.

*Few things are cuter than that little hybrid accent, where they say “noh-oy” and “cheehs” yet still say “Cann’t” and “carr.” I can’t wait ’til our kids start school, heh heh.

The Düd once again amazed me by throwing perfect 30-yard spirals while seeming for all the world like he wouldn’t be able to bounce the damn thing that far. Another Aussie was involved in the game as well, looking very athletic and capable, and I thought that certainly his side-arm, left-handed, elephant-piss-poor attempts at a throw were in jest. I was wrong and was in dire need of additional beer so that I could more comfortably ridicule a perfect stranger while BigBlackDude was chucking 20-yarders comfortably with either arm and The Dud threw a “pointy footy” like he’d done been doing it all his life.

Being that the vast majority of the throng were black, ex-military, big, and buff, the choosing of the softball teams promised to make The Düd, and even myself, feel even more Weakling Whitey. He made the cut as a fourth pick, and I sat down when I saw that there were enough people, using my back and lack of suitable footwear as excuses while I really just wanted to lay on my beautiful wife’s lap and lazily heckle my brother-in-law and BigBlackDude.

I’m pretty sure that I was readying myself to yell something concerning The Düd’s fielding prowess as compared to the 8-year old girl next to him when a line drive bolted straight past her, The Düd came flying from 20 feet away, slid to his knees to scoop it up, and laserbeamed a beauty 40 feet FROM HIS KNEES to ChrisRock, who then bobbled it while the runner made it safely to home plate.

My jaw dropped clean open before Wife, DüdGirl and me all started cheering. It. Was. Awesome.

He’d been skipped in the batting order during the first inning, but the bruthahs knew the boy could play, so they gave him a chance the next time around.

I’d meant to heckle him with something along the lines of a KKK joke, something about it not being a “roo-be-good bat,” or a comparison between a softball bat and his penis, but I didn’t get much of a chance as he swung away at the first pitch offered…

…and knocked another beauty.

It was about then that BigBlackDude (the hulking mass of humanity in the grey T-Shirt) and the other ballplayahs mentioned that, “Fo’ his firs’ time playin’, that boy is purdy good,” and I made the most of the opportunity to mention that, “not only is he MY brother-in-law, but I taught him everything he knows.”

Despite the fact that BigBlackDude knew that only half of that statement was true, he laughed when I told him that I was relieved that The Düd was doing so well at softball, as when we first arrived at the picnic, “he was feeling pretty Aussie,” and he then full-on doubled over with belly-splitting chuckles when I added, “…and pretty white too.”

It wasn’t quite The Mom’s Pecan Pie, and it wasn’t quite a re-enactment of Broncos/Cowboys Overtimey goodness, but it was a righteously awesome Thanksgiving Down Under.

I’m thankful for my beautiful wife, my new family, my new house, and for lots of really huge black dudes and all the fun we had with them.

That sounded so wrong that I’m giggling right now.

Since the only thing I can imagine that would be more awesomer than riding a giant Black Stallion, with flames shooting out it’s ass, blasting Metallica out it’s ears, on a saddle made of chocolate… is going to bed with my beautifully wonderfully amazing Wife, I’m out.

Be good, and watch out for ‘roos.

After speed-walking the length of the enormous platforms and climbing up the stairs to view from which platform we were to catch our connection, we stopped a couple of TrainWorkerFolks to alleviate our confusion as to which platform our train was on.

“Leederville? Yeah, it’s that one,” they replied and dutifully pointed to a train pulling away from the station.

“Oh… you mean the one that we would’ve caught had we simply continued walking another hundred feet? Awesome.”

The extra wait meant that we could empty our bladders and catch a smoke in anticipation of the evening’s drinkery and dancery. The former was taken care of, and the latter was in the midst of, when we heard sharply spoken words behind us.

A group of early-teen adolescents were clustered near a ticket machine, and the smallest, a tough-looking Asian kid, was bulldogging 4 of the other kids around with a couple of cronies at his side. He seemed so confident and in-control that I was left thinking that whatever was going on was being appropriately handled by him until I heard him repeat the command of, “Wallets and mobile phones… now.”

One of the kids on the edge of the group backed away a few feet and then bolted, dropping his Slurpee, and running as fast as his scrawny legs could carry him. The Asian Tough chased after and I was immediately and urgently aware of the increase of adrenaline in my blood.

The idea that a mugging is no reason to get killed was the only thing keeping me rooted to my spot, though my glare and posture surely revealed the difficulty in my doing so. The logical and analytical part of my brain also reminded me that I had no idea which members of the cluster were good-guys and which were bad-guys.

It also slapped me around with the fact that I had no clue what the bad-guys were carrying with the presumed intention of exposing my internal organs to the night air.

This was a quite a quandary.

Head Asian Tough came back slightly breathless, empty-handed, and even more determined than before. I noticed that, of the other members of the group, the ones that were more menacing than the rest were all Asian, and there were only 3 of them. I began to formulate a plan.

I answered the look of mild alarm on Wife’s face with, “Those kids are being robbed.”

The largest Tough, the one with his back to me, had something small and metallic in his right hand. HeadTough had a large bag hanging over his shoulder, and the third had nothing in his hands.

Knowing that I wouldn’t likely be able to rely on any help from the intimidated youths and that I would have to take down the Toughs in order of Immediate Threat Level, I moved slowly and casually towards the ticket machines.

When I was a few feet from BiggestTough, I angled just behind him, blocking HeadTough from my view. The cluster had the robbers mostly on the right, and the robbees mostly on the left, so I knew I could make a fairly clean sweep in that direction. I gritted my teeth, took a few short steps, lowered my shoulder, and blasted BiggestTough squarely between the shoulder blades.

I looked up in time to see his flailing body ram into HeadTough and focused my next move on LeftoverTough. He’d turned in surprise to see his two fellow ruffians in a pile and hadn’t yet turned his head back in time to see my fist rocketing towards the side of his head. He went down like your sister after a few Passion Pops.

HeadTough had recovered enough to scramble for his shoulder bag, and while I screamed, “RUN!” at the worthlessly startled innocents, I steel-toed the Slurpee cup right into his face, wedging the straw up his nose.

Unfortunately, BiggestTough had used this time to deploy his weapon, and was after me with it in a heartbeat. As I caught the blade of the knife between my hands, I angled my elbow into the side of his head, and pushed both our bodies into the ticket-dispensing machine, significantly stunning him.

As I gripped his hair and ran his face up and down the multi-colored buttons of the machine, I cocked a wry smile and informed his fading-into-the-oblivion head that he now owed $15.10 for two adult’s and two children’s train fares.

I was right in knowing I couldn’t rely on help from the mugging victims, as all they’d left as evidence of their appearance were vapor clouds. The previous cluster of humanity was now an open area, and HeadTough and I were the only ones standing in it. He’d recovered himself enough to square off with me, and was pulling from his satchel something metallic and extremely killyou-looking.

As my brain struggled with the decision to either duck behind the ticket machine for cover or charge him while screaming like a madman, I realized that I was frozen to the spot, waiting for some external force to prompt me into saving my own ass.

That external force suddenly took the form of Wife, who appeared to be hanging in mid-air like a rope-climbing acrobat at the circus, yet was moving in slow-motion, with one leg cocked and the other extended, towards the side of HeadTough’s body. She delivered a kick that knocked the weapon from his hand and sent him sprawling.

Somehow he managed to maintain enough of his faculties to once again reach into his bag, but Wife was too quick for him. As I stared mutely, she grabbed his soon-to-be-armed-again wrist and pulled it from within his bag.

A mobile phone clattered across the concrete, surely not the item he was seeking, but it didn’t stop Wife from grabbing it and shrieking, “Dial this, BITCH!” and ramming it violently into his mouth. As he struggled, she braced one hand on the phone and pounded on it with the other, and the gurgling noise emanating from his throat slowed with the same frequency as her blows.

As she climbed off him and began sauntering away the phone began ringing, and Wife turned to casually say, in a very answering-service voice, “This mugger is not available, he’s been pummeled into the floor by petite little WifeHole.”

I handed her back her fallen handbag, lit myself a smoke, and we high-fived lovingly as we wandered off to catch our train.

This vigilante-whup-ass-couple deserved a beer.

I’d never let the fact that she reminded me that I am not allowed to do crazy-beat-em-up-protect-the-innocent-shit now that I have a wife and two kids stop me from fantasiz… um… telling a good tale.

Wife did do me terribly proud during the course of the evening though, as she danced and drank herself into DrunkenHole prominence. The train ride home consisted of Consciousness and Unconsciousness warring alongside The Battle of the Belly for my poor li’l Aussie Wife. She lovingly and tenderly left herself at the mercy of HusbandHole in the belief that she’d end up happily and safely home in bed.

She did, relatively unmolested (heh… she’s really, really hot… what can I do?) sans OrangeJuliusTechnicolorYawn, of course.

She’s not a puker like her goofy hubby.

But she is a JackieChanNinjaMobilePhoneAssWhupper, trust me.