I must say, this is actually so close to reality it's kinda scary

The Differential Theory of Special Operations Forces (Snake Model)

Upon encountering a snake in the Area of Operations (AO):

Paratrooper: Kills the snake.
Armor: Runs over snake, giggles, and looks for more snakes.
Infantry: "Look, a putty cat. Come 'ere kitty . . .Ouch! Hey, that's not a kitty cat."
Infantry (alt): "Ugh! Me see snake. Me like snake. Ouch! Me no like snake."
Army Aviation: Has GPS grid to snake. Couldn't find snake. Back to base for crew rest and the club and pink gin.
Ranger: Plays with the snake, then eats it.
Ranger (alt): Assaults the snake's home and secures it for use by friendly snakes.
SEAL: Expends all ammunition, several grenades and calls for naval gunfire in a failed attempt to kill the snake. The snake bites the SEAL then retreats to safety.
Artillery: Kills snake, but in the process kills several hundred civilians with a massive fire mission reminicent of Stalingrad. Mission is considered a success and all participants are awarded Silver Stars. (Cooks, Mechanics, Legal Clerks etc.)
Recon: Follows the snake and gets lost
Combat Medic: Wounds the snake in first encounter, then feverishly works to save the snake's life.
Special Operations: Makes contact with the snake, builds rapport, wins its heart and mind, then trains it to kill other snakes.

As I said, so close to reality, it's kinda scary people. And the Medic's one is spot on, IMHO

This is just bound to make me a millionaire, I just know it

The perfect crib for the perfect kid. Look, I know some people will think it cruel to put electrified barbed wire entanglements on the kiddies' playpen, but hey, just think about all of the 'special mum and dad moments' that won't be ruined by Junior (or Juniorette) climbing out.
Think of the savings in psychiarists' fees later in the tots' life also.
As someone who's mother assures him that she thought Satan had inpregnated her by the time he was three (sorry dad, the milkman, and that nice Italian gent who sold fruit door to door, but it probably was), I can see not only the applications, but more importantly, the profits.
Sweet, sweet profits.
Also, if you happen to be a westy breeding machine, it means that when little Slappelle grows up, she's already used to the bars, wire, etc. Hell, if you can borrow a neighbour's German Shepard to wander around the crib growling occasionally, it will complete the indoctrination, and make any period of incarceration she suffers so much easier to bear.
That's right people, Shayne H products, making life easier for all.
I could become the "Big Kev" of baby products with this one, trust me. Investors please email your contributions to: Itsascamandyouwillberippedoff.com.au.

Okay, I am now in love, and must travel to Bavaria before someone else gets her

What is there not to like in this photo? The answer, Mein Herr, is absolutely nothing.
The language barrier might be a problem, but since I can order a beer in 18 languages (including the hard to master, but fun to learn drunkenese), we will understand each other perfectly.
"Oh fraulein, fraulein, where for art thou fraulein?" (apologies to that long dead english fellow who used to write plays and sonnets about boys).
Sure, she would probably nurse me into ill health through a diseased liver, but hey, I have always believed in making compromises in relationships.

Love hurts, but so does hitting yourself on the thumb with a hammer while DIYing

I started this year off with my ex-girlfriend telling me that she's finally started seeing someone else, and I never cope with that well.
I am the kind of person who is only truly satisfied if my ex-girlfriend:
a) dies,
b) turns gay,
c) has their vagina sewn shut, or
d) is fired into the sun from a large
cannon.

That said, if I ever meet this guy, I will be a gentleman, and say only "listen you pommy git, I'm better in bed than you are. The only reason she's with you is because I'm terribly irresponsible, hopelessly unmotivated, smell like beer and cigarettes all the time, am poor and unsettlingly prone to having manic fits where I write long, rambling posts like this one blaming all of my problems on someone that hasn't been a part of my life in 12 months.
In summation: you may be English, and have a 'cute' accent, but I have the better you know what, pal.
It's just every other aspect of my life, appearance, and personality that comes up short".
Or perhaps I won't say that.............................

The Furry Weapon of Mass Destruction (FWMD) has finally posed for her mug shot

Well, I can certainly see it, but perhaps others can't. Please note the downturned ears, the tongue hanging out, all doggie versions of "I'm innocent G'vnor, it was definitely the neighbour's collie what dug up the yard".
But note the eyes, looking slightly at the camera, in a "Man, I hope I'm going to pull this off, perhaps a little wag of the tail or two might get me out of this yet".
Well, as it happens, she did get out of it, and somehow ended up eating chicken that night.
Yes, I am such a sucker sometimes. And the mutt knows it, unfortunately.

Single male, athletic, GSOH, seeks bevy of ladies for fun times

If ever there was a kangaroos single's scene, this fellow would have to be the king of the castle. Just look at that smouldering glance, the body language that says ' hey, I could just laze around, or I could spring up and hop away at 40 Kph'.

Cats, the danger that lurks unseen in your home, you have been warned

Okay, so what do we notice about this series of photos? Obvious to blind freddy one would think. You have photos of three men who killed more people than cancer, and the cats that they have been reincarnated as.
This proves the point long held by the Furry Weapon of Mass Destruction (FWMD) that all cats are inherently evil, and should be growled and barked at, and when possible, chased to within an inch of their evil little lives.
Think about the personalities of the murdering nutjobs above and the similarities displayed with cats.
Dictators want everyone to treat them as if they are the most important people in the world, as do cats. Point made, I think?
How many other mass murdering pyschos have been reincarnated as cats? No wonder they always look frustrated, unable to carry out their evil plans due to the distinct lack of thumbs, not to mention minions to do their bidding. That's why they sleep so much, dreaming of controlling the minds of thousands, instead of that little old lady who feeds them and forces them to display affection for that food.
One can only hope that it's not too late for society to wake up to this threat, before they do find a way to control us all, and it's "Heil Tiddles" and invading Poland again.

Reality TV, let's make it exciting at least

Yet another of those shows where vapid famewhores who should really just piss off and by a house in the burbs like the rest of us are back, polluting my TV, this time in the guise of 'Celebrity Survivor'.
I propose a new format for this show, in which we place our 'Celebs' on an island, then introduce and intruder, in this case, Ivan Milat.
Just think of the ratings people!
Ian 'Dicko' Dickson: "Well Ivan, I'm sorry, but I just didn't see any talent when you gutted that Daddo brother with a coconut"
Ivan: "Huh? Grrrrr"
Some time later:
Third rate starlet #3: "What happened to Dicko? He was just here? Ivan, have you seen Dicko?"
Ivan: Bwahaha. Nope (grins crazy freaky arsed grin)
I'm telling you, this could be huge, I just hope that no-one else has got wind of my idea. While we're at it, I have another idea for reality TV, lets get cameras into the offices of the twits that come up with these shows, that would be some of the best comedy since 'The Office'.
So, they cancelled the show ' Yasmins getting married'. I can tell you why that show didn't take off, people want truth in advertising these days. If they had only called it: ' Yasmin's being pimped out to some pack of f**king dimwits' it might just have worked.
Still, it made the network put Futurama back on, so I won't complain.

Disclaimer: The author of this post did not ring the network with a sales pitch based at the southern Sydney market called 'Yasmin's getting Lebbed', starring Bilal Skaf and friends.
But he did want to, so very, very much.

10 days in an oxygen tent, it's kind of like camping, without the fun or the ability to breath freely

Having had the pleasure of catching a double pneumonia in a single chest (overachiever that I am), I can tell you that life in an oxygen ten is far from the bag of laughs I assumed it would be. I had assumed, in my stupidity, that life as a 'bubble boy' would be fun.
It's not.
Enough said.
Oh, and to the nice nurse who was always there to give me my sponge bath, I'm afraid that I did lie, it wasn't a 'normal physical reaction'.
Damn, be still my filthy old mind. A girl in uniform, what can I say in my defence?

Disclaimer: The author of this post is not currently being sued for alleged sexual harassment of nursing staff. He is, however, suing Medicare for the lack of opportunity to commit sexual harassment of nursing staff.

101 Uses for your Ex

Use Number 101 : Wheel Chock.

How often have you had to change the wheel on your automobile on uneven ground?
Safety in this matter is paramount, if your 'Chariot of Righteousness' decides to roll off the jack you could suffer an injury.
The obvious answer is to chock the wheels to prevent this, but what to use? If it's something too fragile, the rolling 'Chariot' will crush the item, and you could be out of pocket, or worse, if the soccer finals are coming up, minus a much loved and needed half brick. The solution is to find something useless, something you won't miss, or be worried about seeing under an automobile.
Solution? Your Ex.
The one item in your life that is not only expendable, but practical to use on both a physical and psychological level.
On a physical level, it is much better to chock two wheels rather than one, but if you are like me and only have short Ex's, don't panic, one wheel is safer than none.
As for the psychological level, well, explanations here are probably superfluous?
There could be some difficulties getting the Ex to lay behind the wheel, but perhaps a call asking if they would like to 'catch up' could solve the problem (of course, an offer to 'catch up' 5 km from the King Georges road exit on the M5 might make them a little suspicious).

Next, use number 100, fall guy for a Nigerian internet banking scheme.

Disclaimer: No Ex partners were harmed or ended up under stationary (or for that matter, mobile) automobiles during the writing of this post.

More's the pity.

If a Reuters photographer can get away with it, then I might as well give it a go too
(via LGF)

Reuters has sacked a 'freelance' Lebanese photographer for manipulating photographs that were submitted as factual records of events. Say it ain't so, Joe?
The number of times that you can look at some photos portraying 'murder' or 'genocide' in the Middle East and think something isn't right are too many to name (the Jenin 'massacre' anyone?).
This twit, one Adnan Hajj, has the photoshopping skills of a ten year old.
I take that back, a five year old. What was his motive? Reuters (his employer) has stated that he was removing 'dust smudges' when adding to the above photo (Godzilla was put in by someone else). Crap.
This guy was doing PR for a pack of terrorist wankers, and got caught.
On the other hand, the photoshopping above is totally believeable, and I for one, welcome my mutant lizardiod masters, and hope that they will remember that someone will need to pick the human remains from their teeth, (tooth decay being something rarely covered in monster films).

Disclaimer: In case this photo isn't real, I was just going to infiltrate their organisation and work from the inside, honest.

How I became an outlaw in Peru, a short story
Chapter two (continued):
My relentless search for Carlos the Janitor

The First Mate, (who was hired in Papua New Guinea and was most probably a headhunter), after having the procedure explained to him in gestures, cast us off and we were underway. I must admit to having had some trepidation at the sight of a Papuan Highlander, complete with bow, penis gourd and bone through his nose being our chief navigator. Of course, I had not heard of the proud seafaring tradition of his people, living in landlocked high mountain ranges as they did, but when I questioned him, his shaking of his bow and lewd gestures with the penis gourd left me in no doubt that he was a sailor.
I was also worried by the attentions of Boris the Bosun, who I felt, seemed to show an unusually intense interest in my welfare, to the point that he even offered to share his bunk. I had no intention of being 'press ganged' to wake up beside a hirsute Russian sailor, wearing a wedding dress with no recollection of the night before. Deciding that audacity might save my honour (amongst other things), I came up with a plan. Life with the nuns had given me a deep insight into the human psyche, not to mention a propensity for violence.
Knowing the Russian love of authority, I beat him senseless with my walking stick.
"Down you cur" I said in a deadly voice. Boris, true to my expectation, submitted to the violence, and made no further advances upon me, although I would occasionally find him looking wistfully at my firm young body. But I belonged to only one person, and she was but a memory, my Sister Marie.
We sailed the long way around the Cape of Good Hope, because the Captain said that he "didn't trust those Hawaian savages." This struck me as a lie.
One of the seamen hinted darkly that it probably had more to do with his buying the North Island of New Zealand for the princely sum of several bottles of rum and some beads. Apparently no-one had told the Maori about this, and there were rumours of several fleets of large tattooed men in dugout canoes eager to discuss the sale. Perhaps he should have questioned the validity of buying the place from a drunken Scotsman named McGillicutty (lately deceased apparently).
Several days into our voyage I was drawn to our cargo, thousands of small statues of the Virgin Mary, reminding me so much of my saintly Sister Marie.
Taking one up, I realised that the head of the statue unscrewed, and the pungent scent of 'Old Gutripper Rum' filled the air. "So," I thought, "not so much a reminder of Sister Marie, but definately a reminder of Mother Superior after Vespers on a Saturday night".
The smell filled me with a sad nostalgia for my carefree childhood in the Convent, the cold porridge, the cold baths, the regular spankings at the hands of my firm, yet fair, beloved.

The next day we were approached by another ship, and as I looked over the rail, I realised that something was wrong.
I saw the flag at the top of the vessel unfurl as they pulled alongside, it resembled the skull and crossbones, although the skull appeared to be wearing a turban.
It was the dreaded Pirates of the Indian Ocean, screaming at us in their rough lingo "Goodness gracious me, please be heaving to or we will be forced to be shooting you very much Sahib".
The vicious, if polite, scoundrels.
After stealing our cargo, the pirates decided that we should be made to 'walk the plank'. As the youngest, I was chosen to be the first."Be brave", I thought to myself, "you must get out of this and avenge Sister Marie". Suddenly, as the sitars started to play, a plan formed in my mind. I remembered my time with the 'Great Pacozoni' and one scam, er, show we had performed.
I also happened to remember that the coat I was wearing was his 'show' coat, and that a small dove was still concealled within the right sleeve. How that small, brave creature had survived the voyage I had no idea, I could only think that perhaps it snuck out at night and stole food from the galley, before returning to the only home it had ever known. Now I would have to rely on this brave little bird to save our skins.
Wailing like a banshee, I leapt into the air in front of the first pirate, and flung the dove into his face. His reaction was slightly unexpected, instead of trying to gut me with his ceremonial dakashar sword, he dropped to his knees. Suddenly, silence filled the air as all of the pirates knelt, then started chanting in a strange dialect.
I appeared that they belonged to a rare Thugee sect which revered the 'Sacred Dove' and that some few of their holy men spend their lives trying to make them appear from their sleeves.
We were saved!
As a holy man, the pirates generously offered to take me back to their temple palace, to live out my days surrounded by beautiful women, my every need catered for, to share my enlightenment. I explained that sadly, I could not, as I was on a quest to find another 'Sacred Dove'. Little did they know that this dove was a dangerously incompetent Latin American handyman. The pirates mournfully agreed, returned our cargo and allowed us to proceed on our voyage, although they did raise some questions as to the whereabouts of several of their crew, who appeared to be missing.
Although I had noticed that the First Mate was continually burping and picking his teeth with a bone toothpick which I could have sworn he didn't have earlier, I said nothing, and we parted company.
Now we sailed onwards to South America, and my destiny.

To be continued........................................................

The Lebanese Army Womens Reserve has vowed to fight to the last, er, woman?

Just in case anyone thought I was too pro Israel, (see post below), this post is dedicated to those fine examples of Lebanese womanhood who serve their country, er, their people, um, okay Hezbollah.
Just look at this saucy little minx, face and arms uncovered, and compare it to the post below.
Enough said.

'Am Yisrael Chai'

Disclaimer: Yes, I know it is the American actor Jamie Farr, but he will always be Klinger the Lebanese cross dresser to me.

"I will never tell you where the Katyushas are hidden, never.......Um, but since you asked so nicely"

Okay, that's it, I am now joining the Hezbollah, and I demand the Israeli Embassy immediately dispatch this crack team of IDF interrogators to find out what I know.
Please?
I think I am starting to understand why all of those Palestinian youths are constantly getting themselves arrested.

Disclaimer: I actually believe the picture above gives me one more reason to support Israel.

The 'Persuasive Percussion Method' - how to change someone's mind without resorting to logic

I have recently re-discovered an ancient method of changing people's minds, known as the 'Persuasive Percussion' method. This method has been out of vogue with our tolerant, caring society for some time, however I believe that the time to resurrect it has finally come.
'Persuasive Percussion' has been used in this country since the first people occupied it, for example:
"Eh, Mungawoy, I told you not to lose that boomerang, it was my best one!"
Mungawoy "Uh?"
(sound of Nulla - Nulla striking skull)
"Do it again and I'll spear you, understand?"
Mungawoy "Yep, gotcha"

This method has served mankind well in it's history, and in these troubled times it should not be overlooked as a solution to our problems. Take a look at the UN, for example. How much faster would it be to solve the world's problems if, instead of interminable speeches, meetings, etc, the US envoy (Mr Chuck Norris) could just walk up and roundhouse kick the North Korean representative.
After the North Koreans (and others) had lost a few representatives, a sense of self preservation would ensue. And if it didn't, at least it would be fun to watch.
The method does have some drawbacks, being a regrettable expenditure of energy on behalf of the 'Hitter' (aggrieved party), but this is counterbalanced by the chance to finally get through to the 'Hittee' (culprit), and helping them to change their minds.
Mark my words, this could be the new 'Doctrine of Pre-emption'.
Well, I hope so.
Now, if you will excuse me, there is a certain oriental gentleman whose local takeaway gave me food poisoning, and thus is about to be my first test case of the method.

Furry Weapon of Mass Destruction (FWMD) seduces local surfer, 35, in ferocious daylight attack

Rueters: Local Cronulla surfer and barfly, Pete G, was seduced earlier today by a brown eyed 8 year old Malamute in a ferocious daylight attack, local sources said. The animal in question is rumoured to be none other than Sutherlands' notorious 'Furry Weapon of Mass Destruction' (FWMD), aka, Callie, Calisto, Oi, Noodle, Fred, etc. The dog's owner was unavailable for comfirmation of the incident, as he fled in a well dressed, sprightly manner in the direction of the local RSL when approached.
Serial surf bully and alcoholic Pete G was quoted as saying, "Wow, why can't all girls roll over for a shmacko?" in a slurred voice, "and she's nowhere near as hairy as my ex either!"
Residents have been warned to be on the lookout for a large, friendly dog pretending to be a possum and begging for shmackos.

How I became an Outlaw in Peru, a short story
Chapter two:
My relentless search for Carlos the Janitor

I will now relate the second Chapter of our story, the first stage of my search for Carlos the Janitor, incompetent handyman and murderer of my one true love.

As the only child to have survived the blast, due solely I believe, to Sister Marie sacrificing herself to save me (and not just leaning down to smack me again, as others have so spitefully insinuated), the responsibility to seek vengeance for the Sisters of Perpetual Longing fell to me. I was so young, so scared, but a white hot fire burned inside me, knowing that someone as beautiful and wonderful as Sister Marie could be taken from me due to the incompetence of an illiterate Bolivian janitor. My blood boiled.
Revenge would be mine.
So, I girded my loins and prepared for my journey (luckily, the aged gardener, Mr McWeevil, was able to explain what 'girding my loins' actually meant, and I did no permanent damage to myself).
I was ready to engage upon my quest.
Oh, what a proud sight, the surviving sisters, all standing, sitting in wheelchairs or in the care of stretcher bearers, forming a guard of honour to send me on my way!
I recall the Mother Superior, covered in bandages, wisps of smoke still curling from her beard.
I could have wept at the love and forgiveness on display that morning.
"You must go forth and smite our enemies!" said Mother Superior, in her best baritone, to which the surviving sisters yelled "Yeah!", "Kill that M***er F***er!", "Bust some caps!" and "Whut? I can't hear you dear, the explosion, you know?"
To the stamping of their hobnailed boots, I set off upon the journey which would consume the rest of my life.
The search for Carlos the Janitor.

The intervening years were full of hardship and heartbreak, as soon after I left the remains of the convent, I fell in with the 'Great Pacozoni' a musician, shyster and sometime stage magician, who claimed to be decended from an illicit rendezvous between a Prussian Count and a Latvian streetfighter. Or perhaps it was a Latvian Countess and a Prussian streetfighter? But I digress.
My time with the 'Great Pacozoni' was frequently dangerous, due mainly to the fact that we always seemed to be running away from somebody, normally a group of somebodies, in fact, to shouts of 'Stop thief!'
This was an interesting time in my life, but at night, all I could see in my dreams was Sister Marie's sweet face, and hear her beautiful voice, begging for vengeance.
I still had to find Carlos Velasquez, the Janitor, and exact revenge for my lost love.
Stealing, er loaning a rather significant sum from the 'Great Pacozoni', I took my leave and and found passage on a tramp steamer bound for South America.

To be continued.........................................

Moby is a prat. There can be no argument against his prattiness. Prat.
To quote this f**ktard's website:

"This weekend I went upstate to the Woodstock Farm Animal Sanctuary and spent the night and hung out with cows and goats and chickens and turkeys and sheep and pigs and cats and dogs (and people too, although the weekend was more about quadripeds than bipeds.....although the bipedal creatures were nice too). A farm sanctuary is a place where farm animals go to live out their lives free from the threat of being killed or tortured or made to suffer at the hands of the people."

Ok, d**kwad, I am so happy that you are caring and sharing enough to spend your weekend 'sharing your nights' with all of those animals. I must ask, have you ever considered joining the UN as a peacekeeper? The Jordanians in particular like to spend their nights with goats, but I am sure that you can introduce them to the joys of everything with an orifice?
By the way, Mobes old son (hey, if you've been intimate with animals, you won't mind the nickname, surely?). Listen up, a cow is a steak dinner and a leather jacket waiting to happen, no matter how much personality it has. In the immortal words of 'Bill and Ted', "San Demas Carnivores Rule!".
Oh, and you are a bald, effette wanker of whom all men should be ashamed. You prat.

How I became an Outlaw in Peru, a short story
Chapter One :
Sister Marie and the Temple of Boom

Sister Marie. Oh how you have opened an old wound by mentioning her name. She was twenty, and as fresh and beautiful as a spring day. I was just six, precocious, full of life and had just grazed my knee. Moving like a jungle cat, all grace and power, she leaned over me, held my small, sweaty hand in hers, "what beautiful fingers" I thought, and she said in her husky voice "does it hurt?"
Oh how it hurt looking up at her perfection, three times my age, and unobtainable due to her commitment to Christ and cold baths!
Suddenly she smiled and said "get up and stop crying, it's only a graze, you runt!"
We were unable to continue our conversation, as at that moment the large boiler in the basement of the Convent of The Sisters of Perpetual Longing exploded, scattering debris over a wide radius, including Sister Marie. The police later said that the boiler had been poorly maintained, and that the janitor had fled to Honduras. I decided to devote my life to tracking that man down and making him pay for costing me my first true love.

Soon, Chapter two : My relentless search for Carlos 'the Janitor'

Google Trends.com is not your friend. Remember that, you strange, strange man

According to Google Trends. com, Pakistan is the #1 for google searches for Goat sex, Animal sex, and Donkey sex! Oh, and also honour killing and rape. In the immortal words of Gomer Pyle, 'surprise, surprise, surprise!
Well, not really, I mean, look at the mischievious gleam in the eye of this little beauty?
I have changed my mind completely about the Middle East.
If I can find some investors, I can start up a 'Sex Tours' business in Pakistan, a la the crazy stuff that used to go on in Thailand and the Phillipines. And hey, the good thing, sickos, er customers, is that these pros can't testify against you!
I can see it now, the packed courtroom, the bewigged prosecutor telling a small goat "Please miss, one brragggh for no, two for yes".
Damn, I am going to be a fricking millionaire!

Okay, two posts in a row featuring bestiality, but hell, I was on a roll, so f**k off.