Diary of a proto-emo

Doctors suck.

In fact, the whole doctor experience is kinda average. I guess because it starts with ill health, and segues neatly into pastel walls and coughing while some old guy holds your nuts in his ice-cold paw. I dunno what doctors do to make their hands feel like they belong to the undead - my personal theory is that they're actually reptiles sent from the planet Blarg to tell us we have cancer. You know, because Blargians think it's funny to watch colour drain from our faces.

Cunts. It's not. I was never going to have cancer, but there was a good chance my toes were going to rot off and my eyes were going to form a union and refuse to work unless I ceded to their demands.

Luckily for me, I was on the road to massive ocular industrial stoppages (and cardiac stoppages too) but we caught it just in time. But the best thing? It really is all Dad's fault.

Apparently ridiculously high cholesterol in a vegetarian means you can hate your parents even more. I thought I had diabetes but no. I had pre-diabetes, which is kinda like being almost pregnant except one of your parents is behind it all and... wait, maybe there's more parallels here than meets the eye. But apparently I have to chug down meds less I fall down dead sometime in my 50s. My doctor looked about 60 and really unhappy, so that didn't seem like such a bad deal really.

But then I thought of all the drugs and hookers I'd miss out on, then all the spacedrugs and nitrohookers twenty years in the future. And by Christ, I want my fucking nitrohookers and I'm actually kinda pissed off I don't have them already so I'm willing to stick it out on your pathetic planet bleating this ridiculous language and pretending to be interested in your nuclear holocaust trauma stories.

Anyhoo, that's about it. I'd be funnier but honestly, I like most of my subscribers but not you so you don't get funny today. You get an indication I'm alive and an indirect implication I may write something worthwhile in the future. Check the new profile pic to see how I feel about your response.


Smooches

Bileboy

6:19 AM - 20 Comments - 22 Kudos - Add Comment

Craig and Fong - The heart-thumping, cum-pumping finale

NB: It’s all happening in Craig and Fong land. Our lovebirds are preening their plumage and feathering their boudoirs, each confused by their feelings but unable to deny there’s SOMETHING afoot, which could well move on to something aknee, and then to something an allfours, then something aback, then something againstanightclubtoiletwall, then... you get the picture. Enjoy. And thanks for the touching comments and messages. I knew you guys rocked. And never fear - I’m not turning emo and I’ll be back sooner rather than later. I just wanted the old crew there when I did! Enjoy the story, and speak soon.

Fong had been waiting. Not just all day, but that too. He had been waiting all semester, watching as his Craig (it was his Craig now. Of that he was certain) had slowly developed. Fong had noted with satisfaction the discarding of the jock regalia and the donning of more classy, more urban wear. It was obvious he was attempting to attract the eye of a young lady, and it was equally obvious that wasn’t happening.

Fong had been waiting and waiting, all the while practising being boorish and Australian. He had waited until his instincts told him the time was right and now his instincts were screaming at him. Craig would be feeling low, dejected, unable to attract the eye of his lady friend. Well, Fong was one chink that could fill THAT void. Oh Fong he thought to himself as he strained to see Craig’s beautiful red hair over the throngs at the Cooper’s Bar. You really are a saucy, manipulative little vixen, aren’t you? He adjusted the line of his panties and continued to wait.

Craig took a final glance around himself before he ran into Ed Harry’s. He whipped off his wrap-around shades and adjusted his wig, struggling to catch his breath as coiffured yuppies eyed him off. The racks of clothes extended bofore him in mute accusation. You should be at the footy, Craig, they whispered. You should be grabbing slappers on the tit and pretending a mate shoved you. You should be spraying Bazza with cheap beer. You should be anywhere but here. But we know why you’re here, Craig. We know.

"Shut up," Craig said to himself, just loud enough for the yuppie to his right to consider sueing him. "I’m here to get some clothes, nothing more."

"Yeah, right enough," said the yuppie, moving unobtrusively towards the door. "Clothes, yeah, whatever you want, just don’t hurt me."

Craig barely heard. He gasped as this eyes took in the greys, the yellows, the drawstring cargos in khaki with the matching shirt featuring button-down collar. Ever since he fucked Ingrid up the arse, it was like a dam had burst in Craig’s soul. He suddenly found himself wishing to cultivate a moustache and party down to throbbing disco beats. He found himself wanting to take ecstacy by the bucket and drink bottled water by the gallon. He wanted leather, by God, he wanted to strap himself in with yards of the shit and let Fong whip him because he had been a bad, bad boy. These feelings confused Craig but it had been like there was a magnet in Ed Harry’s calling him to look sharp lest some smooth-skinned young stud happened to glance his way. Of course, the conditioned part of Craig’s mind told him he was just looking for clothes. But the clothes knew better.

"Oooooh, haven’t seen you here before sailor. Is there anything I can help you with? Hmmm?"

Craig jerked out of his reverie. "Oh, erm, nah, nothing, oh wait, erm, nah…."

The store assistant had a gaydar so finely tuned the Air Force often used him to echo-locate submarines, and his gaydar was overheating now.

"Oh I think I know what you’re after. You want to look sharp, don’t you? Looking to attract the eye of a certain someone?"

Craig simply nodded, to amazed to speak.

"Well, that’s what I’m here for. Hmm, now let’s see what we have here. Yes, yes, I’m seeing bold, I’m seeing smooth, I’m seeing THIS!"

And with a flourish, the store assistant produced a purple polo-neck and with another movement so quick it defied the eye, he grabbed a pair of black cords and a silver-buckled belt. How did he know? wondered Craig as he mutely accepted the clothes. Fong will have to notice me now. He’ll just have to.

Craig walked off to the change-room and could feel the store-assistant’s beady little eyes coring out his arse as he moved. Craig didn’t mind, he knew who he was saving it for. Fong’s gonna love the pairing of the purple and the black, and I think it offsets the bright of the buckle perfectly.

I really must replace the pot-pourri when I get home.

Fong began to get restless. He had had Craig’s timetable down for months now, and he knew it took Craig no longer than four minutes to get from North Theatre Three to the bar. It had now been six. Oh no, please say he hasn’t finally caught her eye, oh God…then their eyes locked. They had been locking eyes for months now, ever since Craig had shown him to his first lecture. Fong had never worked up the courage to speak to him again, but every time they saw each other it was like a guilty little jolt. They had always glanced away quickly but not now. Oh no. Fong could feel the mute, plaintive need in Craig’s eyes and he knew that look was mirrored by his own. They advanced towards each other, all other stimuli shut out. Fong could feel the silky rough of his bra on his nipples, and realised they were hard and erect. His hands clenched and unclenched rhythmically as he advanced.

This was the day. Craig knew it in his bones. He had been back to Ed Harry’s many times now and had bought so many great new fashions. Fong had been so very well dressed that fateful day many months ago and Craig knew the way to burst through his oriental aloofness. Usually, it was that very aloofness that made Craig want to reach for a stun-gun and a blowtorch but now it made him hot. Real hot. It tore him up how Fong would never talk to him, never nod hello, always seemed in such a rush to get away. Craig wiggled his hips as he settled into his Chinos and cinched his belt. Yes, today was the day.

He walked into the Cooper’s bar and saw Fong straight away. He looked like he was waiting for someone. Someone like me thought Craig and he slowly eased himself into Fong’s line of vision. Ooh, I like this song. Then Fong’s gorgeous chocolate eyes picked him out and Craig felt like a bug pinned to a board. Don’t look away, not this time…Fong began to walk, and Craig’s heart began to sing. He walked towards Fong, very aware of the garter belt and suspenders riding low on his hips. He felt so sexy. Nothing would stop this. Nothing. His lips parted slightly as his feet drove forwards.

"Gudday Craig."

"Hi Fong."

"You’re dressed well today. Any success?" Fong involountarily leant forward as he awaited the answer.

"In what? And what’s with the footy shorts?"

"In attracting somebody’s eye, and the footy shorts make me feel good."

Craig considered his answer. "Yes and no. I like to dress this way now. It makes me feel confident and sexy. And as for success, well, that would depend, now wouldn’t it?"

"On what?" Fong breathed, already knowing the answer.

"On the eye I was trying to attract. I don’t know if it worked yet or not. What do you think?" Craig’s heart was thudding harder than in the ’98 senior Grand Final when he kicked the winning points after the siren. He had cast the bait…

"Wonderfully. Let’s fuck. I’m wearing a bra, and unless I am much mistaken you are wearing a garter belt under those Chinos. Frankly, you’re the sexiest thing I’ve ever met and if I don’t cop your length soon I am going to implode."

Craig’s eyes widened, his cock hardened, his arse clenched and his heart soared.

"That sounds, well, what can I say? I am new to this."

"So am I. So am I. Let’s go. I live in student housing five minutes from here."

They just made it.

1:49 AM - 5 Comments - 14 Kudos - Add Comment

Craig and Fong, Chapter 2 (+3)

NB: You got the intro. It was short. You got chapter one. It was hot. Now you have chapters two and three, cause I have problems you don’t wqqant to know about. Have blogs? Sorry about that. Really. But to recap - Fong heard some concerning noises - rather like apes - and scaled a wall to avoid death. It wasn’t apes, it was Aussie men and one was a vision that got poor repressed Fong hot. But outwardly confident Craig was struggling with being gay, and had some decisions to make... read on to watch him decide to make it.

Craig Middleton hated fags. And poofs. Wormburners, dungpunchers, pillowbiters, shirtlifters. He’d tell them all to kiss his arse if he didn’t think it likely tongue would become involved. Craig had only ever met one buftie boy in his life, but he was only eight and it was hard to pick the poofs when they wore scoutmaster’s uniforms. But now he had no trouble, and this random Asian Fong was a poof. No doubt about it. As gay as your old man’s hatband, as camp as a row of fucking tents. Shit, Craig thought Fong was gonna get down on his knees and gob his knob right there in the plaza when he shook his hand after he saw him up that trellace. Now his hand felt slightly greasy, smeared as it was with gooksweat.

That was the other thing Craig hated. Chinks. Fuck yeah, Craig hated chinks with a passion that bordered on the maniacal. Damn smarmy brain-box dogmunchers. Craig often thought of how he would like to get all the kitchens at uni and feed the homeless by mincing them up in an industrial meat grinder. The meatgrinder would be jet black with red piping, and would have the words ’Death Express" in lightning bolt style written in silver on the side. Craig knew this because he had sketched it with biro during one particularly boring politics tute. He would feed the slopes in feet first, one by one, as the grinder’s built-in 3000w sound system blasted out some Black Sabbath and they all got a beer from the fully-stocked wetbar. Yeah, that grinder was the fucking BOMB. You could even drive it from place to place and it had a well wicked horn that played ’Ride of the Valkaries’.

So in the two nanoseconds it took for Craig to work out that the gook they’d chased up a tree was also a ringstinger, his mind crossed the entire gamut of killing Fong; killing him personally, watching him be killed by others, ordering his killing from a presidential suite and them watching it on video-phone, killing him via remote controlled robot…Craig liked that one because then he could wear one of those VR headset things. Way cool. 

But then Fong’s unnaturally bright eyes met Craig’s and he realised. A fag. A gook. A gook fag. A homosexual that is also Asian. Suddenly Death Express seemed a little juvenile. Suddenly, Craig wanted to grab Fong, tie him up, gag him, take him home and lovingly untie him before cooking him some pasta and making sweet, sweet love to his arse, just how Fong wanted to take it and just how Craig wanted to give it…

Craig began to feel a mite confused. Craig Middleton had met Hong Xa Fong, and one sensed there would be trouble. 

"Erm, yeah, so, what’s your major?"

As the term progressed, Craig began to behave very oddly. At least to his jock mates he did. For a start, he began wearing button-ups. Collars, the works. And always in fairy little colours too; magenta, puce, rhinestone. Gone were the Nike shorts, to be replaced with crease-free chinos and houndstooth-patterned madras shorts. Out with the Air Max, in with the Hugo Boss slip-on loafers. He began to stay at home-schoolwork, he said. Like fuck, his mates said. He’s shagging the arse off some little minx, I’ll bare me arse on Burke Street if he isn’t. And what’s with that perfume shit he splashes on his dial now? Knock out a feral pig it would! Craig’s a bit pussy-whipped now, I reckon, and to think he never told us or even offered to introduce us! Fuck him, mate. Dude’s turning into a poof or something.

And, as the term slipped into the semester, Fong slipped into his khaki workshorts. He loved the way they rode up his arse-cleft - he’d heard much of these ’footyshorts’ and couldn’t wait until winter when it would be acceptable for him to ditch the nondescipt exchange-student  slacks and begin wearing them to uni. He reached languidly for a blue singlet that was not too coated with meat-pie detritus as he heaved himself off the couch he’d stolen from outside the Salvos. He used to have a sofa-bed but economy of space? How old-country. He was in Australia now, and space was there to be used like a Brisbane kooker. A foil container clattered to the floor, spilling a nefarious mixture of chips, gravy, cigarette butts and twist tops onto the trembling, cowed carpet. Fong barely noticed. He was too busy scratching his arse with a match he’d found stuck to his chest hairs. He burped experimentally and noted with satisfaction the note and timbre. My projection and elocution is coming along well he thought to himself. Craig will have to notice me soon.

One must always strive to achieve one’s goals…

Fong stumbled into his carefully putrid kitchenette, trying hard to feel as though he were hung-over. He grabbed his econo-pak of Vegemite, hoping as he always did his previous encounter would have seared his mouth and throat dead. As always, he was wrong, but he was learning that the taste was best dealt with via great draughts of generic-brand apple and guava fruit drink. Oh, what was that….I think….YES! Fong rejoiced as he felt a fart pushing at his arse-cheeks. A nice, toxic gravy fart first thing in the morning…if only Craig were here to see this! So Australian! Fong closed his eyes and pushed, unsure as to the mechanations of farting and was a little disappointed at the wussy little parp that was all he could manage. Fong had seen Craig fart so hard his shorts literally rippled, and that was in the early afternoon and all. Fong despaired for a second, but then drew himself up with all the grit and determination that had seen him gain entry into the degree of his dreams in a country that five years ago he’d barely even heard of. He would make Craig notice him, and if becoming Aussie was the best way then that was what needed to be done. Fong hauled his workshorts out his arse as he plopped back down on the couch to watch the cricket. A beer was right at hand. Fong smiled quietly to himself.

Craig was confused. And scared. He didn’t know if he was Arthur of fucking Martha these days, what with that gook bumrumbler ghosting him everywhere. All he could think about was Fong. At first he thought this was okay. It was only because he hated him with such an exquisite focus that he thought of him constantly. It was only due to his blind, slowly bubbling rage that he woke up in the middle of the night in a hot, hot sweat, erection straining for…what? It was entirely the fault of hi-FUCK IT! He tried to concentrate on the straining German beneath him. 

"Oooh, ja, ja, das ist gut, ja, ja, oh ja…."

Craig shunted for a while. "Oh yeah, that’s right, that’s the spot you like that don’t you baby yeah oh yeah…"

He had picked her up at the East-End. She had been sitting with a group of dead-beats and he had been thinking about Fo-anyways, he had gone up to her and absently engaged in some awkward small-talk before talking her in to coming home and letting him fuck her. She hadn’t taken much convincing. Craig was a good-looking boy. But now, as he thrust at her and apathetically watched her tits bounce in time, he felt bored. He found himself wishing her slimmer. And less…buxom. In fact, Craig found himself becoming interested as he imagined her with no tits at all. His eyes widened slightly as he imagined her milky skin a smooth amber and he kicked the motor up a gear as he imagined himself not up her cunt, but… 

"Hey, erm, Ingrid?"

"Oh, ja? Vat ist appearink to be the matter?" 

"Oh, erm, you’re dead sexy and stuff and I really like and respect you and shit? Anyway there’s something I want to try."

Ingrid’s eyes hooded slightly and her voice lowered an octave as her perverted little German imagination cooked up all sorts of sick shit. "Oh, ja?" she purred. "Das ist soundink interesting…." 

Roughly ten seconds later, Craig took a breath. His chest felt tight and his cock even tighter, but nothing was as tight as this. He twisted his hips and adjusted the aim of his knob. It was great that this Ingrid bird had black hair. Craig knew someone else with black hair. With her flipped over, her tits were pushed into the mattress and the light was dim. Craig didn’t need too much imagination.

"Craig, Craig, dis ist der einen time for me, ja?" 

"Yeah, yeah, I’ll be gentle." Craig set himself again, pushed hard, and his swollen knob suddenly slid in like an inverted champagne cork. Ingrid bleated something else, but Craig wasn’t listening. There was only one thing Craig could hear.  

"I love you, Craig."

4:07 AM - 7 Comments - 10 Kudos - Add Comment

Craig and Fong - chapter 1

NB: Here’s chapter one of our sizzling story of love sex, a bit more sex and possibly some added love on the top, like a fucking dewdrop cherry or something. There’s a link below to the heart-stopping introduction and let me assure you, it goes downhill fast. But hey, you can have fun telling me so. Enjoy.

intro

….."BAZZA YA CUNT!"

And, with that, Hong Xa Fong was ripped from his post-lecture reverie and gripped his brand-new books even tighter to his chest. He itched to push his glasses up his nose - just like he always did when death seemed imminent - but his death-grip on IT For Yupplings seemed kinda terminal. Dressed in nondescript beige slacks and a red fitted sweater, he could have been any other Asian student among the thousands milling about the college plaza, except for the fact he was busy swallowing his heart.

As he hurried for the safety of the library he ran the phrase over and over in his head, just as he had been doing since he had arrived in Sydney from his native Singapore. "Bazza ya cunt". Fong half whispered to himself. What on earth did that mean? He had just begun a second run-through when three apes rounded the corner of the plaza at high speed and made a beeline directly for him. If anything, they were accellerating.

Fong reacted swiftly and surely, using a cultural heritage passed on from generation to generation. He was already up to the second tier of the ivy wall and still climbing fast when he realised the three apes were three Australians, all of which were looking up at Fong’s narrow yellow arse with some amusement. Or it could have been searing hatred. Fong always had trouble reading an anglo face. At any rate, going back down seemed like a pretty bad idea for the time being. He settled in. Fong had begun to compose a haiku about a perfumed cherry blossom when the rough laughter of the Australians was cleft in two.

Fong heard it with his mind before his ears. When he looked back he was sure of that. It was like something caught his mind like a name at the tip of the tongue. He cocked his ear, hurriedly adjusted his glasses and cocked again. There it was… a dulcet tone. A quivering strain of sound, not quite melody, not quite speech-it bubbled and burbled like a swollen stream near flooding. The sound came closer and Fong could identify it as laughter but what laughter! A throbbing cresendo of pure and rich sound swirled in Fong’s hair like hot oil before dripping in his ear and enveloping it in a loving embrace. What goddess could own such a siren’s call? Fong craned his neck, all thought of third verses lost as he saw the shadow, long in the afternoon sun.

Fong traced his eyes over the obviously curly hair, the shoulders (so strong for a lady’s!) the slim waist jointed so delightfully with the thighs made long and sinuous with shadow. Fong saw that the Australians had seen the goddess too and was immediately speared by a lance of jealousy as they turned and yelled at her. The barbarians! Fong began to scramble down, reasoning the girl might be in danger from these neanderthals. He hit the ground in a perfect half-monkey stance and balanced on the balls of his feet, ready to spring into action and felt slightly foolish as he could see nothing. No angels, no halos, a distinct lack of rose petals being strewn by toga wrapped maidens. Only the three Australians and a fourth one he had not noticed before.

5:06 AM - 20 Comments - 19 Kudos - Add Comment

Saving the Myspace funny - oh sod it. Just... sod it, okay?

NB: I’m late with my Myspace funny blog. This has a whole hell of a lot to do with the fact I’m Myspace depressed, which equals Myspace staring at a wall, very Myspace drunk. But fuck it! I said. Screw it! I proclaimed. BLAAAARRGH! I warbled as I vomited in a plastic bag. I’m gonna recycle something! So here it is - a review of a fast food that’s native to Sydney, for my friends back in Adelaide. Aussie people will get the lingo. Pommy people might. US people won’t, so I’ve included a handy ’Bileboy Doesn’t Care Any More’ Aussie lingo key as my free gift to you. Think of it as an educational journey, rather than some fat has-been recycling work from back when life had meaning and before Marie Claire rejected my arse. Bitches. 

KEBAB: One fried piece of round pita bread, topped with roasted chicken, lamb, beef or felafel, topped again with tomato, lettuce, onion, cheese and garlic sauce, rolled into a tube, shoved in another, disposable tube and handed to you by a guy who looks like he’s just decided he hates you.

YIROS: What Adelaidians call kebabs. Yokels.

ADELAIDE: Small (1.4m people) capital city of South Australia. It’s daggy and self-important, but has heaps of creepy serial killings and this weird culture where if you ain’t wearing it on your sleeve, nobody cares what you do in your spare time. It’s the swinger’s capital of the world and has legal cannabis.

SYDNEY: Large (4.2m people), brash, falling to pieces through total neglect capital city of New South Wales. It’s incompetently run but no-one cares so long as they have a flashy mobile and wear Prada. In Sydney, it’s all about the money, honey, and if employing you will make it cash, it’ll suck your cock and tell you it’s ice-cream. I moved there from Adelaide. I got a job, but no blowjobs.

SCHOONER: In Adelaide, this means 375ml of beer. In Sydney, it means 570ml of beer. It’s all a trick to get tourists drunk.

PINT: In Adelaide, this means 570ml of beer. In Sydney, this means something to do with milk.

ENTROPY: My student mag. Fuck we rocked.

YIROS VS KEBABS: A DRUNKEN BLOATER DECIDES

Sadly, I’m absent from Adelaide right now. I miss many things about the loveable old sow – cheap wine, horticulture laws, smelly hippies asking me to save koalas.

But mostly, I miss my yiros. Oh sure, I used to bleat to my mates about the pink tomato, the white lettuce and the garlic sauce that looked and tasted like organic wallpaper paste. Sure I despaired at the substandard tension of wrapping, leaving most of the ingredients looking like they were simply scooped in with a trowel. And yes, I launched on numerous rambling, drunken monologues about how $7.50 for such a pathetic specimen of unadulterated culinary laziness was tantamount to having your wallet emptied by a junkie as he brandished a dirty syringe at you.

But that was before I tried a ’kebab’. Kebabs are what Sydneysiders call yiros, and my kebab was served to me in a vaguely dangerous suburb called Newtown by a Lebanese guy who looked like he had a dueling scar tucked away someplace. It really was standing room only in this appalling dive, which was okay because I was going to collapse unless something held me up. But despite my foully drunken state, I remained heroically on track. I was here for the home team. By God, I was going to review a kebab for Entropy.

The first thing you notice is the tension of the wrapper. I would put it at up to twelve completely arbitrary units of tension measurement made up on the spot, maybe even four hundred and thirty. Top notch, really. I was afraid to touch it in case it exploded in my hand. If Cuban cigars are gently rolled on the thighs of a virgin, then kebabs are brutally crushed into shape by the calloused paws of some shifty looking guy in a filthy café down a piss-smelling Sydney side street. All class.

The next thing one notices is the price. You pay out of a tenner and can still grab half a hit of bad smack with the change. This made me suss. I know the best drunken scumbag nosh is usually served in greasy dives but so cheap? And wrapped so tightly? Fuckers have something to hide, I decided, vision doubling, then trebling as I stumbled out in to the pouring rain. Fuckin Sydney - I oughtta gehhhh…I leaned against a lamp post until the grey cleared from my vision and, glaring blearily at passersby, I went for broke, skinned the end and took a big, drunken bite.

I hit kebab on my third try and, well, you know when you get a cup of hot liquid, expect to taste coffee, and get a mouthful of tea instead? It tastes literally rancid until you realise it’s just not what you were expecting. Well, my jaded Adelaide palate was so shocked at the actual, detectable garlic in the sauce I nearly spat it out before I realised I would be spitting it on a huge Maori guy and the matter would neither end there, nor end well. I held it in, but barely.

My knees trembled with the onslaught and as I slid down the lamp post in to a puddle of rainwater and collapsed on to my side, I tried again to test the bouquet of the sauce. I was getting sauce, with just a hint of sauce. And probably some garlic as well. I couldn’t tell. The garlic taste was just too strong.

When I came to, the kebab was kinda congealed to the front of my hoodie but that’s where Adelaide yiros really shine. In the parklands, brushing off the crumbs of bark and dirt…memories. Fuck you, Sydney, I thought, completely failing to get up in less than seventy five uncoordinated movements. Your dope laws suck and rugby’s a fucking joke. And this kebab tastes like…meat! Actual, real meat instead of greasy gelatin with near meat flavour. And tomato, and lettuce…

I threw it at a wall in complete disgust. Rage, almost. ’What the FUCK is THIS shit?!’, I screamed, and tried to focus on it sliding down the wall until a wafer thin urchin in a Ramones top nipped in and gave me the finger before making off with his prize.

As I shambled after him, no longer remembering what I was chasing and why, I realised why Sydney’s a brazen strumpet on heat to Adelaide’s loveable old granny with a little something to help her glaucoma. Sydney lays it all on, but you just end up throwing it at a wall for a junkie to go and pawn for drugs as you wonder if you really did vomit on your pants but don’t trust yourself to look in case the shift of balance causes you to fall over, while Adelaide barely tries but by God you neck the lot and go back for more.

I miss Adelaide. And when you ask for a schooner here, you end up with a pint and you just keep forgetting and end up really, really, really drunk.

7:24 PM - 32 Comments - 27 Kudos - Add Comment

Craig and Fong - an Aussie Love Story

NB: This is the intro of a much larger story and you'd better believe it's got the lot. Panting, sweating, totally hot interracial man-on-man action because I'm pretty sure we can read that and not go to hell these days. If the response to this one is favourable I'll release it, chapter by chapter (in between other, more horrible stuff), and you can delight in the twists as Asian immigrant Fong falls for rough Aussie country lad Craig. Only problem is, Craig's a racist, gay-hating repressed homosexual and Fong wouldn't know his arse from his elbow when it comes to seduction. It's a comedy, by the way. Just so you know.

The sun flowed in.

It cut an amber stripe of bright over the sheets, the crumpled doona, and on to the floor where it came to rest on a green tartan bedspread. The bed was used and lived in, shaped like a sock to the intertwined legs and arms and bodies inside. A tabby cat blinked slowly at the foot, smiling secrets to herself as she yawned and stretched and licked sugary sunlight off her fur.

Motes danced in the light as movement stirred on the bed, and an arm emerged, closely followed by a head. The tabby leapt off and gave a reproachful look over her shoulder. A second arm, and then a smooth, hairless chest birthed into the day, took a look about and decided the day could wait. The messy tangle of limbs slipped back like a hermit crap and the covers settled as though nothing had happened.

Fong settled back into his groove in the bed, remembering as he always did the time when there was no groove, no second toothbrush in the bathrooom and how he had felt like the cheap chinky take-away Craig loved so much. The bed had learnt to accept him and, wonderfully, enexplicably, so had Craig. He smelled Craig's curly red hair for a second before sleep stole him again. As he fell, the scent of Craig lingered in his nostrils and as he dreamed, the smell grew and took shape, began to dance; their beginning, his transformation… sleeping…  sleep... sleeeeee…

7:27 PM - 22 Comments - 20 Kudos - Add Comment

News Flash - Eminem Acts The Smartie

NB: If you REALLY like your mock news (and who doesn't?), git yo ass to www.cultofqelqoth.com. Not only does it contain all the mocky, newsy goodness you can handle, it now stars your pal Bileboy. Well okay, I sweep up after the stars have finished partying but I bask in the reflected glow nonetheless. Check it out!


EMINEM ACTS THE SMARTIE



Popular crooner Eminem has shocked the music world by re-inventing himself as an abhorrent, mysoginistic white-bread gangsta rapper.

The evergreen Eminem, author of such timeless odes to love such as "I Really, Really Like my Ex", "I Love and Respect You as a Person ", "Broad Mind Over Clenched Fist" and "Thanks Mum!", been hard at work in the studio he shares with a women's refuge, metamorphosising his art in bold new directions.

"I guess I reached my apex," Eminem told The Cult of Qelqoth, pausing only to pistol-whip prostitutes and masturbate through his pocket. "I poured the very essence of who I am into my music, and while I will be forever grateful for the chance to affect so many lives with my unique brand of uplifting, poetic verse, I was a gangsta rapper in a respectable artist's body and it was time to break free."

"The speed with which I gathered an entourage of mutely intimidating thugs to stand behind me at awards ceremonies was vindicating, to say the least, and I awoke atop a pile of cash feeling, well, at peace I suppose."

The newly-invented Eminem began immediately on his first new song, tentatively titled "I Be Tha Alpha Male Round Here Fool (None Shall Usurp My Position)". Demo versions have created a stir in the record industry, with such verses as 'Riding in my Pinto cussin out the fools/blinding kids wit Drano an shootin up they preschools' being amongst the least offensive.

Concerns that Eminem might alienate his fan base with his hate mongering have proved to be unfounded, with many fans awaiting his first new album with bated breath.

"We all saw it coming, didn't we girls?" said Maddie Gibson, 86, at the weekly meeting of the Eminem fan club she chairs. "His previously inspirational hymns to the beauty of life were becoming a bit forced and mechanical, and we realised he would do something like this sooner or later.

"We like what we've heard of his new track; we all suspected Kim was a skank, right from the start, and who really likes homosexuals anyway?"

Pre ordering of the first new track has reached fever pitch, with the single looking to deliver a drunken slap down to everything in its path. Release date is sometime late August.

6:18 AM - 20 Comments - 20 Kudos - Add Comment

Okay, I’ll do it!

NB: Although this blog seems self-indulgent, I'm actually indulging someone else and I promise we'll return to our regularly scheduled programming shortly.

Bileboy needs advice.

Yes, that's right, the self-appointed lord of all that is offensive and horrible has encountered a situation where not even he can beat it back with insults and profanities.

I have a new friend – a real life one! – who has somehow sidestepped the defences and is rapidly closing in on my heart. A terrifying prospect, to be sure, but one tempered by the fact she's magnetic and compelling in all those icky cootie ways we men don't like talking about much.

Today, she turns 30 which is great because then she can be of the same vintage as pretty much everyone else I know. The word you're looking for is 'precocious'. Anyhoo, she's requested something from me and I'm not sure what way to turn.

She's asked I write a blog for her birthday, in lieu of chocolates or a solid-gold Cadillac which I would have organised if I weren't such a penniless drunk. It may seem a simple request but it's one fraught with danger, intrigue and plaintive cries for help from people in the US whom I've never met and may be completely insane. Yes, that's you. Put that midget down. This is serious.

If I were to fulfill her request, what would I write about? Should I wax lyrical about her stunning smile? Her ridiculously attractive fringe? Her hot facial piercings? The way her eyes catch the sunlight in a million secret sparkles, the likes of which would send a thousand poets to one hundred heavens to write hopelessly inadequate masterpieces with quills made of feathers plucked from an angel's wing? Nah, the girl doesn't seem your soppy type so maybe I should keep that in check.

But she has a sense of humour that makes ME blush so maybe I can just lay down a few one-liners and shuffle off, bottle in hand. Q: How do you make a hormone? A: Kick her in the cunt. Will that do the trick?

But then I ask myself if I should do it at all. I guess it's like the best mate who's a doctor. Next thing you know you're giving free medical advice to all and sundry. I mean, I gotta place a worth on this thing, right? Next it'll be blogs for this, blogs for that, blogs to say sorry babe I should have told you but here, have this ointment. Bileboy smells danger, but smells something else also, something kinda musky and interesting.

It's got me fucked. Should I write her a blog? Help me out here!

11:42 PM - 24 Comments - 24 Kudos - Add Comment

Save the Oz!

NB: Because some people still don't seem to get it, this is written in character. How over the top does it need to be?!


Blogging to save Oz, huh. Usually I wouldn't cross the street to save Jesus by way of pissing on the flames but what the hey - he accepted my friend request which is more than I can say for half y'all motherfuckers. Just kidding. I'm wildly popular. Plus he types in all caps which begs the question - does Oz ever accidentally hit the caps lock key, look up, see a paragraph in lower case and die a little inside? Just a thought.

He left questions but they seem kinda optional and I can't be fucked thinking about this so come, take my hand. You're about to perch on Bileboy's shoulder and eat what he eats, see what he sees, despise what he despises and sit patiently with cupped hands as he masturbates furiously in the level two work toilets.

You are, indeed, about to spend a day with Bileboy.

Ten minutes after the alarm brayed poison into my ear, I was out the door. I was out the door minus underwear because I couldn't find any in time, and out the door wearing sandals because I could find no socks either. I must have words with the maid. Great anal, but where's my undies? Oh, wait. It's all coming back to me now.

I don't know what trains are like in whatever dismal backwater you live in, but in progressive Sydney they're like an open sewer on wheels. An actual seat is a thing of joy, to be guarded jealously and killed for, if necessary. I always stand next to the sliding doors because if you jam your foot just so, you can open up a crack and breathe air that hasn't first been filtered by some hobo's arsehole.

Two uncomfortable, jerky stops later, we halt. Dead. Hmm. The front carriage has lost a window, according to the suicidal-sounding guy on the PA. Fixing it in place may well have avoided the situation. Nobody groans. Nobody even moves. Not a single face changes from the mask of bitter survival customary on Sydney trains. If that bitch looks at me one more time I'm going to shove that godawful handbag square down her fucking throat, I think. Blank, says my face. See?

I get to North Sydney train station 20 minutes late. I never buy a ticket because paying for such a dismal excuse for a functioning train system will only encourage them. I spend the savings on sushi. My sushi guy is a dapper little woggy fellow called Steve who discovered one day I like to stare at women's arses. Now every serve of sushi comes with complimentary groaning noises, furtive pointing and knowing smiles. He doesn't yet know I hate him. Thanks for the salmon, pervert. Lord have mercy would you look at that arse. Mmmm, salmon.

Our work is in lockdown because one of our gossip mags broke an international embargo on telling terrorists Prince Harry was in Afghanistan.

And... I forgot my security pass. I know you can see me, fat boy. Yes, you, the one with the security guard badge. That's right, put the Rolos down. Now we get out of the seat... doing well, keep walking... closer... 'Hi JJ! How are ya! Yep, forgot that pass! Oh well, better go!' Choke on a Rolo and die you fat sack of dog shit. 'See ya!'

Yes, hello, smile, joke, really, mmm, uh-huh. The countdown begins. Now, a little about my job. I find and fix mistakes. This concludes Bileboy's rundown of his job, thanks for coming.

I also come up with the titles and blurbs for articles, those little descriptions on the cover of what's in the mag, and captions. And in case you were wondering how the journo always seems to write just enough to fit on the page, they don't. They wrote 1/3 more than that. Guess who takes care of the rest.

In addition, I find and fix mistakes. Anna magically becomes Anne halfway through the story. Not any more. Icecream one word? Nuh-uh. That shit's hyphenated, baby. Et-fucking cetera.

Listen, I'm not going to bore you with the debates over whether Parmesan cheese gets a cap 'P' (Parma's a place so it should, but the name is now idiom so it shouldn't oh my God what shall we do?) or if it's a pair of laminators or a laminator set, so I'll give you the three highlights of my daily, ceaseless, soul-destroying mistake-hunt I call a job.

Our numerologist had some page where you assign each letter of your name a number, add them up and all of a sudden you're no longer repulsive and your husband no longer beats you. She did it with her name. Hmmm. Numbers huh. I bet she's added them up wrong.

She had. Highlight two was my 11am wank in the disabled toilets on level two.

That's better. Highlight three was compiling the winner's page, containing, as it were, about 1200 names, arranged by prize won, and in alphabetical order.

They weren't. The competitions department run a fucking sheltered workshop up there, I kid you not. Pick up the phone. Yep, no, yep, you've done it again, I don't care, just fucking do it, bye. Upon receipt of the proper list, now comes the reformatting. Proper styling: Almighty Oz, Somewhere, NY. Actual styling:  AlmightyOz  Somezdgwhere NY. Note lack of commas, non-existent town and inconsistent spacing. Guess who gets the fun of putting the commas in and checking every place name that seems wildly incorrect?

Fucking A it's me. I have delicious dreams where I run into the competitions department and begin tearing flesh from bone with my bare hands. Sometimes, I'm even awake when this happens. I don't know what temporary insanity is but judges seem to like it and continue to let me go with their best wishes.

If I miss even a single comma, I haven't done my job. I miss two. It's a Christmas fucking miracle it wasn't more.

The trip home was like the trip to work, only in reverse and less hot. The train even stays together this time.

Now I'm here.

Save Oz.

2:17 AM - 19 Comments - 24 Kudos - Add Comment

Easter - the time for sobbing inconsolably

NB: I wanted to write something happy about Easter, but I thought you'd all rather read about my dismal childhood some more. This one also stars my Mum. Lest I start sounding like Eminem, I'd like to say she wasn't bane of my life and was even okay sometimes. But fuck she did some stupid shit, and we all like to read about stupid shit don't we? No? Well, there's an unsubscribe banner at the top of the page because that's just the kinda guy I am.

Remember those kids who would hoard all their Easter chocolate? They would nibble like rats at scraps of egg until the whole lot was white and furry. Some could last six months in this awful game of self-flagellation and then only have six chocolate-free months in which to calculate things, or whatever it is those types get up to in their spare time.

For the sane amongst us, the only game worth playing was the one ending with the Heimlich maneuver. I remember a friend's mum tried to organise an Easter-Egg hunt but it became a Friend's Mum hunt after we busted her hiding them, jacked her of the lot and set her free in the woods five days later. Good times, great taste.

These days, I'm a bit of a fat bastard and it all began in those heady pre-adolescent endorphin orgies known as Easter. At least, except for one year…

My parents were honest-to-God hippies, which meant they had no choice but to re-order their cosmic outlook on an hour-by-hour basis. I took it all in good humour. Seen one water-therapy session end in an extended court case, you've seen them all. Uh-huh, sure, really, how interesting. All hail Ra.

I really didn't give a shit because I tended not to give a shit about anything at all. Except, that was, for Easter. I definitely gave a shit about Easter. That shit was dense and black and finally nudged out about two weeks after Good Friday. I liked that shit. Anyone getting in the way of that shit was going to die. I accepted that early on and so long as everyone else accepted it too, there would be no unpleasantness and everything would stay all friendly-like.

The day dawned fine and sunny. I had it planned – 6am, start eating. 11pm – stop groaning. Repeat until chocolate hoard was gone. Judging by the volume of previous guilt-fuelled submissions, that process would continue for around a week. Such trivialities as school, vitamins or hugs for loved ones could wait their fucking turn. Every time I closed my eyes, gaudy Easter-egg foil patterns danced and capered in the gloom before me. Goddamn I was excited.

I snapped awake straight into mission mode. It was like the Terminator-eye view thing you see with lots of red numbers and randomly circling crosshairs. I scurried down the hall in my adorable bunny jim-jams, clutching my gigantic stuffed rabbit in my eager little arms. I leapt into my parent's bedroom and begin hitting them with it. UP! UP! I screamed, punctuating each word with another roundhouse blow. GET! THE! FUCK! UP! AND! GET! MY! FUCKING! CHOCOLATE!

My arm got tired before I realised they weren't there. Hmm. Odd. My parents could skive off all they liked and I usually took it as an opportunity to have a quick wank, but today was different. Today, they had something I wanted, which was rare and refused to let them fuck it up for me.

Then I heard it. The kitchen. Footsteps. I was there.

I took one look and realised something was up. Maybe it was the lack of chocolate. Possibly it was the fact Mum was awake. Perhaps have been the complete lack of chocolate – I couldn't tell, because my brain was fogged with the apparent total absence of anything even vaguely related to chocolate.

'Hi Mum! Cool! So, the chocolate!' Bitch better make with the dairy-milk sharpish.

'Petal!' she squealed.

'That's me. Chocolate.'

'I've got a HUGE surprise!'

'Good luck with that. Chocolate.'

'Do you remember our chat about commercialisation?'

'No. Chocolate.'

'Well,' she continued, staring dreamily out the window, absently stirring a pot that had just begun to grab my attention, 'we don't BUY INTO that, do we petal?'

'Guess not,' I replied, a kernel of realisation beginning to dawn in the very farthest recesses of my brain. 'Chocolate?'

Out came a slotted spoon. No. Down it plunged into the briskly boiling water. Oh, please Ra, no. Up it came. Nonononononono-

'-Easter is a dirty capitalist scheme and it will rot your teeth. Eggs are all about life, so-'

Oh. Dear. God. It was ovoid, speckled brown and had undoubtedly come from one of our own chickens. For a second, my pre-adolescent imagination ran away with me. Our chickens had been reprogrammed by the Easter Bunny to lay chocolate eggs that nontheless appeared completely like a boiled egg to the untrained eye but were actually packed full of gooey caramel and-

'You're giving me a boiled egg.' It was a statement. Flat. I was aware of my fate but had not yet had time to process it. 'You're giving me a boiled egg.' I said it again so I could roll the words around in my mouth and savour the shape of them, the taste.

She got down at eye level, which offered a perfect chance for me to stab her in the temple and say 'You're giving me a boiled egg' again. My eyes flicked around. No knives were handy. My nose began to tingle. Tears weren't far away.

'We're going to decorate this egg together HOWEVER YOU LIKE, okay petal?'

She's giving me a boiled egg.

'I've got these fabric dyes and some crayons and it's going to be SO MUCH FUN. Here!'

She just gave me a boiled egg.

'I'll just go and get SUPPLIES! Sit tight!'

I'd just been given a boiled egg. It perched dismally in a Humpty-Dumpty eggcup. I recalled the previous Easter, when I got a Humpty-Dumpty egg, only it was made with slabs of chocolate three feet thick and was packed full of candy. I recalled it tasted like continued mental wellbeing. A single teardrop trembled on the end of my nose. Boiled. Egg. Me. Easter. Give…

That year, I became one of those weird kids who hoard their chocolate. Nobody saw my stash, because my stash had once been up a chicken's arse and lacked the barter power one really needs to avoid being beaten by former friends.

I think I've turned out okay, all things considered.

10:52 PM - 31 Comments - 23 Kudos - Add Comment