Saturday, 20 October 2012

Serial ball belters

I have a confession to make. I have a violent past. Yes, that’s right. I used to be a golfer. Until I saw the light. You see, you never think about things from the point of view of the poor ball, do you? Nope, I didn’t think so.

Anyone in their right mind would be suspicious about golfers in the first place. Just look at the stupid clothes they wear. And one glove. Only one. What is this – a convention of Michael Jackson impersonators?

Think about it for a moment. There is our little friend, the ball, cuddled up next to the Missus, warm and cosy in their little corner of the golf bag, maybe a bit of jiggy jig going on. Then this dirty big hairy hand reaches in, grabs him by the face and drags him out. Talk about blue balls.

The poor little sod is still in shock when you decide you’ve had enough of handling him and sit him down on a tiny little seat amid the green grass. What’s going on here? Potty training?

Then you pull out a club. Whack! You belt the little fellow in the back of the head. You don’t even try to pretend it’s something else like a Trajectory Accelerator. No, it’s just called a club. Bloody cavemen ran around belting each other over the head with clubs. What the hell? Racial memory incidents? Neanderthal flashbacks?

Now the obvious thing to do would be to hit the ball nice and straight. But do you do that? Noooo. Our friend the ball is sent skewing wildly off to one side. Into the trees he goes, bouncing around like a ball inside a manic pinball machine. Bing! Bang! Ding! Boing! Until finally, mercifully, he drops down to the ground.

Adding to your litany of crimes, you lot are all hopelessly blind and go wandering off in the wrong direction while looking for the ball. Heck, if you wanted it so much in the first place, why did you club it as far away from you as you could get it?

The ball starts feeling lonely there in the long grass by himself. “Oi, over here,” he starts squeaking. But you lot are deaf as well as blind.

At long last, you manage to find him. Any apologies? Not bloody likely. You select another club from your arsenal and belt him again. Straight into another tree and he comes rocketing back at you, just missing your head, and out onto the fairway. Except now the ball has gone backwards and you’re further away from the end than you were five minutes ago.

Fairway? Fairway? There’s nothing fair about this lark, mate.

Yet another club is pulled out. You have a whole damn bag of things to choose from. Even serial killers don’t carry that much equipment around with them to attack people.

Whack. This time you really belt the poor sod nice and high. He is just getting over that shock and starting to enjoy the view, when he realises that gravity is catching up on things and pulling him back down to the ground. Fast.


This time at least, it is onto some nice, soft, short-cropped green grass that cushions the impact. Ahhhh.

Next, having played He-Man with your clubs, belting the crap out of the poor sod, now you just gently tap him this time. Into a hole. His whole world view is now just a couple of inches across.

“Oi – can anyone see me down here?”

The dirty big hairy hand reaches down and drags him out by his face once more.

“Why – my ball is dirty.”

Well, waddya expect? You’ve just beaten the crap outta him, smashing into the ground, the trees, the grass – of course the poor little bastard is a bit grubby.

So you shove him in a ball cleaner, one of those stupid things with the handle on the side to wind it around. It’s OK for you – you’re just standing there, enjoying the sun while gently turning the handle around. But inside the poor little bastard is going through a massive washing machine wash cycle.

Having finally half-drowned him, do you finally give him a break? Shit no. You do it all again. Another bloody seventeen times!

Golfers. Hah. What a pack of bastards.

Anyone know what my tee-off time is?

Say NO to Callous Canines!

Alas, fellow grogans and groganettes, the time has come to speak of a serious matter, a very, very, serious matter.

From two entirely separate incidents on different sides of the world, it is clear that we need to institute some tight forms of… gun control.

Two completely innocent hunters have been viciously shot by their dogs. The fact that the Callous Canines were able to take such action is merely the latest in a highly worrying trend. Reports are emerging of Cocker Spaniels carrying concealed weapons inside of those long, floppy ears. Gangsta rappers have posses of Pit Bulls and Doberman Pincers, all carrying sawn-off shotguns. My parents’ Corgis had a long history of home invasion, splitting the loot to support their crack habits (the dogs’ crack habits – Mummy and Daddy were content with heroin and crystal meth). It is widely believed that in the infamous Dick Cheney shooting incident, Cheney was blamed for what was actually an attempted assassination by the lapdog that had secreted itself in a pocket of Cheney’s shooting vest (although I am still confused by exactly how a vest can commence shooting).

The time has come, grogans and groganettes. We must unite in this Glorious Cause – no more gun sales to canines. Mitt Romney assures us that his very first action on reaching the White House shall be to force legislation to ban any form of firearms to canines, or at least, only made available to them under strict controls. But we cannot wait that long. Oh President Obama, saviour of the Free World, lead the way in clamping down on these Killer Canines.

Do not be fooled, my fellow groganians. Take notice next time you see one of these fiends, running around madly, drool dripping from mouths that are gaping wide in pretence of a doggy grin. That is really just the Canine Killers working themselves up into a berserker rage, getting to commence on an orgy of murder and mayhem.

Why not go the whole hog? Not just guns, remove all weapons from the Pernicious Pooches. Make our inner suburban streets and hunting grounds in the forests once more the safe haven they used to be. Bring back the days when the casual hunter could happily let rip with his AK-47 in duck hunting season, free from worry that his Curly Retriever was about to plunge a Jim Bowie knife into his back. Allow our drug dealers to run wild in their natural habitat without their heads being blown off by heavies from the Molestating Mutts. Allow humanity to once more be the harmless, earth-loving species that we used to be before we were corrupted by the Demonic Dog.

Stay tuned for next week’s exposé on Feline Sex Trafficking. Do you really know what your kitty is getting up to?

An ode to the grogan

Grogan - noun; a bowel movement by the Poomeister

“Oh that’s some funny shit, man.”

The last time somebody said that to me, it left me deep in thought. I mean, just exactly when did excrement develop a sense of humour? Was it an optional extra that I missed out on?

God: “Install your shit-o-meter right now and I’ll throw in an excremental sense of humour entirely free of charge!”

For some reason, I don’t see my shit as particularly funny. Don’t get me wrong. When I drop a monster-sized grogan in the dunny bowl, I’m proud of it. I want to take it outside into the streets and show it off.

“Hey – look what I just did!”

Randy Marsh on Southpark was damned proud of the monster-sized grogan he left lying in the bottom of the dunny bowl and I know what he felt like. Especially when it’s the result of extended constipation.

A female friend of mine once confided that childbirth was a horrendous thing, with her screaming “give me more drugs you fat bastard!” but once the child was laid in her arms, it was all worth it. Well give us a break, girls. We blokes don’t get to experience that. Our master act of creation is the grogan. Coiled up on itself just like a bit of fancy whipped cream dressing on a ripper bit of apple pie. You look at it proudly, admiring its size, its shape. The fact that it is a nauseating piece of poo isn’t really that important. Or that its colour is like the teeth of a terbaccy chewer who hasn’t brushed in three years. You just made that. It's all yours.

I feel moved – in every sense of the word. The build up of pressure, then the release - ahhhh. If you’re really lucky, it’s accompanied by the bowelesque symphony of sound – faaaaaaaaaaaart.

I am not normally in the habit at laughing at things I am proud of. But I keep getting told that shit is funny henceforth this blog shall be known as Funny Shite (Funny Shit was already taken – so it’s Shite as in Sh-ight).

Forgive me, my precious, brown, curled up grogans. I’m laughing with you, not at you.

PS This is just temporariy blog until I get off of my fat hairy bum and get my new domain organised.

Image created just for me by artist Shauna O'Meara - link to her stuff coming soon