Having received an email of delicate eloquence over the weekend of which the author was boozed beyond all cognition I have taken it upon myself to pen my first real entry when majorly under the influence. The idea to give it some when yer off yer big ones is a shockin idea at the best of times but here I go at the tail end of a 3 days meth driven haze ready to give it some of these ones in a semi-automatic stylee. Although the body is less than willing the brain is still sounding like Chernobyl and Three Mile Island having a gut-barging contest to the death after a jalapeno eating contest. I was always under the impression the Jalapenos were supposed to be hot as Claudia Schiffer’s underwear in an overbaked sauna. Not at fuckin Subway they’re not. No sireee Bob! Bob from the Biggest Loser is hot but a friend also has a vibrator called Bob. I don’t which is hotter. I will change tack at this juncture because you are probably all tired of hearing me talk about my bumhole as interesting as it may be.

Previously I have tried to write when cunted and normally tis very friggin difficult as I get bored and antsy too easily but so far, so OK. Being hopped up hard on ice is not a productive thing to do at the best of times so can I mention at this juncture that my behaviour is completely fuckin deplorable and I will not encourage such behaviour. But look I am able to type, sorta. Nuff pipetude kiddywinks! Most muthas in my predicament would drive their creakin hunday into a fuckin sycamore (I don’t think they have sycamore trees here but all Aussie trees that I know of have shite names) with eleventeen hundred mates of theirs wedged in the fuckin boot just to see what it’d feel like or savagly stab both their carers in the boatrace multiple times after pulling a double shift at a friggin Matilda servo. No, no, no, nein, nicht, non! Admittedly, I have the Predator gassing on about pulling out his muthafuckin AK tuned up to about 11 at the mo but I am passive person. Instead I’ll whitter on about what fuckin shite is passing my cerebral synapses at this particular point. Live and direct with little or no beeping!! Fuckin Pussycat Dolls. How I love their post-op semi-manliness.

I found out that the freezing point of vom is the same as water with an inclusion of a standard deviation plus/minus 4 even after drinking vodka and no food. I’m getting a grant from state government to investigate this further. Moreover, freezing nulls the odour factor so if someone spews into house, sweep into container and throw it in the freezer. Jobs a good un. Don’t Dyson it. Bad Idea! Kills the vacuum with a smell that never disappears even though it looks cool seeing the chunks swirl around the cyclone. If that doesn’t suit you, chuck it down the lavvy with all the two week old rotisserie chickens that are residing in the fridge. With a full flush they power around the U bend though admittedly the drains could get a bit blocked if you decide to flush all your degradables down there. Fuck it! It’s a rental. Speaking of rental I hear there’s a large 3 bedroom that could come up for rent soon. It’s located right in the middle of Dreamworld and has it’s own built-in voyeuristic set-up. Hows about that then, ay? The BB house had two people in the house with fake names. Ashley and John are both really called Michael. Fuckin incredible. Channel Ten are lying to us. Revolt people! Soon they’ll be telling us that Gretal is actually female. Not friggin likely but a statement might come out soon.

Voiceover artiste extraordinaire and uplate stalwart, Mikey G lives in the Q1 and the Thorpedo is selling his 3 bedder there, number 5404 for those playing a home next weekend at auction. It’s A style so it’ll be nice but Thorpeee never actually lived there or spent time there so no reminiscing about how Hackett was bent over the chaise-longue, or the ceramic hob, after their combined Goodwill Games triumph. Admittedly, the Goodwill Games occurred before the Q1 was completed but why let facts get in the way of a good tale I say. A bit like that story about Phil Collins writing ‘In The Air Tonight’ about a bloke who let his younger brother drown and then got said bloke front row concert tickets, stuck a spotlight on him and sung directly to him in front of 30,000 people then announcing that he is the reason his brother died. The bloke then went back to his hotel and killed himself. Of course, Collins says he has no idea what he was thinking about when he wrote the song (which seems more plausible him being a fuckin idiot and all) but that shatters the illusion. On a suicidal note, a friend of mine was telling me the story of a friend’s brother. He was involved in a horrific motorcycle accident and had burns over 80% of his body and became a quad (a plegic not a bike). He wanted to end it but his family convinced him that life was too precious and he could come back from his predicament. So, he spent 14 months in rehabilitation to get him to a point where he could use a hi-tech wheelchair and go home. They threw a massive party for him. He died that night when he deliberately drove the chair into the pool. Perception of a situation and an individuals viewpoint is never identical. None shall sleep! Even you, o Princess in your cold room, watch the stars, that tremble with love and with hope. But my secret is hidden within me, my name no one shall know… No!…No!… On your mouth I will tell it when the light shines. And my kiss will dissolve the silence that makes you mine! That’s Nessun Dorma. Who knew. The english speakers of this world listen to a nice aria from old mate Puccini and think that sounds beautiful. Well, it’s fuckin a whole lot better if you ACTUALLY understand what it means. Do you actually understand what this all means? Possibly, but then you may be as hopped up as I. Dennis Hopper it’s over to you.