The travesty of our age is upon us. In a twist of irony that can only be adequately described as ‘morbid’ the Yowie has been chosen to speak before the APEC summit in Sydney this week.

This is farce began when APEC organisers hatched the hair-brained scheme of enlisting a pleb to speak before our patrician masters. Such an invitation gives the impression of at least paying lip service to democracy. Though I imagine (and hope) that most of the heads of state will be at the bar by the time our speaker is in full rant.

When the speaking position was announced, a month ago, there was, as could be expected, a flurry of applications. Any media of calibre, however, has a barrow to push. And APEC organisers felt it incumbent upon them to exclude partisan speakers. The Yowie, by contrast, is as directionless as a drunken mole. Our speaker may be safely ignoredby the heads of state, while APEC gets the Brownie Points for appearing to be listening to the proleteriat.

All that remained was to decide whom among us deserved this august commission. As a man of culture and taste, a man for whom the subtleties of life go not unnoticed, I felt best equipped for the honor. I could entertain my intellectual equals, I am no stranger to polite society, and I am totally ignorant of politics. Who could gainsay my credentials?

But this is not the way things are done within the Yowie. Rather, the speaker was chosen through a naked limbo contest at the end of a particularly lurid office party. The reader may freely associate various connotations of ‘lowness’, at this point. All with some degree of truth.

To all the filthy anarchists planning to wave their grubby fists outside APEC let me say this: Go home(if you have one)! There is no greater depth to which you can demean this summit. Once the ‘limbo king’ has fronted APEC the last bastions of decency will have been toppled. Once brutishness infects the highest political gathering of the day all we can hope for is a quick and merciful end.

Our selected speaker intends to expound upon subjects of gravity: the Tin Foil Hat Conspiracy Group, keeping the treatment for Blueballs on the PBS, the abolition of Platonic love, etc, etc.

Though I doubt there will be much love (Platonic or otherwise) when the speaker is introduced. For the winner of the office limbo competition, the journalist chosen for his equanimity and sanguine disposition, the only individual who can make a mockery of the entire proceedings, even before opening his mouth, is the Yowie’s own Terry Wrist.

Well-known conspiracy theorist, Eugene X, today, accused the Federal Government of misleading the Australian people over illicit drugs. His attack comes after the staggering admissions of rugby league player Andrew Johns last Thursday night.

“The bottom line,” says Mr. X., “is that illicit drugs aren’t as bad as the Government make out.” Mr. X points to the pamphlet sent to every Australian household (on the same day as Johns’ televised confession) as exemplifying the Government’s lies. “In the pamphlet illicit drugs are purported to be addictive, physically and psychologically harmful, and financially draining upon the individual and the economy.”

Andrew Johns’ tell all admission came after his arrest in London for possession of an ecstasy tablet. Mr. X continues, “In an interview with Phil (Gus) Gould, Johns admitted to taking Ecstasy ‘three or four times a year’ for the past ‘ten years’. This has a number of consequences:
First, if Johns was taking Ecstasy only three or four times a year then Ecstasy is obviously not addictive.
Second, Ecstasty didn’t harm Johns, as he dominated one of the most physically and tactically demanding sports of his time.
Third, some of the people interviewing Johns (Footy Show) have come closer to financial ruin from gambling than Johns ever did from drug taking.
Fourth, Johns set out to be a footballer, not a hero. If people are disillusioned because he didn’t live up to the standards they imposed upon him it’s their problem, not his.”

So who should we believe Andrew Johns or the Gavernment? asked the Yowie.

“Well I’d take actual first-hand experience over self-interested speculation any day.”

Why self-interested?

“Because the Government can’t get a slice of the illicit drugs pie,” responds Mr. X. “Tobacco, caffeine, nicotine, pharmaceuticals of all shapes and sizes are readily available to the purchasing public because the government gets a little money from every unit sold. Not so with street drugs.”

So illicit drugs are better value for money?!

What about drug related deaths?

“According to the Australian Bureau of Statistics Drug related deaths, in 2005, accounted for 0.8% of all deaths nationally. If the Government was serious about saving us from ourselves they’d ban automobiles, alcohol, fast foods, and cigarettes, in that order. But of course these items (despite their significantly higher contribution to per annum deaths) are taxed, so it’s not in the Government’s interest to restrict their sale.”

So we should all start dropping Eccy’s?

No! People should do whatever they do. If you’re a reader, read; if you’re a runner, run; if you’re a druggie, take drugs. Don’t do something simply because I’ve said it’s okay. Likewise don’t avoid it simply because the Government has said it’s not.”

Penguins!

Wobbling along like Tarrantino’s gimp in a tuxedo. Marching inexorably like the brooms in the Sorceror’s Apprentice. Unthinking, unstoppable, unflappable. Are they not the most horrific creatures comprehensible?

I ask you: What creature has the nose of a hypodermic, the body of a waiter, flippers, feet and is still a bird? What monstrosity is this?

Penguins!

Rigid, unthinking, uniform. Their colonies reminiscent of the Concentration Camps. Their social hierarchy the stuff of senseless non-centralized bureaucracy; politically correct, peer approved, Post-Orwellian, Metropolis nightmare.

Penguins are the the ideal social control model. Bland, brainless, and eminently exploitatable units of production and consumption. And now biologists are relating the health of the planet to penguin populations!

Thus it begins … slowly, quietly, the shaping of a new humanity: the Penguman!

You think I’m crazy? You wait. Soon the Penrith Panthers will be the Penrith Penguins. ‘Here come the mighty penguins, hurrah!’ Then pets of the rich and famous. ‘Mama, mama, I want a penguin too.’ Penguin studies will dominate school curriculums. And like penguins people will have less to say the louder and more shrill their voices become.

You want proof? This model is already in use in the world. Yes, really! Social control in the Middle East is based upon the penguin program. Though a modified version. Those in the Middle East are our cousins. And so their method of social control is based upon the cousin of the penguin: the Lemming.

We knew this was coming …

Outspoken feminist, Ophelia Dick, was today awarded damages, for emotional distress, from a man she has never even met.

“Sex,” Ms. Dick argued, “is mostly emotional for women. So women enter into prospective sexual relationships in a distinctly vulnerable position. Failed relationships, then, are significantly more damaging to women than men. So I am seeking restitution for the significant emotional damage I have suffered through my failed relationships.”

The Judge asked why Ms. Dick did not bring charges against the specific men at whose hands she suffered this alleged damage.

“Ha!” responded Ms. Dick, “I don’t know their names, your Honor. And it doesn’t matter. Every man, at some stage, has emotionally scarred some woman. So it doesn’t matter which man pays which woman restitution becase it will all work out in the end.”

The Judge agreed. Ms. Dick will be awarded $150,000 damages from a randomly selected man.

Legal experts expect a small number of similar suits will follow.

Fish and chip shops

Greasy, fatty, brutal. Fish and chip shops are the abatoir of the ocean. The place reeks of senseless slaughter. Blood, guts, cold beady eyes staring at you accusingly, flayed bodies laid out in icy mauseleums.

And the people. I’m sorry, but fishermen do not count as sportsmen. Now if you killed a shark with a knife and a half nelson … Weathered skin, whiskered (even the women), self-justifying, callous, insensitive, throwbacks.
Just look at the fisherman posterboy, Rex Mossop. A fish kisser. Then a few months ago he admits to having an affair. We never did find out with whom. Me, I think he carried his fondness for fish to the logical next step.
Try explaining that to the missus.

The people you see in a fish and chip store reflect some of these traits. I once saw an old guy staring with wistful melancholia at a bay marie full of prawns. I could almost imagine a neon sign flashing ‘emasculation’ as he looked at the strong, virile members sheathed and firm before him.

Fish and chip shops

The worst are stores that sell fish and chips wrapped in newpaper. I once watched a kid getting three pieces of fish and three dollars worth of chips (obviously for his parents outside). The top ream of newspaper boasted a page three girl of magnificent proportions. The kids eyes popped out like those of the frozen dory behind us. I’ll bet the parents wondeered about the funny tasting tartar sauce they never ordered.

Awful

Cows!

The master species of our planet. Beatific Gods on earth. Wise, content, humble.

Hindu’s have the right idea. Prostrating themselves before these sublime creatures. Blissfully above the mundane concerns of petty humans. Cows are always dignified. Even when they’re going to the slaughterhouse, they shuffle along without protest.

Cows.

Cows have five stomachs. Any creature with five stomachs must be a God in a land like ours. Where over-consumption and obesity rule. Where your place in the business hierarchy is determined by the size of your paunch. Where blissful bovine ignorance is the mark of a leader.

You doubt me still?

Well if you needed any more proof (that cows surpass us in every way) go no further than this: Cows have four dicks, not one (like us). And they get jerked off everyday! How cool would that be? Orgasming four times in a row! Everyday! Why do you think they moo in the milking sheds?! Think about it: humanbeings make much the same sounds when they’re having sex. Hmmm …
When they’re done the cows probably go out back for a ciggy.

Better still, they byproduct of this intercourse is bottled and sold at extortionate prices throughout the land. It’s a staple! Everyday begins with it. Every infant is reared on it. And every cow has a bangin’ time giving it.

And what’s with the cow’s distendable jaw? It chews in a circular motion. Awesome! What man can watch that without a bolt of eroticism?

Five stomachs, four dicks, no brain, and a distendable jaw. Gods.

The shambles continues.

In the third excruciating movie Jason Bourne completes his Odyssean journey. The story is little more than a reworking of the Odyssean myth, verging on plagiarism. Like Odysseus Jason Bourne is involved in a war not of his choosing. Both characters rely on cunning rather than brute force. And each epic is completed with a homecoming that results in the baddies being thoroughly routed.

Sadly, The series stumbles at the most important hurdle. The Jason Bourne at the end of the trilogy was indistinguishable from the Jason Bourne of the beginning; despite everything he’d endured, accomplished, and recovered. What a waste. Odysseus by contrast, and this is one of the aspects of great literature, embodies change brought about by his journey. The character’s social/ psychological journey is mirrored in his physical journey.

So the Bourne trilogy is the poor man’s Odyssey. An Idiodyssey if you like. Still I suppose it’ll be as close as most of you will get to haut monde literature.

On top of this we need to overlook the impossibility of Bourne’s endless supply of weapons and bullets, his unnatural ability to travel freely and unerringly to every nook and cranny in the world, and his seeming imperviousness to all forms of attack and defense.

Furthermore viewers need a strong stomach. Action scenes give the illusion of speed by cutting the film to a new angle every two seconds. The rocking camera point of view is supposed to make viewers feel as though they are actually in the tussle. But I only felt motion sick and confused.
The premise (in movie making circles) is that not everything should be shown in a film, thereby inviting the viewer’s imagination to fill in the blanks. This has the psychological effect of drawing them into the action more fully.
Okay. But these scenes rocked and cut so fast no one had any idea of what was happening. Audiences may spot a flash of a clenched fist, hear a crunch, and recall the scene wobble around a bit before Jason Bourne emerges triumphant from whatever menace opposed him.
This is not movie making, this is charlatanism. And audiences should rightfully be refunded the price of admission.

Finally, I would like to say to the entire movie industry: If you’re going to plagiarize a classic, do it properly. There’s no law protecting classics, you can steal from them to your hearts content. Also you will thereby be recreating a great work of art and reintroducing it to the great unwashed; who are in sore need of classical education.