Uproar has emerged from an Australian Navy admission this week. Female Officers, it was said, have been receiving breast enlargements at taxpayer expense. Navy Doctors claim their patients required surgery after being diagnosed with depression. “The Australian Defense Force is dominated by a macho culture. Women, especially women in positions of authority, have their femininity constantly challenged in such an environment. This constant pressure has to take its toll,” said a Defense Force Spokesperson today. “Cosmetic surgery has definitely alleviated these problems. The women feel better because of it, the macho culture has been forced to make way for a feminine influence, and morale is going through the roof!”

But there are deeper issues here. What does it say about the mental toughness of women in the Defense Forces? If peacetime innuendo depresses them how would they fare with combat casualties? Why did they go into this obviously macho culture if they knew it would adversely affect them?

However, in many ways these questions are beside the point. The fact of the matter remains: All the Officers who have received breast augmentation have recovered from their depression. They are more confident in themselves. Which leads to better decision making and a more harmonious organization.

One wonders if giving male Officers penis enlargements would do away with the need for Defense Forces altogether?

Hope all you megabrainy wonderkids have recovered from my last article. Because the bell has rung and reality is comin’ out swingin’.

Do you remember me telling you about the Ancient Egyptian Mummy found by Mr. Wesley Byron Prufrock? Do you remember the deplorable actions of the scurrilous government agents (Media blackouts, meaningless explanations, threats, secrecy)? Do you remember me telling you everything would change? Well, gollygee gumpus! Cram a load of this up your cranium and tell me what you think:

Government strategists are laying square eggs over what they have now termed Mummygate. It seems I was right on the money. Human perspective and brute reality have gone into the ring together, and only one of them is coming out.

So in the left corner we have Pharoah Whoever-He-Is. 3000 years old, if he’s a day, inconvenient truth, and undisputed brute reality. And in the right corner we have us, with more problems than Lazarus with a triple bypass on an Al Quida bungee jumping expedition in Washington D.C.

The questions being asked by those oily eggheadded nerds in the government are: How does Mummygate fit into our web of knowledge? And what does it mean for us (the government of course, they’re not concerned with how it would affect the rest of us). And the answers, my fine caped heroes, are more confronting than seeing your Mum at an ‘abortions on demand’ rally.

Mummygate stands in direct contrast to everything we thought we knew. Simple as that. And what does that mean for the rest of us? Well, it proves, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that the reality we live under is wrong.

Wallop! K.O. Here comes the ambulance!

Okay, okay, I’ve got some good news and I’ve got some bad news.

Probably better get the bad news out of the way first. Mummygate has the government wondering why anyone should listen to them when they have as tenuous a grasp on reality as the rest of us. For centuries the model of government has been thus: The constituency is a madhouse and the government are its keepers. Mummygate shows them to be just another inmate, with absolutely nothing to justify the influence they exert upon us.

Now for the good news. Realising the impact brute facts have upon our ‘perceptions’ of reality we can now answer an age old Zen Koan once and for all. If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it in fact fall? The answer is, ‘Yes’. Facts are facts, if a tree falls in a forest, it falls, regardless of what we might think.

It’s been a long time coming, but soon Australia’ s messiest bachelor will be receiving the glory he deserves. Preliminary judging has begun in order to decide who gets through the heats. However, entries are still being accepted. So if you live next door to a pathetic bachelor who doesn’t seem to be coping, here’s your chance to give him the exposure he so desperately craves!

The judging panel is comprised of a Bacteriologist, a member of the Department of Health and Welfare, a Gastroenterologist, and one very disapproving cleaning Nazi Mother. And already the quality of entrants has impressed/ horrified them. One of the early heat winners, Myron Buckster of Southport in Queensland, caught the eye of all our judges.

“Myron,” said an awestruck Mr. Pendleton (Bacteriologist), “has bacteria that hasn’t just gained sentience, it’s got its own political system!” Of Mr. Buckster’s squalor Ms. Jones-Forsythe (Health & Welfare) commented, “The degradation of some of the grime I found can only be measured by its half-life! It’s so toxic it even kills the vermin!” Myron told the Yowie he has been approached by representatives of U.S. Energy in relation to accepting nuclear waste.

Myron doesn’t have the title of Australia’s Messiest Bachelor in the bag quite yet. “Willie Gomez of Rockhampton,” says Mrs. Dorter (disapproving Mother) had mess in his lounge room that obscured several burnt-out car wrecks. Police have asked to inspect his ‘junk’ room, fearing it might be a Mafia dumping ground.” Gerald Simpkins (Gasteroenterologist) was astonished at the vitality of hitherto unknown strains of E Coli in Mr. Gomez’s toilet. “I left a bottle of hospital grade detergent in the toilet overnight. By morning it’d been consumed! That’s verging on being a biological weapon!”

Mr. Brown of Cairns has a fridge described by Mrs. Dorter as “a chamber of horrors. You can actually contact the stench through a Oiji Board. It’ll respond!” City Counselors have long tried to evict Mr. Brown from his premises. But no public servants will approach the residence. In fact our judges demanded they be issued with asbestos suits before entering the building. “I never imagined any animal capable of such neglect,” said Mr. Pendleton, “Rumors from Cairns City Hall whisper of strategic bombing plans. But no one was talking to the Yowie.

This is only a small sample of entrants in the first round. Please contact the Yowie should you have any bachelors you wish to enter.

Sensei Ichiguwa’s dream faded before he was fully awake. Something about rats scuffling in the dark. He found a candle, lit it, and looked around. The door was still ajar, the tatami mat and bell in their places. Sensei Ichiguwa humphed, disappointed.

Things had always been done this way. They must. One could teach anything but will. That was the point.

As a boy Sensei Ichiguwa had entered the Forest of Curses to find a sprig of hemlock. Such a flower, he was told, grows only in sunshine. So look for a clearing in this forest-of-no-end.

The gloom was suffocating. Brambles snaked around his feet. Branches tore at his clothes. Things creaked and groaned making him jump. While shades beckoned in the darkness.

No one entered the Forest of Curses. There the dead walked. There the spirits and demons and monsters dwelt. It was the passage between hell and earth. The gateway between worlds. Keep out of the forest.

Sensei Ichiguwa had survived several battles. He had served two Emperors and foiled half a dozen attempted assassinations. But never was he as scared as when in the Forest of Curses.

For a day and a night he scrambled through the tangled underbrush. Glimpsing dread things from the corners of his eyes. His hearing preternaturally sensitive.

It seemed to Sensei Ichigawa the impressions of his time in the forest overwhelmed the specifics. He recalled very little of it. But the feelings associated with being in the forest lived with him to this day.
He had brought back the hemlock pale and shaking and exhausted; almost insensible with anguish. No shame was attached to his conduct. Rather, Sensei nodded once and class continued.

Ichiguwa looked at the rolled tatami mat behind the door.
The way of the sword is difficult. Even the most promising students stumble. Mistakes could be rectified. Failures could not. The consequences of failing to return with the hemlock were plain. It had happened to many of his classmates.

It had also happened to many of his students. You could never predict which. Aggression counted for naught. Intelligence, cunning, even determination indicated nothing. It was deeper than that.

Sensei Ichiguwa was disappointed nonetheless. Nobokuro had been a good student. Quiet, perhaps even timid, but apt.

The Sensei hefted himself onto one side to blow out the candle. Shadows danced and revealed several small patches of mud on the wood floor. Sensei Ichiguwa smiled and returned to his dream.

To be continued …

Nobukuro opened his eyes. It was dark and raining and he was sick with fear. He thought of shadows and silence before moving. No one stirred as he crept out of the dormitory.

The sword of his father (now his) was in his Sensei’s hut: A pathetic structure of bamboo tied with flax. It gave no protection from wind or cold. Sensei was indifferent, “This is what it is to be Samurai,” he said.

Nobukuro thought about what had to be done. The door to the hut stood ajar. Remembering his lessons, Nobukuro made sure he was unobserved and circled the hut. On the far side was a window obscured by thin, greasy curtains. The boy found a box to stand on and looked in.

He heard Sensei breathing beneath the window. Something stood behind the door. Nobokuro stood rock still, waiting until the dark images made sense. A rolled tatami mat, with something on top of it, had been wedged behind the door. Tip-toeing through the mud Nobukuro returned to the front. His hand snaked to the thing on the rolled mat. It was metallic, the shape of a small shoe. A bell.

The rain fell faster. Several drips from the roof increased their cadence. Nobokuro folded his hand around the bell and eased it onto it’s side. He put it beside him and lifted the mat away. Sensei’s breathing had not changed.

Nudging the door wide enough to enter Nobokuro slithered into his teacher’s hut. He desperately wanted to urinate. Trembling, heart pounding, the boy began to search for his sword.

The smell of stale sweat and sake lingered on the far side of the room. Above him hovered the doughy smell of the roof’s wet hay. And somewhere, somewhere close, was the smell of oil. The oil used for cleaning swords. Nobokuro turned his head and sniffed. Still trembling he crawled in the direction of the oil. His hand felt the hard wood floor. It moved over a jumble of cloth ripe with the smell of sweat. And onto a soft cylindrical object. Something was wrong. The boy put his face to the thing, almost touching it with his nose.

Sensei groaned and shifted in his sleep.

The rain stopped.

The silence was absolute.

Nobokuro panicked. His mind filling with excuses for waking Sensei – all of them weak and unbelievable. ‘I can’t do it,’ he thought.

Shame mixed with panic. Tears welled and his throat constricted. ‘Remember your lessons,’ he thought. ‘Master your emotions. That is the purpose of this task.’ His breath slowed and the search continued.

The cylinder smelt of tallow. A candle. Not a hilt, as he had hoped. The boy’s hands crept along the floor. Moonlight eked through the clouds and spilt onto the ratty curtains. Sensei’s breathing came like surf crashing on a distant shore.

Nobukuro found the sword.

He made sure nothing lay on top of it and slid it into the sash he wore at his waist. He turned for the door.

To be continued …

1. Are you using the right remote? Check that you’re not opening and closing your garage door in your attempts to change the TV channel.
2. Is the a radiation storm or thermonuclear strike on? Either of these will interfere with the signal sent by the remote to the TV.
3. Have you used the remote to swat a cockeroach? Impact damage counts for a large proportion of remote failures.
4. Is your remote sentient? Perhaps this newly evolved lifeform is playing a joke on you.
5. Are your fingers are too fat for the keypad? The majority of today’s remotes are manufactured in countries whose populations are noticeably thinner than our own.
6. Is your TV turned on?
7. Is your remote an instrument of the Devil? Do newsreaders speak in tongues? Do commercials offer to buy your soul? ? Does the remote weep blood or spew fire?
8. Have you been sent back in time? Metaphysicians are unsure if technology will function in a time unable to support it. Warranty definitely won’t cover this.
9. Have you used the remote (instead of a stick) to play ‘fetch’ with your dog?
10. Are you underwater? The density of water adversely affects the efficacy of the remote’s signal.

Remember, it is the purpose of all inanimate objects to thwart you in whatever way they can. It’s not your fault. It’s the fault of the technology.

Lots of complaints since the last article ‘You’re confusing pants with dresses Nigel!’ says some angry crossdressing P.C. accuracy Nazi.’’Loincloths, Gladiatorial skirts, Kilts and Caftans are NOT pants,’ writes another self-absorbed Yowie-writer-wannabe. ‘I don’t want to know where you shop for clothes Nigel. But you sound a little confused.’ Doesn’t deserve comment really.

Are you ALL idiots?!

Ok, these are not, strictly speaking, pants. I used these to illustrate the history and growth of the Scary Pants Phenomenon. Background is essential people. Try and think a bit laterally, alright.

The apparel used in my previous article spawned such horrors as:

1930’s, Jodhpurs. World War war brewing. Jodhpurs: tasteless, shapeless, an affront to every clothed creature on the planet. Jodhpurs were the convergence between skirts and pants. See where I’m going now? Jodhpurs were fifty years ahead of the unisex revolution. And seventy years before the metrosexual look. A little known fact is that Jodhpurs were originally used as catheters by chronic overeaters Always wondered about that bulge around the hips didn’t you? Not only hideous, gender neutral, and misshapen Jodhpurs assailed their wearer’s opponents with smell.

1940’s, Stovepipes. Now we’re in the realm of scary pants pure and true. Stovepipes turned regular men into straight legged, toy soldier clones. Precisely what the times called for (WWII). Only a sartorial masterstroke could halt the fat arsed Nazi ubermensch waddling through Europe in their Jodhpurs. A fashion holocaust needed a fashion A Bomb. And Stovepipes were just that.

1950’s, Bellbottoms. The Cold War was inevitable really.

I’m not going to detail everything. Rest assured, atrocities in history are accompanied by atrocities in fashion. By now you should be able to see where I am going with this. So let me tell the story, okay?. Trust me.